#S: Death and Coffee Cups

[mentalitynotes]

📱 ~ Charlie from Azrael.

SEND 📱 TO FIND OUT ABOUT MY MUSE’S PHONE @salvationofsouls

What ringtone my muse has set for yours: At Last - Halocene

What contact photo my muse has set for yours:

What my muse thinks of the way yours texts: A little short but it's voice to text so...

How quickly my muse responds to your texts: Pretty quick, she doesn't like to keep him hanging if she can avoid it.

How often our muses text: Pretty often.

How often our muses call: Probably just visit more than call its easier.

Does my muse purposefully miss calls from yours: Not really unless she's in something that is like important.

Last text sent from my muse to yours: So lunch?

[taintandviolent]

the flesh is weak ; Remmick x reader

summary: You had a happy, pretty life with your husband, living in your sweet lil' home in the Mississippi Delta. Everything was warm and sweet until it wasn't. Until your husband went missing. A few weeks later, a stranger appears at your door, claiming he knows an awful lot about your husband. And you. It's been so long since you've known the touch of a man...

word count & w a r n i n g s: 4.8K | female reader, smut, unprotected sex, brief religious themes, mentions of death/grief/mourning, mental/sexual coercion, manipulation (remmick preying on a mourning woman), monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, vampire hive mind, shameless pussy eating (cos Remmick is a munch and we all know it), spit/salivia mention, spit kink, scent kink, biting, blood drinking, blood loss.

a/n: I'm not even going to try to explain myself, y'all know the drill by now. something something not immune to vampires something something obsessed with the vampire hive mind idea and Remmick eating pussy. not beta-read, we die like men. banner by @/saradika-graphics!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You'd been happy, the two of you. You really had.

It was springtime, nearing summer, where the days felt like they grew hotter and longer, when the nights wouldn't cool off either. You had met Wade at the market. You both reached for the same can of corn and touched fingertips, an electric current passing through you two. The way he looked at you, and the way that you shyly, through thick lashes, looked back at him. Neither of you said a word for a good moment, until Wade finally introduced himself. Everyone and their mother talks about love at first sight, but no one dares talk about the fiery connection when you touch your lover for the first time. A connection built on physical touch, on lust, on want.

It was a whirlwind romance after that, and before you knew it, you were married, joined under the good Lord, and he'd bought you a house with a porch and a dog. A shepherd.

Warm summer days were spent in the Mississippi Delta, in your quaint little home, set about twenty-five minutes outside town. He'd treated you better than you'd ever imagined a man could, made you feel like an angel on Earth. But the way he fucked you… was anything but holy.

Your nights were spent in passion, bodies entangled together like the branches of the trees outside your window, swaying back and forth like dancing lovers. You explored every inch of him, and he, every inch of you. There wasn't a freckle on either body that the other didn't know about, and you'd never experienced such happiness in your life.

Then… one night, after a particularly heated coupling, he'd just left. Kissed your forehead before lumbering out the front door to smoke a cigarette. The dog had followed him outside. And they never came back. Ever. It had been two weeks.

You assumed the worst — Wade didn't love you. He was just lookin' for an escape, for a clean way out. The marriage had been a mistake — too quick maybe — and he took the first opportunity to leave. He could've at least said goodbye, given you that last scrap of dignigty. Instead, he kissed your forehead and said, "I'll be right back, sweetheart."

You never thought for a minute that something bad had happened to him. He was a grown man, always took care of himself. Nothin' bad woulda' happened to that man.

So, here you sit, in your empty little house. It's not a home anymore, only the bones remain — tall and lanky and changing with the shadows that dance across the walls, moonlight filtering in through your lace curtains. You're nursing a cup of black coffee even though the sun's just gone down. It's as bitter as you are, drowning in your own sorrows and loneliness. The damn dog hadn't even stayed. Never liked you as much as he did Wade, really. You let out a plaintive sigh, bringing the cup to your mouth.

Outside, the wood of your porch creaks under some undisclosed weight. You set the cup down and abruptly scoot your chair back, standing upright. With your house being out of the way, visitors were rare, unless they were explicitly invited. Your attention's on the door, and though it's closed, you can feel the presence behind it, burning through the wood like an iron pressed against the grain.

You hesitate, staring at the door like you can see through it.

"Hello?" As though they can hear you.

Another creak.

You take careful steps forward until you're hesitating in front of the door. Your fingers wrap 'round the knob, twist it and pull it towards you with a sharp motion. The warm, humid night air rushes in, settling heavy on your exposed skin like a sheet that hasn't quite dried yet. The sounds of nighttime fill the space between you and the stranger, and your breath catches in your throat.

At first glance, there's nothing unusual about him; he's dressed like any other man. Light blue cotton shirt, suspenders, dark slacks. Put together. He's standing at the bottom of your porch, one foot perched awkwardly on the first step.

"Can I help ya'?" Your voice is laced with expectancy.

"Ah, I been walkin' an awful long time. Yer' the first one to answer."

You find that odd; you didn't answer anything. He didn't knock.

"Can ya' find it in yer' heart to let me in n' spare a glass of water, ma'am?"

He has a chain round his neck. Reminds you strongly of the one that Wade used to wear. The one that used to sway in front of your face as he fucked you, the one that you'd reach up and wrap your finger around, careful not to break it, but just tight enough to yank him closer.

You blink, coming back to reality just as the forest seems to loom forward around the stranger, but in an eeriely inviting sort of way, like a pair of giant hands beckoning you to just step into them. Something settles in your stomach and your eyes flit to Wade's shotgun leaning up against the door frame. The man notices this and shakes his head once.

"Now, don't go an' do that. Ain't necessary, ma'am." He whispers your name like a prayer, so quiet that you almost don't catch it. Almost.

"How you know my name? Huh?"

"I'm Remmick."

You furrow your brows. You hadn't asked his name, and you didn't want to know it. "I asked you a question. How d'you know my name?"

This must amuse him because a smile splits his face. He lifts his hands, feigning innnocence, and zeroes his gaze in on your features. He scans over them, one by one, and nods slowly.

"Well, ain't you every bit as pretty as he said you'd be…?"

The look on his face told you that he intended it to be a compliment, but something about it landed oddly. Made your skin crawl. "I beg your pardon?"

"Wade," he responds, defending himself. "I was just sayin' how he —"

"Wade?" You perk up like a dog. The name derails your intensity, and your gaze drops just slightly. Your question is breathless, desperate and mournful. "You talk to him?"

"Ohhh… Wade and I go way back," he says, sliding his finger underneath the suspender at his shoulder, pulling it forward. He pauses a minute and allows it to snap softly back into place. "Real shame he ain't with us no more."

No. God have mercy on his soul. That was the last thing you wanted to hear from a stranger's mouth. You're so grief-stricken that you don't even think to ask why Wade never mentioned this man.

"He… what happened to him?"

The man's brows pinch together as though he's filled with sorrow over what he's about to say. "Messed with the wrong sort of folks."

Your heart seizes in your chest, a desperate pump of blood to remind you of your husband and how much you missed him. The closure you didn't want, the closure you never expected. You dip your chin to your chest, trying to hide your disappointment, the feelings of grief. It takes a moment, but you harden. You force healin' over all those searin' open wounds and straighten up, setting your shoulders. If there was one thing Wade would've wanted…

"Well, you may've known my Wade, but I don't know you and —"

"Oh, but I know you," he says low. "I know everything about you, darlin'."

You furrow your brows in disbelief, taking a step back from the door. "No you don't."

"Sure… sure, I do. I know everything that Wade knew."

Not missing a beat, he takes a step forward, and something lurches in your stomach. Something that moves like fear, but tastes like longing.

Your grip on the doorknob loosens, and a shudder, a chill runs down your spine like cool water. Given the heat of the night, it ain't exactly unpleasant. Or unwelcomed.

"I know how you like to be kissed, from yer' neck to between that beautiful chest uh' yours… those soft n' tender kisses behind yer' ear, whisperin' about how bad yer' wanted. That spot behind your knee that makes you whine like a banshee. How you like it when you finally get to it. Rough."

His accent hangs heavy on that last word, the 'R' pronounced harder than usual.

You snap to attention, looking the man in the eye. They're dark, and seem to catch the moonlight in an odd way that chills your very bones. He wasn't wrong, and that was all well and good, but Wade would never tell anyone that. Wade would never divulge anything 'bout his personal life to anyone, no matter how convincing they were. Wade was a private person, and he stood by his secrets. Your facial expression doesn't deter the man at all. He continues, taking a step up onto your porch.

"…how you like to be eaten. How good you taste when you're screamin'. So, why don't you let me in and I'll see if he's good on his word?"

That chill returns, but you promptly feel a betraying heat pooling between your legs, soaking into the cotton fibers of your panties.

"You gotta' lot nerve, Remmick." His name falls off your lips like an expletive, a stark difference to the way he whispered your name.

He just smiles. Nods. Takes another step up onto the porch.

"Just let me in, and I'll show you what else I got."

You're suddenly lingering at the threshold, leaning forward as though you're prepped to wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a kiss like a lover who had just returned from a long day's work. There's a pulling in your feet, your limbs seem to float towards him, as if he's willing them to him. Maybe he is.

I'm nothing if not strong, you think.

"I'm not… I won't."

"Sure you will. You ain't gotta' be afraid. I can make all that hurt go away. All that pain in yer' soul…"

There was pain. Lots of it. Plenty of it. You were lonely. Hungry. Desperate. And stood in front of you was a man that could smell it, and according to him, ease it. Something deep in your soul, rooted down like an old Cypress tree, told you that this was the closest thing to Wade you'd ever get again.

Remmick holds your gaze tight, coiling around you like a serpent — tighter and tighter as the seconds drag on. Something feels wrong, but something else feels right enough to make you forget the wrong thing. Your momma' woulda' warned you about men like this, if she was still with you.

You hadn't gone to church since Wade left, so you weren't in good graces, you knew that. Still, you bite your lip, clasping your hands at your breast as a last shot attempt at redemption, at some sort of understanding or forgiveness for the sins that slither in your mind. You lift your head to the heavens, and even though your lids snap closed, tears welling at the corners, you speak to the dark skies above in a hushed tone, barely above a whisper. "Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

Remmick grins and takes yet another step, like a man who knows he's already won the game. He's standing at your doorway now, hands tucked in his pockets.

"Let me in, won'tcha'?"

You open your mouth to speak again, to protest with your new found courage from the heavens, but instead, all that comes out is a squeak of a breath.

"I'll beg if need be…" His tongue glides appentently across his bottom lip.

"Wade used to beg," you say, forlornly.

"I know it." Remmick says, nodding, his eyes sweeping over the curves of your body, memorizing them, tasting them with his gaze. "For a sweet thing like you? He had good reason, I reckon."

With that, he says your name over and over again, longing braided into his voice. "Please, baby… don't you tease me like this."

Just like Wade used to say. Just like Wade used to say when you'd playfully deny him what he wanted most; your sweet, glistening cunt. Just like Wade used to say when you'd swat him away and he'd fall to his knees, pressing his face in between yours. Nuzzling between your kneecaps, forcing them apart, the feeling of his stubble scratching at your soft, plush skin as he pushed his way towards his goal. You missed that. You missed the feeling of being wanted… needed.

"Gimmie' what I want, baby… c'mon."

Hot tears prick at your eyes and well up in the corners. "S-stop…"

"Sure sounds good, don't it?"

You inhale sharply at his question, and nod. You can't deny him that answer, even if your whole body is screaming at you to.

"When's the last time you had someone appreciate you, darlin'? Huh?"

Though it's unspoken, he knows the answer and so do you.

"Just—" he starts, hardly getting the word out before you're cutting him off.

"Come in."

The flesh is weak.

Your hands fall from your chest, shocked at your own feeble resolve. The failure stings like a mad hornet when Remmick closes in the distance between you two, leisurely. Like he's got all the time in the world. He wastes no time in getting close to you, though. Real close. Too close.

He smells like iron, dirt and lust — something cloyingly sweet that makes your knees buckle. You know damn well what you smell like; the impure fragrance of desire seeps from your pores with the sweat and that smell has his nostrils flaring as soon as he's next to you. You're like a ripe peach, hanging low in front of his mouth. He parts his lips, exhaling over them as he nears you, presses his body against your warm one. You can feel the planes of his body through his clothes, and you know he can feel your soft, supple body underneath your thin sundress.

He's taking you in lungfuls, savoring you like he knew he would. You didn't know it, but everything he'd gained from your now late husband drove him crazy. He'd become obsessed with you from memories alone, memories he longed to run his tongue over, slowly, ravenously. For two weeks, he'd craved you in ways he understood deeply. A craving that he had to sate.

Your wanton gaze falls to his lips and it's then that you notice he's drooling. Really drooling. Not just wet around the lips — a generous stream of thick saliva cascades steadily from the corner of his mouth. It frightens you, but not as much as the way you want to kiss him. That terrifies you. He sees you looking at the spit, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. If he has his way, you'll be adding to it any second.

The feeling returns. The pulling feeling. It's deep, and tugs at your cunt in a pulsing grip. Remmick lifts his hand slowly, inching it towards you and you watch, wordlessly, as his fingertips near your feverish skin, tiny beads of sweat pooling up in the hollows of your collarbone. He runs those fingers delicately along your exposed skin, just underneath your neck. Your skin immediately flushes with heat in response, growing hot under his touch.

You shudder against the feeling of skin against skin. For someone who experienced the finer pleasures of the flesh on a daily basis, you were hungry, you'd been deprived for days and she longed to feel it again.

"He woulda' wanted you to be happy, y'know." As he speaks, his lips brush the delicately sensitive skin of your neck, trailing along it with chaste kisses. His tongue slips past his lips, dragging along the length of your neck.

The tiniest moan tumbles off your lips, hanging weighted in emptiness of your house. You feel her clench between your legs, leaking betrayal as your hand climbs to his shoulder, supporting some of the burdensome weight of your arousal.

He was so convincing when he spoke like that, playing to your worries and fears. Or maybe it was the way he was kissin' you. Maybe it didn't matter how he was talkin' or what he was sayin', maybe all that mattered was that he was touchin' you.

You tilt your head to the side, allowing him more room and his hands find your hips, taking fistfuls of your cotton dress in his hands. He starts kissing your neck in a way that almost overwhelms you; feverishly, hungrily, and quickly — kiss after kiss, smeared against the column of your neck. He continues his assault, but climbs towards your chin, then up to your mouth. He grips your jaw with his thumb and forefinger, pulling it down and opening your mouth. Without warning, he licks into your mouth and your lids flutter, tantalized by the sensation. His mouth is wet and inviting, and when he leans in, sealing his mouth with yours, you moan down his throat, making a fist in his shirt. You feel the sweat dripping down the length of your spine, feel the dampness of your dress as it absorbs it all.

Your tongue darts out to lap up the flow of saliva that coats his chin. A string of it stretches from your mouth to his as you pull back, just for a moment, just to breathe. There's something deeply sinister in his taste, something that you don't want to think too hard about. Something that leaves you breathless and wanting more. So you do. You lick at his bottom lip hungrily, and he catches your lip with his teeth, biting down just enough to cause pain. Any harder and he would've drawn blood.

Remmick's other hand winds around your back, holding you with a tight grip. It's the kind of grip that says you ain't gonna' make it to that front door. So you don't try. You aren't sure you even want to, because the way he's walking you backwards has your core muscles tightening in a way that you haven't felt in weeks. Anticipation.

"I wanna' taste that honey he talked so fondly of…"

You hit the wood of the table, and Remmick's urging you up onto it before you can protest. The half-empty coffee cup gets shoved off the edge and shatters, black liquid seeping into the floorboards like blood. Neither of you seem to notice.

Remmick continues talking, buttering you up and praising your body before he's even had the chance to taste it. It's working. You're slick and ready, wordlessly begging for him.

You prop yourself up on your elbows as you get comfortable, digging your heels into the surface of the table. The sound of your shallow, wanton breaths fills the small room, and Remmick presses his chest against your shins, reaching around your thighs to hitch your dress up around your hips. Greedy hands reach under the fabric, finding the hem of your underwear. With an esurient touch, he reaches between your legs and curls his fingers around the damp fabric, twisting it tight and tugging it down your legs. You hum at the quick brush of his knuckles against your swollen clit, bucking your hips forward. Remmick discards them, allowing them to fall lifelessly to the floor next to his feet.

His long, lithe fingers trail around your kneecap, and dip back, touching the sensitive flesh behind them. Your back arches, fingers clawing at the wood.

Without another thought, your legs drop open for him, revealing your aching, wet center. Having felt the movement, he raises a curious brow, looking between your bodies. "What's this now?"

He's looking at you, waiting. Waiting for you to explain yourself. Your chest heaves with breaths, but you don't answer; you ain't got nothing to say. You're done talking with your mouth. Your gaze bores into his, fiery and intense and filled with the desperation that your lips don't convey. His eyes widen, just for a moment, and you know he understands.

With one firm tug, he pulls you to the edge of the table — your back slides against the smoothed wood like butter. With his gaze locked on his target, Remmick lowers himself down between your legs one knee at a time, situating his face right in front of your cunt. The proximity has you reeling, writhing on the table like a cat in heat. You hear a low chuckle and feel the rush of his breath as he speaks, washing over your skin. "Well, ain't that just the prettiest thing I ever did see… you got yerself' worked up nice n' good."

It wasn't you. It was him.

You try to feel embarrassed, to feel shame, but the only thing that sizzles in your system is your pride. You're proud that he's about to do what he wants with you, proud that you're already wet for him.

You watch him between your legs as he looks at her, tilting his head to and fro, leaning in and inhaling your personal scent. He's clearly not keen on disguising his lust as his dark, glimmering eyes roll back in his head, jaw hanging slack. Another stream of drool. Fear bubbles up in your gut, but Remmick's fingers scratch it away as he grips the sides of your hips, kneading your flesh. Your head lolls back between your shoulders, heavy, as his tongue slips out to taste you, licking a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your essence coats his tongue, pulling a low, gratified growl from his throat. Wade used to growl, but not like that. You ain't never heard a man growl like that.

You lift your gaze and your chest fills with air as Remmick presses his mouth into your cunt, lapping at it. Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and he digs in deeper, tongue stroking your clit, making your hips writhe unconsciously.

"Ah-ah, where you goin' now?" He asks, pulling you right back to the edge of the table. He knows better know, knows he can't leave that body unattended, so his hands, his fingers grip your hips tight, pressing them down into the wood. The table creaks underneath you, moans low like you do every time Remmick's dirty, hungry mouth seals to your cunt. The tip of his tongue encircles your clit, teasing it with single-minded precision. Pleasure. White, hot pleasure. The coil in your stomach winds tighter around itself, aching to snap. A few more passes of his tongue, and you'll be done for.

The curtain patterned moonlight stretches across your body, casting lacy shadows across your bare thighs, illuminating Remmick's fingers as they crawl around your skin like serpents, hunting for some unsuspecting prey.

The other starved beast, his tongue, delves further down into your slickened entrance, scooping back some of the nectar that wells up to meet it. You hear him swallow wetly, and close your eyes, digging your head into the table.

"Oooh, yer' close, I can taste it," he says between swallows. His voice is lower now, lubricated with his own tangible desire. You really were everything Wade had given him. Every thought rang true. "Sweeter than a summer peach…"

You whimper loudly, fighting against his grip. "Don't stop…. don't you stop…"

Remmick lets out a surprised chuckle before pressing his mouth back to you, tongue first. He slips inside you, humming in pleasure as you clench around the welcome intrusion. His tongue thrusts a few times, fucking into you with an unbridled hunger, before he swallows again and returns his efforts to your clit.

And suddenly, you're lost in a tidal wave of pleasure. Waves of euphoria crashing over you, drowning you. Your toes curl, muscles seize up. There's nothing but the feeling of his tongue as it laps at your throbbing cunt. A ribbon of sweat descends from your hairline, winding down to the hollow of your shoulder.

Your chest heaves long, shallow breaths, but your eyes pierce his with a sluttish intensity. You never were satisfied with just one orgasm. You longed to feel the searing, shivering pain of overstimulation.

"Fuck me," you plead as you stretch the suspenders over the curves of his shoulders. "Fuck me hard."

Remmick's head cocks to the side, as if to ask for confirmation. When you don't reply, he hurriedly pulls his shirts from his trousers, exposing his pale, toned stomach. It heaves with laboured, hungry breaths as he reaches for his belt, the button of his slacks. Nimble fingers make quick work of them both, and before you can blink, he's pushed his trousers down. You blink a few times, focusing on his face and realize… he's changed. His mouth looks bigger somehow and it hangs open like a hungry beast's. Sharp, jagged fangs have replace his pearly whites, and when he reaches up to wipe your slick from his chin, his fingers are even longer than before, lengthed by sharp claws.

The man you let in wasn't a man at all, but it was too late for you to care. Your cunt was too wet for you to worry, to protest now. This is it, you think. This is how I die.

"I love me a woman with a healthy appetite," he snarls.

His body folds over yours. His leaking cockhead nudges your entrance, like it, too, needs permission to enter and who are you to deny it? His gaze searches yours, and though it's laden with desire, there's a longing, a question, underneath it all. His hips jerk, pressing the velvet hot tip harder against you and Remmick lets out a whine, something that sounds like pleading. You grip his shirt at the collar, pulling him closer to you. There's a comforting familiarity in your grip and for a moment, you're latched onto the collar of your lover. You sigh.

It's all he needs. In a single thrust, Remmick bottoms out, sinking himself deep into your hot, slick walls. His rhythm, when he finds it, has intention. The force of his thrusts shake your body, your breasts move against your ribs with every drive forward. The wooden table creaks in a singsong melody beneath you, a sinful hymn of your coupled desire.

Your hands grapple furiously for his shoulders, finding comfort in the toned muscles that meet your grip. You wrap both arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him, and Remmick nuzzles into your scent, breathing heavy.

Still sensitive from his tongue, it doesn't take long for you to climb and fall from a second orgasm, clenching tightly around his dick. Your cries fill the house, staining the walls and your legs shake in his grip when he doesn't relent. Remmick whines again and leans forward, whispering something in a language you don't understand. He leans over you, looming above you and deepends his thrusts, bullying your cervix with each one. The gold chain sways in front of your face, and your lids flutter close.

Thoughts of your husband feel far away, because as hungry as he was and as much as he claimed your body, he never fucked you like this. Above you, Remmick leans back, his hips continuing to snap hard against yours.

He calls you girl, calls you sweet and withdraws himself to the head. Gazes down at your swollen, used cunt. With a sharp breath, he plunges himself back in. His release is imminent, and with a few more thrusts, he finds it.

Remmick's hand lifts, clawed fingers curling around your soft jaw to pull it to the side. He leans forward again, presses his lips against the nape of your neck, smearing them against the sweaty skin. You can feel your pulse thudding, visible against the delicate flesh, and know he can too. You don't scream when his mouth opens against your skin, tongue lashing out to taste the succulent flesh one final time. A sickening, squelching sound of flesh tearing fills your ears, followed by a wet swallow. You wince hard as his fangs dig into your flesh, but ease into the sensation of Remmick's mouth as it suckles around the mangled, torn skin, drinking your blood down in gulps as your arteries pump it out. You feel the blood as it cascades down your back, warm. There's so much pain — white, hot fire — that your body begins to quiver. But just for a moment. A single moment.

Your head lolls first before the rest of your body goes slack. Fingers fall from his shoulder, twitching involtunarily. Remmick doesn't let you go, though, if anything — he holds you tighter. Closer. Sucking you down and draining you of your lifeblood.

As your lids flutter heavily, the last image burned into them is his monstrous visage, and the last sensation is the gentle feeling of clawed cupping your face, stroking your sweaty cheek with his thumb.

"That's it," he insists. "Rest a while, darlin'."

[joeloverture]

deadfall | enemy!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog | on palestine

pairing: dad’s enemy!joel miller x f!reader summary: joel miller, rival raiders with your father, is the last person you expect to save you from the group that captured you. he’s also the last person you expect to sleep with. [post outbreak] warnings: (mdni) canon typical violence (stalkers, mentions of death), porn with plot, game or tv joel, reader born before the outbreak, reader has a present/loving father figure (HAH), alternate universe — joel never went to boston, implied age gap but how big is up to you, self indulgent humor, quicksand, explicit smut, reader is a biiiit of a peeping tom, close proximity, only one bed, (brief) accidental somnophilia so dubcon, dry humping, degradation, humiliation, mirror sex, unprotected piv (he’s snipped dw), doggy style, manhandling (he fucks you in a headlock), mild breath play & choking, brief hair pulling (reader has hair!), scratching/biting, brief orgasm denial, hatefuck [no use of y/n] word count: 9.5k author's note: pwplot! a joeloverture first. also my first foray into somno! and post!ob joel! lots of firsts here. special thanks to @joelsdagger for taking a glimpse at this for me (and for being the PIONEER that forged joel fucking in a headlock) and @lovesickonmybed for being the best sounding board ever. i hope y'all like this one, i sure do.

There are no infected in the swamp — not this far out. They prefer the slant of buildings or the maw of split pavement. Blood-bloated leeches and black-trunked cypresses aren’t their domain.

You can’t say you blame them. One day in, and you’re already sick of this shit.

A few gnats have flown up your nostrils as you wade through the ankle-deep sludge. Mist curls at the edges of your vision. Your feet keep slipping on the slime covered stones that are half-submerged in the deep. Sweat crystallizes on your nape as your toe catches on a downed branch.

Before you faceplant in the sludge below, a burly hand snags your collar and hauls you up. “You always this much of a klutz?” It’s the first few words he’s said to you in hours.

A scowl buckles your lips. You shove Joel Miller’s arm off your back, splashing up scummy water as you step over the branch this time. You say nothing — don’t even dignify him with a passing glance.

“You’re a real peach, ain’t ya?” Joel says. When he takes his next step, water splashes at the backs of your calves. “Save your ass and this is the thanks I get.”

Joel Miller doesn’t want thanks. Up until he accidentally burnt his thumb with boiling hot coffee yesterday, you’d been convinced he didn’t feel anything at all. As long as his pulse is woven between bullets and stab wounds, he doesn’t give a damn what happens to those around him. His heart, much like the rest of the people at the end of the world, is calcified. Only beating out of necessity.

You’re silent as you footslog forward. The slurp of mud stretches between your shoe and the ground. Your pack jostles against your back. The ache in your bones has proven to be a better company than Joel – at least that is tolerable.

A deadfall lays flat ahead, a tree with cambered branches that droop with moss. Joel cups a hand over his eyes to block out the sun and squints past.

You go to walk past him, around the deadfall.

“Nuh uh,” Joel tugs you back by the scruff. You grunt. “‘S deeper out there. I’d sure like to see you get swallowed up by a gator, but that doesn’t work for me, kid.”

It sure works for you. If you see one of their bumpy snouts protruding out of the water, you’re using him as bait.

You don’t say that, though. Just hitch your foot up over one of the branches in the tree and start to haul yourself up. It’s a nagging ordeal – full of hissing through your teeth and feeling wood tear small cuts into your skin. Your hand tangles in an unoccupied spiderweb before you toss yourself through the other side of the bramble. Water sluices around you as you right yourself, rubbing a bead of blood from one of your knuckles.

Joel’s quick to follow, even quicker to take front again. You’ve learned he likes being ahead of you — unless you’re climbing a ledge or a fallen oak.

The hours wear on. You refuse to be the first to call it for the day. Even when you get stinging salt water into your open cuts, you grin and bear it. When the sun lounges on the chaise of the tree-sketch horizon, he drops his pack on an island of mulch that’s nestled in a grove of dead vegetation. 

You slump down next to him, rifling through your pack for a bite of jerky. Joel’s knees pop. He grunts as he slips down into the dirt and unrolls his sleeping bag. He rolls over, facing away from you. Hand wrapped around his gun like it’s a lover. 

When you do the same, it’s with a barbed insult on your tongue that’s better left unspoken.

At the end of the world, everything is ruleless. But you grew up with exactly one rule: don’t talk about Joel Miller.

You hadn’t been expecting him to kill you.

The Cockroaches, the lesser raider group in Northeast Texas, had captured you. Apparently your dad had some unpaid debts, and in taking you as leverage, they’d intended to get close to him. All they got were bullets in their heads.

You’d sighed in relief when the hatch to your basement confinement had finally opened. A spillage of sun sliced down through the opening, and you were expecting the familiar warmth of your father, an apology, and reassurance that he wouldn’t let them take you again.

Instead, you got Joel. With his hulking gun, broad figure that blocked out the sun, and the scowl that would be the last thing you’d ever see.

You had fumbled against the post you were tied to, feet scrabbling against the floor. You’d winced away when he raised his knife. “Don’t–”

…And cut into your restraints.

You’d rubbed the chafing from your wrists and stared at him, nebulous and delirious. “Get the fuck away from me,” you’d croaked.

“They touch you?” he’d asked. You’d shaken your head. “Hurt ya?” Another shake.

“Good. Now get up and get ready to haul ass.” He turned around, but not before throwing his knife to the ground next to you. The clatter it made against the concrete made your ears ring.

You grabbed the knife.

“Why are you helping me?” you ask him. They’re the only words you’ve spoken since you’d seen him in the cellar. 

“I ain’t,” he says. His voice is gruff. Sandpapery. 

“Looks like helping,” you say, nodding at the pack he’d given you. He’d come out prepared. To get you.

“Your daddy ain’t the only one with debts,” he says.

You stop, booted feet sinking into the mud. Shit. “So that’s what this is. You take me away just to hand me off to some other shitty group?”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. He turns around, already mid-stride.

You yank his knife out of your pocket and dive at him.

“Hey, hey, fuck – you little brat,” he spats. He goes off balance before he twists around. You corral him against a tree, leg hitching around his waist as you knee at his thighs, aiming for his crotch. His spittle sprays your cheek as he grunts. His fist wraps around your hand, and the knife splats into the mud. His booted heel slips and he goes sliding back as he shoves you away, hard. You cough as you slam into a tree trunk. The knot that swells out of the bark digs into your head. You drag a branch up off the ground, pushing yourself off the tree as you heft it.

Before you grab it, he slaps you. Hard. Your head goes spinning as you stumble back into the muck. He jams his boot down against your chest, mud smearing across your tank top. “I gotta tie you up, or you gonna fuckin’ listen to me?”

You reach up to grab his ankle, and he just stomps harder against your chest. You wheeze, flopping back in the sludge. “B-bastard,” you hiss.

“Yeah, yeah, shut the hell up. ‘S your dad’s shitty group I’m talkin’ about.”

You give him an incredulous look.

“Your old man ain’t the only one with a coupla debts under his belt.”

“You’re shitting me,” you say. Voice squished in your throat from his tread against your chest.

He shakes his head and finally lets his boot up. You suck in a breath, another cough rattling your ribcage. “Quit being all uppity and pickin’ fights ya can’t win if you wanna learn, dumbass.”

“Why didn’t he just come get me himself?” you grit out as you lean back against a log. You use it to lift yourself, legs feeling gelatinous from being shoved about.

“You didn’t see? Cockroach shot ‘im in the leg.” Your lips tremble, but you straighten them. “He’s fine.”

You scowl. “And you didn’t tell me this sooner?” You march forward. Your arms cross solidly over your chest.

“Figured you wouldn’t take it well.” He looks you up and down. “And I was right.”

You curse under your breath. Dip to grab your knife. Toss it in your hand while you think. You don’t flinch when it slightly nicks your thumb — it’s hardly a poke with all of the scraping you’ve been doing through undergrowth — but Joel smirks. 

He sees you as juvenile. The product of a world that you haven’t earned the right to be in, always cowering behind your dad’s back. 

You’ll prove him wrong.

“How far are we from the nearest city?” you ask. You want to go home. Your arms ache not just from swinging at your side or lifting you up toppled trees, but to wrap around your father. Your bones protest at the thought of being in your skin. Your tank top sticks to your flesh with mud and the parasites that squirm in it.

“I’m not a goddamn fortune teller,” Joel says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Then we better get moving.” You readjust your pack and jostle him as you march on.

Three days later, and there’s no end in sight to the swamp. Whatever towns you’ve encountered are home to only a derelict gas station and ransacked mom-and-pop stores. They’re no place for pit stops.

You (reluctantly) stay close to Joel, who you’re lucky to hear so much as a murmur out of. Most of the time, he’s redirecting you, tugging you out of the way of half-decade old hunter’s traps or reminding you not to go too far.

“The world isn’t gonna end if I step out of your imaginary line, Joel,” you say. You test your foot on the side of the bank you’re walking on. Nothing happens.

“Ki–” Joel says, brows crunched up.

“See? Fine.” You press more of your weight into the ground. He reaches for you, but your body tilts.

Your foot is sinking.

“You’re a fuckin’ pain in my ass,” Joel says. He pinches his nose bridge. “Shoulda left ya down there.”

You glare at him, bending yourself at the waist so you can try to wiggle yourself with your upper body strength. Your free knee is propped up on the squishy ground. You grunt, palms slipping against the oily, grass-filled mud. “I got it,” you rasp out as he crouches in front of you.

“Uh huh,” he says, frowning pointedly.

“I got it.” You slap his hand away and thresh your leg in the sand. It barely even wiggles. “Fuck.” You strain your leg, huffing and puffing. Dirt fixes itself under your nails.

Joel wraps his arms under your shoulders and you flail in protest. “I said I can handle it!” Instead of listening to you, he tugs at you like pulling a toy from a dog. You keep windmilling your arms.

“Quit thrashin’!” Joel yells. “Any harder and you’re gonna drag me in with you.”

Your face is too close to his. Too close for the uncomfortable heat. His humid breath fans against your sweat-slippery cheek as he groans. Your foot loosens. You prop your calf up on his thigh as he wrests you out of the quicksand. You’re chest-to-chest with him as you tip over the muck, dropping flat against him. “Mmph.”

Joel shoves you off of him, and you fall on your ass in the mud. By all odds, your boot has remained strapped to your foot. He’s already up and moving when he says, “Jesus Christ, you are just like your fuckin’ dad.”

The mud still caked into your shirt has started to flake by the time you reach a city called Monroe. Just off of I-20, you and Joel trek further into what you imagine must’ve been a medium-sized city during its heyday.

You’re bone-weary. Your back keeps popping with every step with how you keep having to sleep on the ground. You’d be thankful for even a mattress of moss — but luckily, you won’t have to settle. Sunset is nearing, which means you can see the blue water (imagine that, blue water) tainted pink and orange below. Houses and the city clocktower reflect into the gentle pull and ebb of the tide.

Joel nods at a half-bent blue roadway sign. “YMCA up ahead,” he says. He wipes the sweat off his brow and clutches his gun closer to his side. “Stay close.”

You keep your hand around the grip of your knife, following him into the city.

It’s quiet as you navigate through a labyrinth of abandoned, rust-gutted cars. At one point, you manage to slip ahead of him, and he allows it for long enough (fifteen seconds) that you opt to take a shortcut through a parking garage. You climb over the edge and dip inside, feet scraping over roots that have grown between concrete slabs. The shade is a brief respite from the scorching sun, but the humidity still wrings the sweat from your pores.

Joel slips ahead of you again, taking long, dragging strides that look as exhausted as you feel. Four days of hiking through swamp and gunk and slapping mosquitoes against your skin has made you grateful to just be walking on solid ground again. Joel steps past a busted, sticker-covered van.

A streak flickers against the dark canopy of the garage. “Infected!” you shout, but Joel falls back on his ass.

His gun flies out of his hand and skids across the concrete. He grunts, shuffling backward, but the stalker’s already on him, its mouth sewn partially shut by fungi. It croaks and slashes at him, blind left eye battering and twitching. Joel throws a hooked punch, but the stalker takes the opportunity to grapple him, snarling in his face.

He’s going to get bit.

You launch forward, knife in-hand. You fling yourself into a tumble with the stalker, legs strewn over Joel’s. Adrenaline plummets through your body. You stomp on its shin and it shrieks. The knife almost slips from your grip as you start to stab blindly. You thrust the blade up through its eye socket.

The thing cackles and caws, its vocal chords clacking with mold and rot. Rusted blood trickles from its nose and down your wrist as you twist the blade further until you meet bone and then whatever is left of a brain is beyond it. You cringe as you drag the knife out and wipe it across your pants. It slumps back in a mound and then falls over.

Your chest heaves as you look between Joel and the stalker. His hands are scraped up as he grabs his gun.

You extend him a hand. He seems to think about it for a second before latching onto you and letting you help him up. He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

This YMCA in particular isn’t like the others you’ve stopped at with your dad. Instead of glass windows and tin roofs, it’s brick and mortar. You and Joel climb in through the window, and you almost sob in relief when you see at least a dozen oversized yoga mats. That’s a suitable homemade mattress, you think. 

There’s a basketball court whose court has been warped and fossilized by the leaks in the roof. A peek of sunset dives in through a hole, lighting up the western side of the room. You expect the pool room to still smell of chlorine. It’s a little weird when it doesn’t even though the pool’s been drained for years, you imagine. From there, you two reach the showers.

Before you let yourself get excited, Joel fiddles with the knobs. Water sprays out of it. “Still hot,” he says, absorbed in the droplets that are spraying his hand. He turns it off.

“Fuck it,” you say, tearing your tank top over your head.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Joel says, turning to face the wall.

“You aren’t the one who’s covered in mud!”

“Yeah, you’re right, I ain’t the one who went jumpin’ into quicksand. I also ain’t the one who deserved an ass whooping.”

You glare at his shoulder blades as you unzip your jeans, fumbling out of them. They’re nearly crunchy with the amount of mud you’ve been traipsing through. “They did charity drives at these things, right?” You never really went to any YMCAs before the world went to shit. “Maybe they’ve got clean clothes.”

“Maybe,” Joel says. “Maybe you shoulda thought about that before you turned this place into a strip club.” You roll your eyes and hook your bra on the shower curtain, followed by your panties.

“I didn’t know you were a prude, Miller,” you say.

He bristles at the accusation. “Maybe I should get an eyeful. Being ‘round you is like wishin’ the Lord would strike me down.”

You laugh. Joel made you laugh. First (and only) time, probably. 

“Yeah, right, you’d get struck down for something a whole lot worse before he started getting mad at you for peeping.”

You fiddle with the shower curtain and step in. There’s old body wash in an automatic dispenser on the wall. It doesn’t work, but it’s easy to wrangle open and squeeze the pouch into your hand. The grout is odd under your bare feet, but quickly becomes familiar as you twist the lever. Water spits down at you, and a satisfied sound leaves you. “Fuuuck,” you sigh. “This is nice.”

Joel clears his throat. “I’m gonna go look for clothes. And deodorant.”

“You should shower too,” you say instead.

You can almost hear the face he makes.

“God, don’t be so much of a Holy Joe, Joel. It’s practical. This water isn’t going to last that damn long, and I am not taking a cold shower when the hot stuff is all right here.”

“You’re a real pain in the ass,” he says like he hasn’t already told you.

Eventually, you hear his belt unbuckle.

He strips down a lot quicker than you. Habit, maybe, you think. His jeans slump against the floor, and then he’s in the shower. You hear the other faucet come on as the water warms against your skin. You sigh, lathering yourself with the Dollar General body wash. It forms iridescent bubbles along your body, and it smells faintly like artificial strawberries. You wonder if it ever used to smell stronger than this.

There’s a slit in Joel’s shower that exists between the curtain and the wall. You should look away, but you shouldn’t have plunged your foot into quicksand, either. There’s many things you shouldn’t do that you take it upon yourself to do anyway.

So you watch the dirty water cascade down his sharp, scarred shoulder. You eye how the gnarl of his bone adjusts as he lathers himself with soapsuds. He stretches to get his hair and his bicep tenses with the movement. He’s built, and built well. From years of survival, trekking through swamps not so different from these, and aiming guns in places he wanted to and places he didn’t. The way the sun flits through the rectangular windows makes him look golden.

You imagine how it’d feel to walk up behind him, to massage the knots out of his sore muscles. You don’t even notice it, but your hands are traveling your own body now, fingertips going to pluck at your pebbled nipples. He’d been rough when tussling with you in the swamp. Would he be rough with you in bed, too? In your mind, you run soft, open-mouthed kisses down his back, reaching your hand between his legs to wrap around his—

A clanging noise stops your hand in its tracks. You drop it limp at your side. A wave of revulsion crawls like insects up your back.

“Shit!” Joel says, fumbling around in his shower stall.

The plastic body wash dispenser goes sliding out under the curtain, foamy with soapsuds.

You can’t help it. You snort. And eventually, your snort becomes full-fledged laughter, breaking the seam of your lips as you lean against the wall of the shower.

“Shut up,” he says, but you hear the tinge of a chuckle embedded between his vowels. You hear his half-huff of laughter before you force yourself to stop giggling.

You two stay under the shower streams until the water runs cold and bitter and all of the mud that had banded around your limbs is congealed in the drain. 

You leave the showers first, roaming around until you find a discarded cardboard box that’s brimming with clothes in your size. There’s jeans that should do well in the elements and another tank top suited for the crushing heat. 

When you’re dressed, you call out to Joel that you’ll be in the yoga room. You spend the down time arranging the yoga mats into two separate mattresses. Joel’s feet will hang off a bit, but you imagine it’ll be better than sleeping on the floor.

Footsteps scrape from the doorway, and your head snaps up.

Joel Miller cleans up nice, it seems. He’s kept his boots, but apart from that, looks like a completely different person; his jeans now hug his hips tighter, his raggedy tee from earlier has been replaced with a form-fitting ribbed tank top. Any traces of mud, sweat, or gunk have been washed off his skin and down the drain. His hair hangs in wet stripes, sticking to his crinkled forehead.

You haven’t realized you’ve zone out until he’s waving a calloused hand in front of your face. “Hey, peach, anyone home?”

You clear your throat and replace it with a scowl. “Don’t call me that.” It’s deflection, and you know it. You think he knows it, too.

He gives you a funny look. “Uh huh,” he says. He taps his fingers along his hip bone. “Well, what the fuck are ya doin’?”

You furrow your brows at him. “Setting up camp…?”

“This is a shit camp to set up,” he says. “Stalkers in the parking garage, city I ain’t ever been in before? No, we need a vantage point.”

“And I assume you have one in mind?” you ask.

“Yeah, I do. ‘S a hotel, ‘lil further into town. Got three floors, we probably can block the stairwell from the inside to keep any raiders out.”

You nod and heft your backpack over your shoulder. It’s bulging from the extra clothes you’d stuffed into the bottom, and your arms are sore from the wrangling you’d given it after the collar of one of your new shirts jammed the zipper. 

Joel turns to stand guard at the door while you collect your stuff. You can’t seem to focus much on that, though, not with his ass practically at your eye level. The tighter denim definitely does him favors. You swallow the newfound lump in your throat and stuff your water flash into the side of your pack.

It has to be the lack of human connection. It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen anyone other than your captors, and the majority of this week since you’ve seen anyone other than Joel. Joel, who with every word, breath, movement, flinch, gets a rise out of you. Joel, who stirs the pot with you at every chance he gets. Joel, who almost certainly looks at you and sees a reflection of your father whom he hates.

He’d said so, early on.

This isn’t only one-sided. It’s a living, breathing disaster.

“‘S a hotel’ my ass, Joel, this place looks like a loaf of moldy bread.”

Joel insists on staying on the third floor. Says that the second floor is ‘too low’ and that being on the third floor poses a good choke point for any raiders or infected who might stumble upon your camp. He wants to ‘bottleneck’ any intruders, whatever the fuck that means.

The issue with the third floor? There’s mold. Everywhere. In the days after the outbreak, a leak must’ve happened somewhere in the pipes that bled through the ceiling and all over the top floor. None of the rooms you’ve checked have been left unscathed so far. It’s embedded into the rugs, the walls, the ceiling, all of it. At least it’s a good deterrent for the people that pass through. The infected, however? You have a feeling they’d be just at home.

“Would you shut the fuck up?” he says through his teeth. He pinches his nose bridge – he does that a lot, or maybe you just stress him out a lot – and glares at you.

“No, Joel. I’m fucking exhausted,” you hiss. “I’ve been roughing it with you all week, all you do is give me shit. The only thing this voyage of ours has taught me is that my dad has perfectly ample reason to hate your guts.” You’re closer to him now, knocking him back with your fist to your chest.

“Quit bein’ cute,” he scowls. “I’m the only reason your ass isn’t eyeball-deep in quicksand.”

“Yeah, and you’d be stalker food without me. So I guess we’re even, aren’t we, Joel?” You shove past him. “I’m just a way for you to pay off your stupid ‘debts’ anyway,” you mutter under your breath. He wasn’t protecting you, pulling you out of that damn pit. He was saving his own skin.

The hotel room door at the end of the hallway is slightly ajar. You lift your knife just in case, and step inside. 

It’s lacking the mold that the rest of the rooms have. People have definitely stayed in here before, what with the rumpled blankets left on the bed and a flashlight situated upright on the dresser. The thick layer of dust on the flashlight tells you that they never came back.

The room itself is satisfactory enough. Beige, almost green walls, close in at all sides. A cloudy mirror is hung by the window. Moonlight stipples the room. There’s a busted, corded phone on the nightstand that’s propped up on a Bible, a shattered nightlight, and a small table. You toss your pack onto the quilted bedspread and collapse onto the mattress. For an old, creaking thing with a busted spring or two, it’s still the most comfortable thing you think you’ve ever felt in your life. You sigh in relief and nuzzle into the pillow.

Joel clears his throat from the doorway.

“Find your own room, dipshit,” you say, nudging your pack off your bed with your knee. It thunks against the floor.

“I don’t think so.” He crosses his arms.

“I’m not sharing with you. You snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.”

You don’t have to look up to know he’s doing that thing where he pinches his nose bridge again. “You’re a fuckin’ piece ‘a work, kid, you know that?” You hear his pack drop against the ground. He drags a chair across the room and you cringe at how it squeals against the floor until he jams it under the doorknob. Then, the mattress dips.

You look at him sideways. “Get off my bed.”

“‘Your’ bed? You just discovered it two seconds ago.”

“Finders keepers.”

“Well I’m takin’ it from you. Losers weepers.”

You grit your teeth so hard you hear the bone scraping bone in your ears. 

“That’s now how this works–”

“We’re even now. You don’t wanna owe me one, and I sure as hell don’t wanna owe you one. So roll your ass over, act like an adult, and go to bed.”

You grouse under your breath, but with Joel, you have to pick and choose your battles. So you roll back over and wiggle yourself under the quilt, tucking your face into the musty pillow underneath you.

You sit in silence for a couple of minutes, staring at how the moon spills milky light along the alabaster ceiling. Then, you roll over again, stretching out the knicks in your back. Despite being the comfiest you’ve been in days, you’re feeling restless. You know Joel wouldn’t hurt you in any substantial way – you’re a bargaining chip to him. Nothing less, and certainly not anything more.

In spite of that, you find yourself drifting off with your face to him.

When Joel first wakes up, he thinks a clicker’s gnawing at his leg

Blinking the crust from his eyes, he realizes nothing’s gnawing on him at all. 

Rather, it’s you.

In your sleep, you’ve thrown your leg over his thigh. Your crotch is angled up against the bulk of his leg, a furnace that sears him through his jeans. Your head has dipped, forehead overheated and angled against the crux of his neck. If it were just that, he’d roll you over (maybe hard enough for you to crash on the floor) and hog the blankets for himself.

But you’re thrusting your fucking hips into him, letting out sleepy little whimpers while you fuck yourself on his leg. That explains why you’ve been acting dumber than a box of rocks. He oughta tan your hide for this. Bitching at him all week and really, you just need to get dicked down. Ironic, ain’t it.

He should still shove you off the bed. Call you a whore and leave you to rub your pussy raw in the bathroom instead of on his leg.

You give a particularly hard thrust, a keening little sound catching in the netting of your teeth. He swears you’re soaking through the denim.

He bites his tongue. The moonlight accentuates your closed eyes, your lashes fan out across your cheeks, there’s a cute little pinch in your lips as you unwittingly try to muffle the sounds coming out of you.

He can’t help himself. He raises his knuckles to your cheek and taps, taps, taps at the bone until your eyes startle open.

When you first wake up, you think you’re dying.

There’s a shortness of breath in your lungs. You feel like you’re being burned alive, your skin hot to the touch. You’re mummified in the crusty, flaky hotel sheets. Each intake of breath is musty and clings to your nostrils. You’re throbbing. Between the legs and elsewhere. Confusion puckers your brows. There’s slick between your legs — and Joel’s leg between your legs.

You tear away from him, making a disgruntled noise as the sheets tangle around your legs. His hand is raised to your face. There’s a moment where all you register is the judgmental squint in his dark eyes.

“What the fuck– you pervert,” you hiss, slapping him across the chest. A queasiness squiggles in your stomach as you inch your way back.

“Oh, no, peach. That was all you,” he drawls. He wraps his thick hand around your hipbone and pulls you back. You kick him in the shin, but there’s no real force behind it.

“Y-you’re lying,” you snarl. But a brief look at his lap tells you he’s not. He’s barely touting a semi, yet you’ve got the entire Mississippi River in your YMCA-issued panties.

Joel shakes his head at you. “‘S why you been actin’ up, you little shit? Just needed to get fucked?” He grips your hip so hard that it stings and hauls you against him. You tell yourself that the moan you let out is more of a hiss.

“I don’t– you’re making shit up, old man,” you say, squirming in his grip. You can’t help the way your hips sway at the tease of friction his knee gives you. You feel lightheaded, a freshly kindled bonfire.

“Am I?” Another squeeze to your hip. “Don’t look like it.” He notches his knee tighter against your swollen cunt, and your head dips forward as you bite into your lower lip. “Look’s like I’ve got a ‘lil slut more worked up than a hornets’ nest that spent all night rubbing her needy fuckin’ pussy on my leg.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and whine.

“Jus’ say the word, peach. I’ll do ya real good. Make that ache go away.” He rubs his thumb in a circle along your skin. The calloused pad of his thumb slips underneath the hem of your tank top, a lit match dragging along your skin.

“I don’t think you have it in you, Miller,” you say. But your voice gives you away. It’s breathy, coarsened by your sleep-stained, lust-stained rasp.

“Yeah? Well I didn’t think you had it in you to be humpin’ this ‘old man’s’ leg, but ya learn something new everyday.” He doesn’t grind his knee into your cunt — more so wedges it up. Pain blurs a watercolor line with pleasure as your back arches. His hand drifts from your midriff to your thigh, arm hooking around it so he can heft you up against his thigh proper. You grunt as you end up chest to chest with him. Your hips rock into his, guided by the North Star of his hands clutching at your hips. “Can feel ya,” he says. “Drippin’ all over me.”

You grind your teeth, digging your fingers into his shoulders. He groans as your nails claw at the skin there. “Shut the fuck up so I can pretend you’re someone else.”

He chuckles. “You can play pretend all you want, but I’m the one you’re soaking, ain’t I?”

You make an aggravated sound. Your left hand drags down his arm, leaving angry red tracks in their wake. Before he can gripe about it, you slap your right hand over his mouth. His eyes flare. Eye for an eye, his teeth sink into the flesh of your palm. You hiss at the sting. It only makes you pump your hips against him faster. The friction of your shorts and panties against the bulk of his leg and the wrinkle of his denim jeans makes your clit twitch against him.

Your flesh stretches as you tug it from his teeth. Your hand plants itself in his hair instead, dragging his head to the side. His eyes flutter, lidded and dark. “Don’t act like you don’t damn near cream yourself when I talk to you like this. You like being told what a nasty. Fuckin’. Slut. You are. Don’t look at me like that. You are. Been cruisin’ for a bruisin’ this whole time — just didn’t know you were after a pussy beating instead of a real one.”

Your eyes roll back. Your hips roll more languidly, only jerking when Joel gives a particularly brutal tug at your waist. You let out a pathetic moan into his neck. You nip at the skin there, tongue laving over the scars and blemishes he’s collected over the years. He reaches down and grabs a handful of your ass, groaning. “Too pretty to be actin’ a fool, baby.”

You dig your teeth into his neck, hard enough to leave cavernous bite marks in your wake. Your tongue digs through the craters your teeth left behind, saliva pulling from your lips to his skin. He smacks your ass hard enough for your hips to jerk, and you almost glare at him as you separate from your throat. Instead, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Don’t wanna look at me, do ya peach? Mmmm, well thas’ okay.” He fists his hand in the roots of your hair and tugs your head to the side. You hear Joel groping at the nightstand in the dark, and then the flashlight ticks on.

Your eyes blink open to yourself reflected in desilvered glass. Mirror rot surrounds your luminescent face, but most of all, you can see your hips and how they rock shallowly into Joel’s leg. “Watch yourself fuckin’ yourself stupid on my leg,” he croons in your ear. When you go still, his thumbs press hard into your skin. You stare at him. “You already fucked yourself stupid or somethin’? ‘S a simple instruction, sweet cheeks.”

“That’s dumb, Joel–” you sneer, going to look away.

He jerks your head back to where he had it and rocks his leg into your clit. You watch your face contort around a ragged moan. Pleasure thrashes through your system. “C’mon, you’re a dirty girl. Watch how pathetic you look while you get yourself off. Pretend I’m your pillow if you have to, but it ain’t gonna change how I’m the one gettin’ you off like this.”

Your thighs clamp around his. He smirks at you in the mirror. Your knee grazes his bulge, and a breathy moan loosens from his lips. “Two way street, Miller,” you say. But you’re weak — and so, so wet.

You give your hips a languid roll, watching yourself in the mirror. You’re a mess, mouth parted, eyes lidded, skin slick with sweat. Your hips shudder and start against him as you start to properly buck yourself against the meat of his thigh. With the shelves of your teeth, you try to smother the depraved noises coming out of you. Joel rolls his eyes.

“Gonna wake the fuckin’ dead with all that whining of yours.” Mid-moan, Joel shoves two fingers into your mouth and pries your jaw open. His fingers are bulky and ridged with callouses against your tongue. His thumb presses a dent into your jaw. “‘S okay, baby. I like ‘em loud.”

“I like you shutting the fuck up,” you say around a mouthful of his knuckles. You can’t help it. You bite at his fingers, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough to sting. He hisses and presses down on your tongue. You make a sputtering noise.

“You were sayin’?” he asks, tensing his thigh. You whimper against his fingertips. He tightens his grip on your hair, and in the mirror, you see yourself bared raw for him to see in all ways but the physical. You rut into his leg with increasing need.

“Mmmph, Joel–” you say around his fingers. 

“Oh, now you’re moaning my name? What was it I said? Cruisin’ for a bruisin’, peach.”

Wetness leaks down the insides of your thighs. Your swollen clit hitches on a wrinkle in his jeans. You’re shaking, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around him. Your fingers grapple for purchase and find some anchored in his hair, tugging wildly. You eye yourself in that damn mirror, the way your chest is slotted against his, how your hips pitch into his over and over again in your pursuit of release.

“Ask for it, baby.” Joel grinds his leg up into your cunt. “You wanna come on me, you gotta ask for it.”

You shake your head wildly. You aren’t a beggar — especially not for Joel Miller. You’d rather throw yourself back into quicksand. Jump in front of a clicker. Step on an alligator.

Joel pouts mockingly at you. “Stubborn for a slut who’s willin’ to spread it open all hours ‘a the day.” You rub your knee into his bulge, tenting his jeans, in hopes that it’ll be a suitable distraction. He groans, knee jerking. His thigh rams against you, and your back arches. You see your brows pucker in your reflection, your hips undulating against him.

“F-fuck,” you whine out, bouncing against him.

“You wanna come, don’t you, peach?” You nod frantically. “Wanna soak me, huh?” At that, you grit your teeth and snarl at him. You do you do you do. But you don’t want to admit it.

You squirm on his leg, desperately rocking into him. You dig your feet into the creaking mattress, fisting your hands into the fabric of his shirt. Tremors wrack your body as you work yourself on him. Your cunt flutters, and you almost taste your orgasm.

Joel tosses you off of him.

“You son of a–” you shriek, thrashing and out of breath. Your clit throbs and your hole twitches at the stolen promise of release. You bounce on the mattress, sprawled on your back and twitching.

“I told ya,” he says. “Gotta ask for it.”

“I’m not asking you for shit, asshole–”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll change your tune when I stuff your right full.” He grabs you by the back of your shirt and coaxes you into spinning around. He yanks you onto all fours, forehead meeting the mattress.

You back your hips up as he reaches around your shorts for the button. The zipper squeals as it comes down and he shuffles them down your legs. He nudges your knees apart. You can feel his bulge, insistent and pressed against the back of your thigh. He grips the inside of your thigh, fingers sliding through the slick that’s there.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “No wonder you were humpin’ me. Just needing someone to take away that ache, don’t you? Jus’ a horny girl wanting to go cock dumb.” His fingers graze over your clit, barely even a brush, and you let out a mangled sound into the comforter. “See? So desperate and sensitive. You’re cute when you’re not a pain in the ass.”

“That makes one of us,” you say.

Joel snorts. “She’s got jokes.” He rubs a circle into your clit, and then another, and all you can do is rock your hips into his hand. Impatient, you brace yourself on your elbow so you can reach behind him and fumble with his belt buckle. Joel laughs under his breath, working at the zipper while you undo the buckle. It chimes as his belt falls loose and his pants slump on his hips. You work the button open. 

You wriggle your hand into his briefs and pull him out, giving him a series of quick pumps. Joel grunts. “Just like that, peach. Fuck, yeah, you know what you’re doin’.”

He teases the tips of his fingers at your entrance. Razor sharp want slices up the insides of your warm thighs as you clench and drip more of your wetness along his hand. “I’ll throw you a bone,” Joel says. Then, with no warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. You claw against the sheets, whimpering.

“Nasty thing.” He hooks his finger and you fully mewl. Heat rushes into your cheeks. “Barely gotta do anythin’ to get you writhing and wanting.”

Warm tears brim at your eyes from the heady, deadly mix of arousal and hatred. Your cunt tightens around his finger, and without warning, he pushes another one in, twisting and hooking them brutally inside of you.

Your fingers fist in the sheets, temple pressed into the mattress. You can see the cocksure look on his face in the mirror, the way his forearm flexes with each thrust into you. “Fuck me already,” you spit. You know it’ll hurt if he fucks you without really preparing you. You want it to hurt. You want it to ache like the tread of his boot stamped on your chest. You want it to sting and simmer like the cuts that the wetlands left in a collage across your arms and legs. You want him to split you open and leave you flayed by your own pleasure.

“Alright, alright,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you. He gives your clit a light slap that makes you squeal. You almost black out when you see him bring his slick-stained fingers to his mouth and suck. “Yeah, taste as sweet as a peach, dontcha sugar? Such a tasty little cunt for such a smart-mouthed brat.”

You could cry with how bad you want hi— no, his cock. 

“Gonna hurt, baby. But you want it to, don’t you? Wanna feel me all up in here.” He roams his free hand across your stomach, then back around to your ass where he tugs you back. There’s the smack of flesh as your hips meet each other, the whimper between your netted teeth as he nestles his cock between your slippery folds. You nod, head slinging forward. “Don’t gotta tell me. I know ya do. Girl like you, always such a smartass. Yeah, you want it rough.” His voice is gruff, lust-addled. “Act stupid all you want, peach. I got you all figured out.”

He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise into the mattress. Your vision swims as he pushes into you, thumbs dug into your ass cheeks so he can watch how you take him. You mewl, back arching into and away from him at the same time. Your body can’t decide where to go. If it wants to be further, or as close as possible to him. Joal groans as he sinks into you.

“Tight as a fuckin’ hose pipe, peach,” he says. He reaches around to give your flick your clit — a move that makes your entire body spasm. 

“So about as small as your dick, then?” It’s bullshit — you know it, and he knows it. He’s not even fully inside of you, but the difference is startling. He’s stuffing you to the brim, leaving you to scrabble and claw against the sheets.

He slams into you, a blatant disregard of your comfort. You feel his balls smack against your clit, and hear the same thigh you’d been humping slot against your own. A ragged cry rips from your throat. “Joel,” you whimper, hips trying to writhe against the bed. “Joel, fuck—”

“Feels pretty big now, don’t it?” You whine, petulant, but it breaks off into a moan as he pulls back and then punches back into you.

All you can do is take it, take it, take it as he bashes your swollen cunt with his fat cock. You gasp raggedly, each snap of his hip bringing pleasure-pain tears to your eyes. Joel’s nails dig into the meat of your ass and yank you back on him. The sting is renewed, then, as he props his leg up on the bed and pounds into you. You whimper, helpless to his whims.

Between one thrust and the next, the bite in your cunt turns into a thrum of pleasure. A persistent swarm of heat and your own slick leaking down his cock. “Like I said,” Joel grunts as he fucks you. “A nasty fuckin’ slut with a sloppy ‘lil cunt.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Your head spins. “Fuck,” he spits.

“Joel, please, please, ple–”

“Quit beggin’, it ain’t ladylike.” You prop yourself up on your elbow and reach behind him, tugging his wrist away from your ass so you can slip his hand between your thighs. His pistoning into you falters. “What’d I say?” Joel grunts. His knees adjust over the backs of your calves to hold you down.

“Keep touching me,” you whine. “Please, you asked me to ask for it, so I’m fucking asking for it.”

“Told you to ask permission, not cry at me like a kicked puppy,” he says. “I call the shots here. Like it or not.” He goes to yank his hand away from your clit, but you yank at his knuckle.

Joel scowls, and so fast you might get vertigo, his other arm’s bicep locks around your neck and heaves you back against his chest. You sputter, drool pooling in your mouth. Your hands briefly tug at his arm, but fall limp when he says, “Oh, shut the fuck up, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Gotta keep you on your toes, peach.”

You arguably shouldn’t. But you trust him. Enough to keep you alive, at least.

With another thrust into the warm vise of your cunt, your body’s running hotter than an engine and twice as fast. He squeezes tight enough that your air is in short supply, and with it, everything is amplified. Pleasure crinkles through your body like crumpled aluminum foil, serrated and clinging to you. The crook of his elbow is warm, and you can’t help your head lolling back to give him a look that’s purely salacious. He tips his head down at you and smirks.

“Yeah, that’s my hungry little cockwhore,” he says. With his free hand, he tugs your hair. You seize around him, struggling for what to hang onto. You let out a rasping, strangled moan. With your head tipped back, you can see the tilt to his lips as he moans, feel his scruff scraping at your forehead. “Takin’ it like you were made for it. Shit.”

Joel moans as you clamp down around him again.

Tears might be sliding down your cheeks – you don’t know. You’re too trapped in this, in this moment, in the feeling of his cock slamming into your throbbing, aching cunt. “Mmph,” you whine low in your throat as he fucks up into you. He’s damn near bruising your cervix. Each thrust makes your cunt flitter around him. 

“You look good like this,” Joel grunts against your ear, using the leverage of his propped-up leg to bounce you on his cock. “All quiet ‘n sweet ‘n whorish. Goddamn, never thought a slut could feel this fuckin’ tight.”

Your eyes slip shut, vision spotting behind your eyelids. He keeps forcing himself into you. Making room. Making a mark that you’ll never forget he carved into you.

Your body is limp as he gets himself off, his hand moving from your hair. He gropes at your tits, flicking your nipple in a way that draws a sloping moan out of you. He slides it down your side, each callous bumping against your skin until he reaches your clit. You nod wildly, and he chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You think you’ve earned it? All you’ve been doing is whinin’ like a little bitch, baby.” He taps his fingers against your clit, once, twice, mounting the tautness of the tension drawn tight like elastic through your body. You gasp down air as he ever so slightly loosens his grip around your neck. He keeps thrusting into you, jerking tiny moans out of you as he does.

Your legs tremble. Your brain feels like mush. You wring his cock with each strain of your pussy. “I don’t want you,” you gasp out between thrusts. “I want you for what you can — fuck — give me. So I guess… that makes… us even. Doesn’t it?” Joel’s finger stills where it hovers over your clit, and you almost don’t notice the falter in his hips with how subtle it is.

“Yeah,” Joel pants. “Guess it does, peach.”

He presses his thumb down on your clit and the whole world makes sense.

You cry out as your juices soak his cock, dripping down his balls and thighs. “Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel,” you chant in between moans. He’s holding you up now by the underside of one of your arms, his fingers toying with your nipples. Each touch sends laser hot electricity between your legs.

He slams up into you again and you shriek. “Fuck, you’re a mess,” Joel says. “All stuffed full ‘a me… yeah, that’s how you’re s’posed to be. Sprayin’ your pussy juices all over me while I ram my cock into this drippy little hole.”

You whine, clit twitching against his finger. Tears burn at the edges of your eyes like fire on parchment. “I wanna come,” you whisper, voice tinged with need. “Please, Joel. I–”

“Who do you want to make you come?” he asks as he rolls his hips up into you. An undulating pace that makes you want to scream.

The curdling pleasure in your stomach brims, stews, steeps. You’re drowning in it, in the fire lashing through your body. Fire that he lit and stoked and now, only he can put out. “You, Joel!” you cry out. “You! I want you to make me come, please, I need it, I want t-”

“I got you, peach,” he says. He mashes the pad of his thumb against your swollen nub, rubbing circles, circles, circles. You scream this time, head slumping against him. “Throbbin’ for it,” he growls out. “All swollen and whinin’ like you’re in heat. You needed this. Needed me.”

“I needed you,” you nod, exhaling. You think you’d agree to anything he said right now. “Fuck,” you wail. Your hands anchor themselves on his forearm.

“Don’t fight it, baby, don’t fight it,” he coos. Your nails scratch angry red tracks down his burly arms. “Come on me, see if it gives you an attitude adjustment.”

To your chagrin, that does it.

Your orgasm shatters you. You’re fragile as it tears through your body, tying knots around your racing heart and making your legs quiver. You feel yourself gush around Joel’s cock, gasping for air as your lungs empty. Your cunt flutters around him as pleasured tears spill from the corners of your eyes. Everything’s hot and melting, your arousal dripping out of you in droves. Joel rubs at your clit through it, coaxing in your ear, “That’s it, theeeeere it is. Shit, baby, I’m comin’— squeezin’ me so damn good—”

Joel twitches inside of you, and you whine at his absence when he pulls out just in time. With a throaty, reverberating groan, he sprays the small of your back with his cum. You gasp as it splashes against you, your chest heaving against his hand. 

You sit in the silence, high off of the come down, panting in delirium. 

Joel clears his throat. “You alright, peach?”

“You don’t have to pretend to like me now that we’ve had sex, Joel,” you say. “I get it. We fucked. We got it out of our systems. Hooray. Do you want me to pop some confetti poppers?”

“I was being courteous, goddamn,” he grunts as he stands up. You watch as he tugs his jeans back up. “Clearly ain’t nobody ever treated you gentlemanly before.”

“Says the man who got off on choking me out.”

He shoots back, “The feeling was mutual, if I remember five minutes ago correctly. I ain’t that old.” He buckles his belt up. As he redresses, you toss your own shorts off to the side. He’s already been in your whole pussy — you’d rather not sleep in the denim shorts.

When you’re done, you give him a look.

He pinches his nose bridge and sighs through his teeth. “We oughta hit the hay. Long day ahead. And you should be too exhausted by now to be wakin’ me up again.”

You clench your fists at your side. “Fine.”

You reach for his flashlight and turn it off.

Reunion Tower is the first building you see.

Dallas. Home sweet home, for better or worse.

The skyline slowly eases up and out of the treeline as you and Joel meander up the car-cluttered I-20. Remnants from a life that’s long gone, all but skeletons with the organs of another time.

You and Joel have scarcely talked. Mostly, it’s just him pointing out directions. But he does other things. He helps you through wreckage or rubble instead of leaving you to muscle through on your own. He gives you part of his rations. He tosses you a magazine he finds in a store. He keeps watch.

You had meant what you said. You fucked. That was that. He was still the man your father told ghost stories about. The thoughtless killer. The unforgiving bullet to a skull. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of peoples’ deliverance to the afterlife. The man who’d betrayed your father all those years ago, a story of which you only know the vague specifics of.

Maybe you’ll ask him while he’s on bedrest from that bullet wound. (Or maybe you’ll just ask him. He’s not the sort of man to stay down for long.)

Regardless, as you two cross the exit a couple blocks from your dad’s base, you ask him, “Do you think he sent people after me?”

“Maybe,” Joel says. “Probably went up to Oklahoma instead. Louisiana ain’t famous for bein’ easy hikin’ material. Shocker that them Cockroaches brought you all the way out there.”

You nod and kick a rock with the toe of your shoe. “You think your group’s doing good on their own?”

“Who fuckin’ knows,” Joel says. “Left Tommy in charge of the place, I’ll be lucky if it ain’t burned down by now.”

“Well, you’ve got a whole new world ahead of you. Free of debts and all. Maybe my dad will finally get off your ass. Could skip town, if you wanted.”

Joel’s feet drag on the concrete. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he scratches the back of his neck. “There were never any debts, peach,” he says.

Your brows furrow as you stop in your tracks. “The fuck do y—”

“Got you of my own volition,” he says. “Your dad and I might be on shit terms, but that don’t mean I don’t care about him. I…” He pauses. “I know what it’s like to lose people.”

“Everyone does,” you say.

“Yeah,” Joel nods. He turns to make eye contact with you. “Everyone does. But I don’t exactly wanna go about losin’ you,” he says.

“That’s a bold claim, Miller,” you say.

“You’re good company. Even if you’re a shitass.” He pats you on the shoulder. His hand slides down your arm to your hand, and he gives it a squeeze before letting it drop. “Now c’mon. Let’s get you home.”

[yoonjae20]

Danny and Constantine's deal.

Inspired by @stealingyourbones 's prompt per @silverblueglitter 's request.

Read on ao3. Masterpost.

When the boy had sought him out, reeking of Death Magic John had wanted to say no on principle.

You don’t get that aura from being involved in normal stuff. John didn’t want to imagine what the boy did to exude such a strong presence and he’s the one who regularly tricks and gambles with Demons. At first he had been convinced the boy had a curse on him or that he was possibly possessed by an angry spirit (and how ironic that had been in retrospect). 

To say that John had been taken by surprise was an understatement. One moment he was sipping on a truly awful cup of coffee, while smoking a cigarette and looking at a British newspaper and the next the boy appeared like out of thin air, settled in the chair opposite to him. 

The problem? John had been in the House of Mystery — which meant that no one should have been able to find him there. Bloody hell, John had constant problems finding it himself, considering it was sentient and would manifest in different places just to spite John — at least that’s how it felt to the man. 

He had startled, his coffee swapping over — but before it could stain either his newspaper or his dress shirt it froze in the air. The Death Magic surrounding the boy almost seemed to spike for a moment. 

“Blimey!” John cursed out. “How in Satan’s name did you get in here, mate?”

“I just walked in.”

“You-” John felt himself fuming, before his voice dropped into something falsely calm. “You just walked in?”

“Yes.”

John let out another string of curses before he grabbed the cup with the frozen coffee still inside and threw it at the wall, shattering it. The House of Mystery shifted around them, only the coffee table and two chairs with them on them remaining and taking his pack of cigarettes with it as if to laugh at his misery. 

“That feels like a bit of an overreaction, but who am I to judge,” the boy said with a shrug. 

John groaned, head in his hands before he collected himself. Okay. Whatever. Taking the last drag of his cigarette he put it out by twisting it on the coffee table.

“So,” he started. “What do you want?”

“A friend of yours told me that you know your way around spells and magic.”

“I don’t have friends,” John stated, deathly calm. 

The boy gave him an innocent, but impish smile that screamed “Welp, what can you do?” 

“Get lost kid,” John said. “I’m nothing but a con-man.”

“A con-man that lives in a magic house that changes its assortments of rooms as it pleases.”

John narrowed his eyes. Now thinking back, the room he had been in before the boy appeared hadn’t been next to the front door. Not even near it. The House Of Mystery once again changed around them as if to confirm the boy’s words. 

“You just walked in?”

“I just walked in,” the boy agrees. 

John leaned back to stare at the ceiling, contemplating what he did to deserve this. No — cross that, he knew exactly what he did to deserve this. 

“I always knew you’d get me, John. I said so.”

He shook his head to disperse the memory before he leaned back even further, settling his feet on the table just because he could.

“So,” he prompted.

“So,” the boy echoed back.

Suddenly the table beneath his feet disappeared and John flailed as he lost his balance. The chair toppled and he crashed to the floor. The boy suppressed his laughter as John peeled himself off the floor.

“Blummin’-“ John bit back another curse. 

“You know you almost seem like a supernatural Doctor Who — only your Tardis hates you,” the boy snickered. 

“Ha, ha,” John deadpanned as he picked up the chair and let himself fall into it. “Very funny.”

The boy’s expression changed from amused to serious as he looked John in the eyes. 

“Become my mentor.”

“Not a chance in hell,” John scoffed. “Go bother someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

“Tough luck.”

They almost seemed at a stalemate for a moment as the boy paused to think. 

“What I give you something in exchange,” the boy offered.

“No offense mate,” John said, “but I doubt you have anything I’d be interested in. You’re what? 12?”

The boy scowled.

“I’m 14.”

“Close enough.” John waved him off. “I’m not a babysitter.”

“I know that for most magic users, the higher and more difficult the spell the more dire the consequences,” the boy suddenly says before John can open a portal to throw him out. “Some people just have the talent and big magic reserves — but I don’t think you are one of them.”

“Hey,” he warned, but the boy just continued to smile at him, not daunted by his tone. 

“I can solve your problems.”

John squinted his eyes as he crossed his arms. He knew that his magic reserves were minuscule — honestly that’s the reason why he didn’t try to depend on magic if he could. Why deplete them and risk over exhaustion if the right words have the same effect?

“And exactly how would you do that?”

The Death Magic around the boy flared for a bit as he produced a green glowing ball of energy. John doesn’t need a spell to be able to tell that it could power his spells and that he could use it to fill up his magic reserves if need be. 

“With this.” He closes his hand, the orb disappearing. “In exchange, teach me.”

“What? How to use Death Magic effectively?”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“No,” he disagrees. “I mean manipulation. Show me how you were able to swindle Demons and get away with your life.” 

John grinned.

“Deal.”

John barely evades an attack as he picks up the phone.

“Do you not watch the news, brat?” he questions through huffs of air. “This is a bad time.”

“You’re like a cockroach, I’m sure you’ll survive,” Danny sounds bored and John doesn’t even have the time to feel outraged — moments like these are when he regrets agreeing to Danny’s deal. The boy is more trouble than it’s worth. 

He groans as he is forced back to where the rest of the Justice League Dark is fighting.

“So?” he prompts once again.

“So,” Danny says, cheekily. 

“Can we for once not do that while I’m fighting for my life?” John hisses and Danny cackles. 

“Fine, fine,” he agrees. “I just wanted to tell you some good news.”

John knits his eyebrows together as he casts a spell with one hand — he isn’t trusting that one bit. Danny has a way to get into trouble and John is often the one who has to get him out of it. Honestly he would think his lessons on manipulating are failing considering what a bad liar he is — if he didn’t know the boy has been actively manipulating him into helping him. At least he got something out of it.

He grabs into his pocket and pulls out the condensed energy from Danny and absorbs it, sighing in relief when his magic reserves get filled up again. That was close. 

“Spit it out already,” John huffs out. 

“Well you said I’m not utilizing what you are teaching you, so I decided I should do something fun-” Oh no. “So I asked around and oh and behold — I got myself a ticket to a very special Poker Night.”

“And?” 

“And now I’m the proud owner of 70% of your soul!”

John blankly stares at the phone in his hand before he puts it back up.

“You little-”

The line beeps and he’s about to throw his phone at the next enemy when a sudden voice behind him startles him.

“Sorry your expression was just too good to pass on,” Danny snickers. “I needed to see it in person.”

“HAVE YOU BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME?”

Danny leans back, floating in the air as he shrugs.

“Maybe, or maybe not.”

John gets the sudden urge to strangle the boy — never mind that’s just how it always is. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he breathes out slowly.

“Constantine,” Zatanna appears next to John and he doesn’t yelp — thank you very much. “Who is your friend?”

“He is not my friend,” John says blankly while Danny chirps, “I’m the major shareholder of his soul!”

John tries to smother the boy with his hand, but Danny just cackles. He withdraws his hand, disgusted after the teen licks it. They are gathering the attention of the rest of Justice League Dark who are still fighting and trying to hold back the invasion. 

“Ah,” Zatanna sounds awkward. “I wasn’t aware you are a father, Constantine.”

Danny bursts out in laughter as John stares at the magic user in bafflement. 

“Why do I even try?” John complains as Danny pats the man’s back, still snickering. John searches through the pockets of his trench coat and pulls out his flask. “I can’t have this conversation while sober.”

Danny snorts as John empties the flask. 

“You guys need help?” Danny questions as he looks around the battlefield. Of course he would be excited about this. 

John sighs, but gives his permission anyway.

“Knock yourself out.”

Danny whoops and absolutely decimates the entire invasion fleet. 

Danny’s right leg bounces up and down as he looks at the clock. Just 10 more minutes until lunch break — then he can slip away. Constantine had relentlessly called him the past hour which could only mean the man is in need of new ectoplasm. He can only hope that the situation isn’t too dire. He chances a look at his phone and winces. 15 missed calls.

“Daniel Fenton.”

Danny freezes in his spot and slowly looks up. Mr. Lancer is looking down at him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

“What is so important that you can’t pay attention to my class?” The man holds out his hand. “Phone. You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”

Danny sighs as he feels the man’s disappointment. There he goes — and he had been doing so well lately now that he figured out how to deal with his roster of rogues.

Just as Danny is about to place his phone in his teacher’s palm it lights up with another call. Mr. Lancer frowns at the name and it’s with horror that Danny realizes that he saved Constantine as “Con-Man”. Before he can stop the man he accepts the call, turning it on speaker.

“Danny.”

Oh fuck, Constantine sounds pissed. 

Danny can’t help but feel guilty. He knows Constantine had survived even before Danny provided him with energy for his spells — but he also knows the man is slowly starting to depend on the extra magic boost.

“I called you 20 times!”

“16,” Danny can’t help but correct. 

“You little brat-”

“I’m in class,” Danny interrupts meekly.

Danny can practically hear the moment Constantine realizes what power he holds as his voice turns from angry to amused.

“I see,” he says simply. “I need a new delivery.”

Danny sinks deeper into his seat as the man continues, wanting nothing more than to use his powers to turn invisible and disappear. 

“I’ve run out and you know that your stuff is the best.”

Danny closes his eyes. This is karma for all the times he trolled Constantine, isn’t it? He’s purposefully phrasing it in a suspicious way — hell without context it sounds like Danny is selling him drugs. 

Danny cringes as he answers, inadvertently making it worse, “I’ll get you the next batch as soon as school is over.”

“Good.”

The line goes dead and the silence is deafening. Danny doesn’t meet Mr. Lancer’s eyes.

“Class is dismissed,” the teacher says. “Danny, please stay back.”

Danny lets his head fall against his desk as he groans. 

What follows are the most embarrassing and awkward 15 minutes of his life as Mr. Lancer lectures him and sends him into the break with a “Don’t do drugs” pamphlet. 

[silens-oro]

You Know Where You Are: Part II

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Musician!Reader Angst/Established Relationship Part I | Part III

The Pitt Playlist located here The Pitt Masterlist

Synopsis: Dr. Robby's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning bleeds into an Even Worse Afternoon. Word Count: 3,579 Content Warning: Reader is in her 30's; mass shooting; death; blood; gunshot injuries; angst - if I've missed any, please let me know. A/N: Just know my rubbing my lil fly hands together nefariously. Thank you for all of the love on the first part!

Robby was relatively good at schooling his emotions at work, locking them away so as to not let them cloud his judgement when dealing with patients. They deserved his full attention, no matter who they were. The med students and residents deserved to learn from him in an appropriate setting. That’s not to say that Dana didn’t clock the black cloud that clung to him the second he walked into the ED, because that’s exactly what she did. That and she knew Robby like the back of her hand.

“Good morning. Surprised to see you today,” Dana greeted, a knowing smile gracing her features. Robby just grunted his greeting, confirming her suspicions. “Hate to make your questionable morning worse, but Gloria is looking for you.” 

He couldn’t wait for this day to end.

The cold water from the bathroom sink hit Robby’s face with a jolt. He brought another handful up to follow the first for good measure. This day just kept derailing in one way or another -more than an ED usually derails in a day. He dried his face and pulled his phone out.

He sent you a text just after Jake came to pick up the backstage passes from him and sighed when he saw the ‘Read 11:26 AM’ under his message, then looked at the clock -12:51 PM. You were busy, he told himself. He was lying to himself, but with the day that he already had, it was the only thing allowing him to tread water.  

Between the fight with you, the anniversary of losing Adamson, the patients lost, and the hysterical families he’s dealt with today -add on the possibility of a future school shooter on the loose, Robby was heavily regretting his stupid decision to ask for this shift. 

And it was only one in the afternoon. 

This was his punishment from the universe. 

“You good?” Dana had asked as Robby stopped across from her at the nurses station and set down a tablet. He had pushed his glasses up to squeeze the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes closed. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the migraine that was edging at the corners of his eyes. Robby let out the deepest sigh before letting his glasses fall back down. 

“Define good.” His face was still pinched as he looked down to Dana.

“That bad?”

“You don’t know half of it.” Dana walked around the station and gently grabbed Robby’s arm to lead him to the breakroom. 

“Perlah, can you handle this for a few? I’ll be right back.” Perlah nodded as Princess tried not to obviously crane her neck behind Perlah to listen in as well.

“I don’t know what he did, but I’m on her side.” Princess said to Perlah in Tagalong, referring to you. Perlah nodded with an “mhm” before going back to her computer. 

“This have anything to do with why you’re here and not at PittFest?” Dana asked with an eyebrow raised as they got to the breakroom. She closed the door as Robby leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and guarded. Dana came to stand next to him, busying herself with making two cups of coffee to give him room. He’d open up if she did this right, otherwise she’d be adding to the natural disaster of a cloud that followed him during their shift and that’s the opposite of what she wanted to do. They still had four hours of their left before they could call it quits and he needed to let some of that steam out before whatever was inside boiled over.  

The last time you spoke to Dana over coffee, you told her how excited you were to get Mike out of the house -out of the hospital. She couldn’t agree with you more that the man needed a break. Robby needed to experience things that weren’t the ED and anything within a five block radius of the hospital. Sure you got him out of the house on the occasion that he was up for going somewhere further, but he needed joy, and hanging with you and Jake outside in the sun, fresh air, music and food would do just that. That was the plan, anyway. Dana just needed to piece together where the plan that was set in stone went sideways.

Robby pins Dana with a look and she knows she’s at least hit that nail on the head.

“What happened?” She asked softly, leaving the question open so Robby could respond in a way that didn’t corner him. Placing the cup of coffee she made for him on the counter, she held hers nestled between both of her hands. 

“I happened.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I didn’t tell her I wasn’t going until this morning.”

“Robby!” Dana whispered the exclamation, eyes wide. He held up a hand.

“I know, believe me, I know. It was stupid.”  

“Stupid is an understatement, doc. Listen, I know why you did it. I get it. Today is heavy -emotionally and mentally. You need to stay busy and any downtime leaves room for too much thinking. Working does that for you.”

“Yeah.” Robby sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter. At least his arms had left their defensive position crossed over his chest. That was a win in Dana’s book. 

“But that doesn't mean it’s right. You can’t hide yourself away here when you’re going through something, Robby, not when you have someone who is willing to shoulder that burden with you.” Dana corrected him gently, placing her hand over his bicep. The worst part about this conversation was that Robby knew Dana was right. He knew he went about this the wrong way entirely, but he can’t seem to get out of his own goddamn way sometimes. You would’ve understood, even encouraged him to do what he needed to- “Communication is important, you know this. It’s nothing I haven’t said to you before.” Dana finished softly. Goddamn communication. If only it was that easy, that simple. 

“God, you’d think I’d understand that by now.” He chuckled sardonically. 

“There’s always time to learn.” She encouraged Robby. “She loves you -I know that for a fact. Reach out, leave the ball in her court. Let her know you understand.” He was already ahead of her on that suggestion, and it felt like he was stranded at sea with a single life preserver and no rescue ship in sight. 

“No luck?” Dana asked when she saw Robby looking down at his cell in the few spare minutes he had just after a particularly unruly patient in South 15. He shook his head and pocketed it, departing to meet Langdon so Dana couldn’t dig further. She meant well, but it was starting to grate on his nerves and the last thing he wanted to do was snap at Dana. Because that would be the last thing he ever did once she got through with him. 

Robby had been off and everyone who worked with him on the daily took notice -outside of Dana who clocked him the second he came through the doors. The glances from the residents and nurses said as much. The new interns and residents didn’t know anything was off until Whitaker overheard Langdon talking to Mohan about it. Gossip spread like the wildfire in the ED. The second it was out, there was no reeling it back in. 

Robby knew he was cutting it close, that your band’s set was scheduled for a 5 PM start, but he texts you again around 4 PM to ask you to please call him when you had a few minutes -that he loved you and just needed to talk. You replied with a simple ‘busy’ and that was somehow worse than no response at all. Robby knew he was in the doghouse when they both got home -if you even decided to come back to his place that night. “You know what, Mike…probably not” Robby winced at the memory and carried on with his neverending shift. 

The exasperation that laced your voice and the frustration that shined in your eyes this morning made Robby bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself present. He would apologize, genuinely -profusely-, when you decided to speak to him again. He would listen. He would communicate. He couldn’t risk this driving a wedge between you like it had in his past relationships. He’d fix this. This was fixable, he told himself. He didn’t want to think of the alternative. That was the last thing he needed after the day he had, but he knew he was an asshole and you were generally too understanding of him and his quirks -today notwithstanding. 

At the 5:15 PM mark, he got a facetime call from Jake. Excusing himself from South 10, leaving the patient in Mohan’s hands, he quickly stepped into a more quiet hallway to answer. A smile lifted his lips for the first time all day when Jake’s beaming face came onto the screen.

“Robby!” Jake shouted over the festival noise.

“Hey, bud!” All of Robby’s emotions nearly broke through the dam he crafted at the beginning of the shift.

“Me and Leah just wanted to say thank you for the passes!” The phone panned down to a young blonde next to Jake. She beamed up at him, then down to the phone. 

“Thank you so much, Robby! This is incredible!” The phone twisted back up to Jake’s face. 

“You’re coming with us next time, Robby! This is insane! Look at this view,” Jake flipped the camera to capture what he saw from the back lens. Jake was backstage facing the crowd. You were the first thing Robby saw. He recognized the song and could hear the crowd singing along to it as you moved across the stage. 

Robby’s heart clenched. Seeing you in your element was mesmerizing no matter how many times he had seen it before. He met you well after your career was established, but he still felt pride nonetheless. You were successful, humble, and grateful above all else to do what you loved -and to make a generous living on top of it. 

You toured the world, saw everything there was to see, and sometimes Robby felt like an anchor in the worst way. It felt almost like an insecurity that he wouldn’t be the person to experience those things with you, but he had been warned before you both decided to try your unorthodox relationship out -just as you had been warned about his profession and what that entailed.

This was the first time in Robby’s life that he had ever been in a relationship with someone who had an equally, if not more demanding job when it came to sacrificing time at home. It worked for you both so far, to the surprise of everyone. 

Your band had taken this year off from touring to write and record a new album, and you had a tour across North America scheduled for the following spring once the album was released in February of next year. The thought of not seeing you for months at a time was anxiety inducing, he would admit. The last time you left was on a 3 month tour through Europe and Asia, and Robby didn’t realize he could miss someone as much as he missed you. 

On the flipside, you hadn’t ever had a partner who wasn’t in the industry, so leaving him behind was brutal in its own way knowing he couldn’t just hop on a plane to meet you for a few stops. You got homesick when you never got homesick before meeting Robby. He had become your home in the last three years and it was a welcomed adjustment. 

This year was a nice cushion of time to relax and play solitary shows at local festivals or secret shows in smaller venues around Pittsburgh and occasionally Philly. Sometimes Robby made it to them, sometimes he didn’t. Some of Robby’s coworkers that you had met would show after you’d extended an invitation to any of your home shows. Dana and her husband, surprisingly, were the first to take up the offer. No one in the ED would believe you when you said she was wild on a night out, her husband encouraging her to let loose. After that, you and Dana had been two peas in a pod. Langdon still could not believe that Robby was dating an actual rockstar and was a little starstruck every time you showed up. 

That being said, you had been home more often than Robby was as of recent (whether you both landed at your place or his) and you never complained about anything really. You were just happy with the time you got with Robby and you spent every second you were afforded with him together. You rolled with whatever each day brought you and it was a breath of fresh air for Robby. He didn’t have to walk on eggshells when things didn’t go as planned and maybe he had gotten too comfortable with that. 

Robby was going to be sick -physically, viscerally, all-consumingly ill. There’s an active shooter at PittFest -Robby could have collapsed in that ambulance bay the second those words left Dana’s mouth as his work phone beeped in unison with hers. He wasn’t afforded even a second to panic before he had to shift to Dr. Robby and get all hands on deck to prep the ED for what was sure to be a mass casualty event. 

Robby called Jake, then texted Jake, then called him again, then moved on to calling and texting you, begging both of you to contact him in any way you could to make sure you Jake was okay -that you were okay.

5:46 PM, you were supposed to be on stage until 6 -Robby made a mental note. He prayed to whoever was listening -if anyone was listening- that the three of you got to safety. He nearly loses it when he sees Jack walk through the doors with his backpack in tow, ready to take on whatever this event brought through their doors. 

Dana was on a rotating call between your phone and Jake’s to try to get through to either of you as she prepped the nurses, and every time Robby asked her if she had gotten through, it broke a piece of her soul when she had to shake her head. 

You were fine. Jake was fine. Those were the words repeating in his brain over and over as triaged patients started to flood the ED. These people needed him and they needed him present, so he shut himself down emotionally and did what he knew how to do -he gave the best possible care under the current circumstances.

It was a lull in between songs while you were talking to the crowd when you saw an unusual scatter of patrons in the back cluster of people on the east side of the festival. You pulled out your ear monitors and heard screaming -blood curdling screaming, not the type of screaming from a normal crowd. In a split second, Nick -your guitarist and lifelong friend- collapsed to the floor of the stage, the guitar emitting a horrific feedback over the amps. Gasps and screams erupted from the crowd and mass panic set in. People started trampling each other as shots started ringing out. 

Your first instinct was to drop the mic and run over to Nick and that’s exactly what you did. The people stuck at the barricade were horrified and scared beyond belief because they were pinned in the crowd with nowhere to go as people dropped like flies. Blood pooled around Nick where he lay crumpled when you reached him.

Then you felt it. The sheer power was enough to knock you off your feet and you heard your name as you tried to crawl to safety. Fire radiated through your torso as you tried to lift yourself enough to move, but when you tried to pull yourself forward, your hand slipped in the blood on the stage that was leaking from somewhere on your body. Every instinct in your brain shut off with the exception of fleeing. Your brain screamed at you, begged you to go, go, go somewhere, anywhere, but your brain and your body could not connect so you simply lay there on your stomach, your eyes catching the crowd dispersing in mass pandemonium, blood pooling around you just as it had with Nick with your last coherent thought being that of Jake. Was he safe? Losing Jake would kill Robby and you couldn’t protect him. 

Your hands were noticeably cold, your body shivering regardless of the end of summer heat. The warmth of your blood pooled against the side of your face that was resting against the stage felt warm, warmer than you did and it was oddly comforting. Buzzing from your back pocket kept you present, awake, and aware, but you couldn’t move -you could barely breathe. 

“Leah, stay!” Jake’s panicked voice cracked as he flipped you onto your back and grabbed one of your feet to try to pull you to the side of the stage. 

“I have her other leg, just pull-” Another shot and you heard someone drop. 

“Leah!” Matt, your bassist, and a couple of the roadies put themselves in danger to help Jake drag you and Leah off the stage while Casey, your drummer, pulled Nick off to the side.

“Pressure! Put pressure on them!” You screamed incoherently when someone pushed something onto your stomach -at least you thought it was your stomach- and pain radiated through every limb and up your neck shooting blinding white light through your brain. It was enough to leave you breathless, wheezing, and falling in and out of consciousness. 

“Help pick her up on my three -one, two, three,” Someone lifted you into their arms and you were moving. You didn’t recognize them, possibly one of the roadies who didn’t work with your band or possibly just a good samaritan, but his face blurred every time you tried to look at him. “Hey, hey, don’t close your eyes.” He said as he kept looking down between you and where he was going. “We’re getting you out of here, alright? Stay with me.” He tried to coax you, shaking you in his arms to keep you awake. You didn’t even realize your eyes had closed. Your head tilted back, resting against his arm as he ran with you.

The sky was clear, you noticed, clearer than it had been in the past couple of weeks. The periwinkles of dusk were settling into the violets of night and you were getting colder by the minute. 

“Jake,” You wheezed out, the teen coming to the forefront of your mind. You tried to move in the man’s arms, but he held tight. “Leah,” Your voice slurred.

“The kid is alright.” He reassured you, only half answering -not that you were coherent enough to notice. “Just hold on, alright?” The next thing you knew, you were pulled into the bed of a pickup truck. “We’re gonna sit you up, alright?” You grunted as your back hit the cab of the truck. “We need you up so you can keep track of Jake, right Jake? He needs you to talk to him, alright? Talk to him about anything, you hear me? Don’t stop talking. Keep pressure here,” Not questioning him, you nodded and held someone’s balled up shirt to your torso with the stranger’s help. You grasped his bloody hands with one of yours to stop him before he could take off.

“Thank…you.” He looked at you, an emotion you couldn’t pinpoint flooded into his eyes, and he nodded as he squeezed your hand. 

“Mac, ma’am. Wished we met under better circumstances.” You chuckled groggily. You gave him your name. “You got ‘em?” Mac asked Jake. Jake nodded and Mac smacked the side of the truck to let the driver know to get the hell out of there and to the nearest hospital. 

Once the truck got moving, things got incredibly fuzzy while it tore out of the lot of the backstage area. Jake called your name and your eyes refocused on him and Leah. He was covered in blood and holding another shirt over the wound on her chest. 

“I’m fine, Jake,” You wheezed out. “Focus on Leah. Is she talking? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s talking,” His eyes danced between you and Leah. “I’m fine.” 

“Good,” You nodded sloppily, “Good. Focus on her. I’m alright,” You tried to reassure the kid, but you could see that he did not believe you. You blinked and felt someone hitting your foot.

“Keep your eyes open,” Jake demanded. Your eyes felt like they were filled with sand, weights pulling each one down further and further. Your skin was losing its color, the tone turning gray as each minute ticked by.  

“Just blinking, kid.” Your eyes were closed much longer than a blink and Leah’s speech was starting to slur as she looked up at him. He finally let his tears fall, his lips quivering in pure helplessness as it engulfed him when your head started to nod to the left. Jake’s voice sounded like it was under a tidal wave when he said your name again before you were out.

Please reblog, like, and/or leave comments :)

[the-oblivious-writer]

A Loving Distraction

Wednesday Addams x Reader

One-shot

Summary: Wednesday attempts what’s meant to be a study session, but being the distraction you are, you had other plans in mind.

Warning(s): kissing, established relationship, and no pronouns

Notes: dedicated to @101rizzlrr - ask and I shall deliver

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the text you're about to send to Wednesday. The message reads: "Meet me in the library? Promise to actually study this time."

The memory of your last "study session" brings a smile to your face. You'd spent more time debating the merits of different torture methods throughout history than actually reviewing for finals. Not that you minded - Wednesday's passionate defense of the rack over the iron maiden had been oddly endearing.

Your phone buzzes with her reply: "Bold of you to imply I was the distraction last time. But fine. West wing, third floor. Don't be late."

Twenty minutes later, you're climbing the worn stone steps of Nevermore Academy's library. The afternoon light filters through the Gothic windows, casting long shadows across the floor. You spot Wednesday at her usual table, surrounded by a fortress of leather-bound books. She's wearing her signature black dress, white collar crisp and perfect despite the late hour.

"You're four minutes late," she says without looking up from her notes.

"I brought a peace offering." You place a steaming cup of black coffee - no sugar, no cream - next to her elbow. "And I was delayed by Principal Weems giving her weekly lecture about proper uniform length to some poor first year."

"Excuses." But she takes the coffee, and you catch the slight softening around her eyes that passes for a smile in Wednesday's world. "I assume you're here because you're still struggling with Advanced Poisons?"

You slide into the chair across from her, pulling out your own textbook. "Some of us didn't grow up taste-testing deadly nightshade."

"Your loss. Mother always said it builds character." She reaches for your notebook, scanning your latest attempts at categorizing toxic fungi. "Your classification system is almost painfully wrong. Look at this - you've put death caps under 'slow-acting.' They can kill within 48 hours."

"Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for mortality rates," you tease, leaning closer to see where she's marking corrections in precise red ink. Her hair smells faintly of rain and graveyard dirt - a scent you've come to associate with comfort, oddly enough.

"Clearly. Which is why you need my help." She pauses, dark eyes flickering to yours. "Though I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than ensuring you don't accidentally poison yourself with basic mushroom identification."

"Aw, you do care."

"Don't be ridiculous." But her knee bumps yours under the table, and stays there.

The next hour passes in a comfortable rhythm of studying and bickering. Wednesday corrects your work with cutting efficiency, while you try to distract her by suggesting increasingly outlandish uses for non-lethal poisons. ("Think about it - just enough to make the entire school board mildly nauseated during budget meetings.")

"Focus," she chides, but there's amusement lurking in her voice. "Unless you want to explain to your parents why you failed this semester."

"They'd understand. I'd just tell them I was distracted by my brilliant, beautiful girlfriend who happens to be a walking encyclopedia of death."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She turns a page with deliberate precision. "And that's not even close to my most impressive quality."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "Oh? Do tell."

"I can name at least fifteen ways to incapacitate someone with items found in this library alone." Her eyes meet yours, challenging. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"Tempting, but I think the librarian is still mad about last time." You reach across the table, fingers brushing her wrist. "Besides, I can think of better uses for our time."

Wednesday arches an eyebrow. "Can you now?"

The tension shifts, electric and familiar. You stand slowly, walking around the table until you're beside her chair. She turns to face you, expression unreadable but for the slight catch in her breath when you lean down.

"Much better uses," you murmur, and then you're kissing her. Her lips are cool against yours, tasting of coffee and secrets. One of her hands finds its way to your collar, pulling you closer with that controlled intensity that is so uniquely Wednesday.

You break apart at the sound of footsteps approaching, though you don't go far. Wednesday's normally pale cheeks have the faintest hint of color, and you can't help feeling a bit smug about that.

"That was…" she starts.

"Distracting?" you offer with a grin.

"Entirely inappropriate for a study session." But she's fighting a smile now, the real kind that makes her look almost human. "We have an exam tomorrow."

"True." You brush a strand of dark hair from her face. "But I'd argue that was an excellent practical demonstration of biological responses to stimuli."

Wednesday rolls her eyes, but she's definitely smiling now. "Your scientific method needs work."

"Then I suppose we'll need more practice." You gesture to the towering shelves around you. "We have the whole library."

"You're impossible." She stands, gathering her books with precise movements. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find somewhere more private for your… research." She gives you a look that makes your heart skip. "Unless you'd rather stay here and actually study?"

You grab your bag, already following her toward the stacks. "Lead the way."

-----------

A/N: nice little one-shot before I post more angst

[seospicybin]

NEPTUNE.

Hyunjin x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In a distant future where an app can predict your death, a retired dancer and an ambitious swimmer cross path by chance. With their final day looming, they choose to share it together, finding unexpected connection in the fleeting hours they have left. (19,6k words)

Author's note: With this fic, I hope that you get to realize that no matter how small your achievement is, it matters. You are matter. Happy new year, everyone! ❣

In the distant future, death isn’t a mystery. It’s an appointment.

It started with a breakthrough—an algorithm said to be so precise it could predict the exact day someone would die. Governments called it progress, a tool to manage the chaos of an overburdened planet. They named it Mortem. What they didn’t expect was how quickly the app would seep into the fabric of life.

People stopped planning for the long term. Relationships became fleeting, careers lost their permanence, and calendars filled with expiration dates. Death notifications became part of the noise—just another alert blinking alongside weather updates and dinner reservations.

But Mortem wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t tell you the when—only the day. That meant hours, minutes, or fleeting seconds could separate you from the end. For some, it was a mercy. For others, a torment.

Tonight, the city pulses with quiet tension, as it always does. Neon lights flicker against a backdrop of endless skyscrapers, their glass walls reflecting a future built on progress and control. Somewhere, phones buzz softly, notifying their owners of an unchangeable truth: Tomorrow is your last day.

For those who receive the message, there are choices to make. Will they cling to the comforts of routine, pretending the day ahead is like any other? Or will they seek something different—a chance to hold onto life for just a little longer?

Two strangers will soon find themselves asking that same question. Their lives have never crossed before, but by the time tomorrow ends, they will have shared something no one else can understand.

-

5:00 a.m.

The alarm pierces the early morning silence, jolting Hwang Hyunjin awake. With practiced ease, he silences it, sitting on the edge of his bed as he stretches his long arms. His back arches slightly, muscles awakening as he bends forward to gather his thoughts.

The world outside is still cloaked in darkness, but Hyunjin is already lacing up his running shoes. A quick double knot secures them before he presses play on his playlist, music flooding his ears and sharpening his focus.

The crisp, cool morning air greets him as he steps outside. It stings against his skin, but he welcomes it, inhaling deeply as he begins to run. His strides are steady, powerful, each one cutting against the wind. His long, dark hair bounces with the rhythm of his movement, dampened slightly by the early morning mist.

After completing his route, Hyunjin stops by his favorite bakery, where the warm aroma of freshly baked bread envelops him. He orders his usual: a selection of warm pastries and a steaming cup of coffee to go. Back at his apartment, he settles by the window, the city stirring to life beyond the glass. He takes slow bites of his breakfast, sipping his coffee as the first golden rays of sunlight paint the skyline.

It’s moments like this, quiet and unassuming, that he treasures most. They remind him of the beauty in simplicity, grounding him before the demands of the day.

By ten o’clock, Hyunjin arrives at the training center, his focus razor-sharp. He begins with a grueling gym session, pushing his limits to strengthen his arms and back. The burn in his muscles is a familiar companion, one he embraces with resolve. Sweat drips down his chin as he finishes his final set, his determination unwavering.

But this is only the beginning.

Hyunjin steps into the aquatic center, the sharp scent of chlorine filling his lungs. In the locker room, he changes into a sleek pair of swimming briefs.

"How are you feeling, my man?" A friendly pat on his back pulls him from his thoughts.

"Excellent," he replies confidently, catching his reflection in the mirror as he adjusts his swim cap. His friend's grin widens, sensing the energy radiating off him.

"What's your current record?"

"For the 100 or the 200 medley?" Hyunjin asks, slipping the last strands of his hair beneath the cap."You know which one I'm asking."

"47.12." A proud smile curves his lips.

"Bet you can take it to 46 today," his friend challenges, tossing his shoes into his locker.

The words hang in the air, lighting a spark in Hyunjin. He doesn’t need the push—he’s already determined—but the encouragement fuels his fire.

Hyunjin steps onto the pool deck, his reflection shimmering on the surface of the water. Memories of his younger self flicker in his mind, the boy who first discovered the joy of being in the water. Back then, it felt like another world—quiet, weightless, serene.

That love hasn’t faded.

He dips a hand into the pool, splashing the cold water onto the back of his neck. It’s a small ritual, an anchor before the dive. His goggles are snug against his face, a protective barrier between him and the world above.

Hyunjin climbs onto the starting block, his heart steady, his goal clear. He holds the current record in the 100-meter freestyle, but today isn’t about records or accolades. It’s about pushing himself to the edge, chasing a version of himself he’s yet to meet.

The whistle shrieks, and Hyunjin dives.

The water welcomes him, enveloping him in its familiar embrace. Each stroke propels him forward, every kick slicing through the resistance. His body moves in perfect harmony, years of training reducing the act to instinct.

To Hyunjin, the sky isn’t the limit—it’s just the beginning. And soon, he knows, he won’t just swim among the clouds. He’ll soar beyond them.

-

8:02 a.m.

The studio is quiet, save for the soft creak of polished wood beneath your bare feet. Sunlight streams through the high windows, casting long beams across the mirrored walls. You breathe in the familiar scent of resin and faintly worn leather, grounding yourself in this sacred space.

This is how you always start your mornings: alone, warming up in the quiet before the day begins. It’s a small luxury, one you’ve come to cherish in a world that feels anything but certain.

You stand in the center of the room, your reflection poised and still. Slowly, you move through the routine, arms lifting, legs extending, muscles lengthening with every step. The rhythm flows from memory—an old habit, a comfort that never falters.

Then, it happens.

A sharp ping breaks through the silence, echoing off the walls.

You freeze mid-pirouette, your balance wavering. Across the room, your phone sits on the bench, its screen lit up with a single notification. For a moment, you don’t move. It’s not unusual for your phone to chime—messages from parents, reminders for classes—but something about the sound feels heavier this time.

You exhale, lowering your arms. Whatever it is can wait. You’ve always finished what you started, and today will be no different.

You push forward, completing the warm-up with careful precision. The movements are second nature, your body carrying you through muscle memory. But there’s a weight in the air now, and with each step, your focus frays a little more.

Finally, you stop.

The studio falls silent again as you walk toward the bench. Your pulse quickens when you see the notification’s source: Mortem.

You stare at it, your breath catching in your chest. The app sits there, waiting, the message unread. Tomorrow is your last day. Is that what it will say? Or will it be another date, far off in the future?

For a moment, you consider turning away. Dancing has always been your escape, your solace. Maybe one more routine will help you clear your mind.

You step back toward the center of the studio, muscles coiled and ready to begin again. But something stops you. A voice, faint but insistent, whispers at the edge of your thoughts: Face it.

Your hands tremble as you pick up the phone. You swipe the screen, heart pounding in your ears, and open the notification.

Your eyes lock onto the date, and for a moment, everything freezes. Confusion flickers in your chest, followed by the sharp pang of disbelief. You’d told yourself you were ready for this, that the day would come eventually, but seeing it spelled out so plainly shakes you.

And then, as quickly as it came, the chaos fades. You take a deep breath, grounding yourself as you’ve done countless times before. The truth is undeniable, and no amount of fear will change it.

You’ve made your peace with death. You always knew it would come soon. And now, soon is here.

-

3:22 p.m.

Dahlias.

Your mother’s favorite flowers. They stand out vividly against the muted tones of the hospital’s inpatient ward, clutched close to your chest as you make your way to her room.

It started with an ache—sharp and unrelenting—but she didn’t see a doctor until the nausea and loss of appetite became impossible to ignore. Six months ago, the diagnosis came: stage 3 pancreatic cancer. The doctor gave her six months to a year to live, and with every agonizing moment, you’ve come to understand why she wishes the end would hurry along.

But the notification she hopes for never arrives.

“Honey, I haven’t gotten my notification yet,” she mutters the moment you step into her room. Her voice is flat, a mix of irritation and resignation, as her eyes glance at the flowers in your hands.

She’s always irritable after chemo, so you don’t let her tone sting. Instead, you walk to the sink, filling a vase with water.

After the nurse checks her IV and blood pressure, you’re left alone with her. The silence isn’t new, but it feels heavier today.

“They said six months. Why am I still here?” she groans, struggling to adjust her pillow.

You hurry to help, carefully setting the vase of dahlias on the bedside table. They brighten the room immediately.

“They’re beautiful,” she finally says, softening just a little.

“I’m glad you like them,” you reply with a faint smile.

Your mother has always lived with vivacity. She wasn’t one for small dreams; she lived a thousand of them. In her teens, she wanted to be a singer. By her twenties, fashion called her, leading to an internship at a fabric shop. There, she befriended a chef who inspired her to pursue culinary arts. It was during that chapter of her life that she met a classical musician—your father.

And you.

Her dreams shifted then, morphing into family and love, and for years, she poured herself into creating a home filled with warmth. When your father passed, she found a new dream: becoming a florist. She turned it into a thriving business.

Until six months ago.

“Are you eating well?” she asks suddenly, her concern for you breaking through her fatigue.

You nod. “Yes.”

“What did you eat this morning?”

It’s a routine question, part of her new reality where food tastes like nothing. Asking you lets her imagine the flavors she misses.

“I had cranberry ciabatta from the bakery across the street,” you lie gently.

She hums contentedly, closing her eyes. “They make the perfect ciabatta.”

“Mom,” you say softly, taking her frail hand in yours.

“Yes, my darling?”

“What would you cook for your last dinner?” You smile to hold back the lump in your throat.

Her face lights up, pleased by the question. She’s always loved sharing her stories, and now they’re all she has left to give.

“For an appetizer, I’d make eggplant croquettes,” she says with a teasing grin.

“Mom, not the eggplant,” you protest, wrinkling your nose.

Her laugh is weak but genuine. “Okay, okay. How about scampi bruschetta?”

“Now that’s more like it,” you say with exaggerated approval.

She closes her eyes, envisioning her creation. “With thyme and lemon. I’d toast the ciabatta for five minutes—just enough for a crunch—and sear the shrimp with olive oil and a pinch of salt. Then sauté spring onions with thyme, lemon zest, and honey. Acacia honey.”

As she speaks, her voice gains strength, her enthusiasm igniting memories of her former self. Between recipes, she slips in anecdotes, turning her imagined last meal into a tapestry of her life.

You hang on every word because you know these stories matter. They are her, distilled into moments you’ll carry forever.

And yet, the cruel irony doesn’t escape you.

You were supposed to be the one holding her hand at the end, not the other way around. The thought pierces through your heart as you sit there, smiling at her stories. She has spent six months longing for death, only for it to come for you first.

She deserves to rest, to find peace after everything she’s endured. You would have done anything to give her that. But the universe is merciless. It has flipped the natural order, leaving her with the unbearable task of outliving her child.

The injustice of it sits heavy in your chest, threatening to choke you. How is it fair that the one who wants to die must keep fighting, while you—her child—are robbed of the chance to live?

By the time she moves to selecting drinks, her eyelids grow heavy.

“You’re sleepy, Mom,” you whisper, smoothing the duvet around her.

She nods, offering a tired smile. “I’m just a little tired these days.”

You watch her closely, memorizing every line of her face, every glimmer in her weary eyes. “You look beautiful today.”

Her smile deepens, faint but radiant. “I know.”

“You’ve always been beautiful,” you add, unable to stop yourself.

She chuckles weakly. “I look good with cancer, huh?”

You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, committing her image to memory.

As you stand to leave, her hand clasps yours, pulling it to her chest. For a moment, it rests there, and just when you think she’s asleep, she lifts her other hand to pat your head.

“You’re a superstar,” she whispers. “I adore you so much.”

Those were her bedtime words to you as a child, and now they hit deeper, wrapping around your heart with bittersweet comfort.

In her eyes, you will always be her child, no matter how much of the world you’ve seen or what you’ve become.

As she drifts to sleep, you kiss the back of her hand, releasing it gently. You take one last look at her before leaving the room.

This isn’t goodbye. It’s not the last mother-daughter moment, either, because in life and in death, she will always be your mother.

For you, death isn’t the opposite of life. It’s simply a part of it.

-

6:16 p.m.

“46.92!”

The words ring out in the humid air of the locker room as Hyunjin’s friend pats his back enthusiastically. They’re both standing under the shower, letting the day’s fatigue wash away.

“I see a gold medal in your near future,” his friend adds, grinning.

Hyunjin can’t stop the smile that creeps onto his face. The thought of victory is intoxicating, the image of standing atop the podium almost tangible. He can taste it—sweet, like honey.

“Beers? What do you think?” another teammate calls out as Hyunjin turns off his shower head.

For a moment, he’s tempted. He deserves it, doesn’t he? Breaking his personal record, getting closer to his dream—surely, a small celebration wouldn’t hurt.

But discipline pulls him back. His body is his temple, and the bread he allowed himself this morning was already a rare indulgence.

“Not tonight,” Hyunjin says, his tone polite but firm.

“Next time, then,” his friend replies easily, shrugging it off as he heads for the lockers.

The others filter out, their laughter and chatter fading down the hallway until silence envelops the space. Hyunjin is alone now, drying his damp hair with a towel. He moves methodically, packing his bag, folding his towel, tucking everything neatly into place.

When he pulls out his phone, a cluster of notifications greets him. Most are messages from his teammates—congratulations, plans for the weekend, harmless banter. He skims through them absentmindedly until one notification stops him cold.

It stands out like a blot of ink on an otherwise pristine page.

Mortem: Tomorrow is your last day.

For a moment, Hyunjin forgets to breathe. The locker room feels impossibly quiet, the white noise of the air conditioning fading into nothingness.

He reads the notification again, hoping—no, praying—that he’s misunderstood. But the words remain the same.

Hyunjin’s legs feel unsteady as he forces himself to move, his bag slipping from his shoulder as he stumbles toward the pool. He steps onto the edge, the scent of chlorine sharp in the air. The water is eerily still, reflecting the overhead lights in perfect symmetry.

He looks down at his reflection, and what he sees isn’t the confident, ambitious swimmer who broke his record earlier today.

It’s someone hollow. A boy with dreams just out of reach, crushed under the weight of a cruel truth.

His fists clench at his sides as anger rises in his chest, hot and unrelenting.

“FUCK YOU!” he screams, his voice tearing through the silence, reverberating across the chamber.

The sound ricochets off the walls, rippling across the surface of the water. His reflection distorts, breaking apart into fragments before settling again, unfamiliar and unkind.

They say death comes at the right time. A gentle visitor, arriving only when it’s supposed to.

But that’s a lie.

It doesn’t care about dreams or sacrifices. It doesn’t care that Hyunjin has spent years of his life in pursuit of one thing, pushing his body and mind to their limits.

It doesn’t care that he’s so close.

And now, when victory is within his grasp, it will take everything away.

He closes his eyes, chest heaving as he fights to steady his breathing. The rage doesn’t subside—it sits in his chest, a molten core of grief and frustration.

Hyunjin knows there’s nothing he can do to stop what’s coming. But for tonight, he lets himself curse the unfairness of it all, his voice echoing into the void until there’s nothing left but silence.

For Hyunjin, death is a thief.

-

7:22 p.m.

Alcohol is never your first choice. You’re not a fan of the bitter aftertaste or the burn as it slides down your throat. But tonight, you need something to dull the ache.

Your phone lies face-up on the bar, the notification glaring at you like a cruel joke. It’s accompanied by offers—a funeral service arrangement, a hotline for counseling.

You stare at the screen, unsure how to even begin processing it all. Sadness feels too small a word for the heap of emotions weighing you down. Beneath the sorrow lies a sliver of joy at the thought of not having to endure another day. And beneath that, a fragile sense of relief that it will soon be over.

How do you explain that to anyone? How do you untangle that mess of feelings, let alone share them with a therapist?

The bartender doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Your sadness is written all over your face.

An hour passes, your drink long since gone, and you finally decide to leave. The bartender approaches, not with the check but with a bottle in hand.

“Here,” he says, taking your empty glass away.

You blink at him, confused. “I’m ready to pay—”

“I’m not taking your money,” he interrupts, pouring liquid from three different bottles into a pair of shot glasses with precise movements.

It clicks belatedly in your mind—some unspoken gesture, one you wouldn’t have recognized if you didn’t spend most of your nights at home.

“May I ask what this is?” you say, eyeing the amber liquid as he slides the shot glass toward you.

“The Three Wise Men,” he says with a faint smile.

“And who are they?”

“Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniels,” he explains, gesturing to the bottles on the counter.

“Ah...” A small laugh escapes you. “Very wise indeed.”

He lifts his shot glass, holding it up in a silent toast. “Ready?”

You hesitate, your hand wrapping around the glass. “Any tips for this?”

“Don’t think. Just swallow.”

You nod, mirroring his stance.

“To the three wise men,” he says.

“To the three wise men,” you repeat, exhaling before tipping the shot back. The liquid burns all the way down, leaving a warmth in its wake.

“Whoo...” the bartender exhales, slamming his glass upside down on the counter.

You mimic him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “That was…” You pause, laughing nervously. “…something.”

He chuckles, leaning on the counter as his gaze sweeps the bar. “They say you’re either living to die or dying to live.”

The room feels quieter for a moment as his words settle.

He sighs, his voice softening. “But you know what? I only pity the living.”

The statement strikes you in a way you can’t quite articulate. You don’t want to die, not really. But the thought of living, with all its weight, feels far worse.

“Another round?” he offers, holding up one of the bottles.

You shake your head. “No, thank you. I haven’t eaten dinner, so I don’t think that’s… wise.”

“See? You learned from these men,” he teases, capping the bottle with a grin.

You pull out your wallet, sliding a card toward him. “At least let me pay—”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Use the money to buy yourself a nice dinner, okay?”

There’s no arguing with him, so you reluctantly tuck your card away. “Thank you,” you say softly, your voice heavier with gratitude than the words can carry.

He nods, his smile kind. “Hey, I needed that shot too.”

You rise from the stool, glancing back as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Have a great night.”

The bartender is busy with another order, but a few steps later, his voice calls out to you.

“See you on the other side,” he says, raising a hand in farewell.

For a moment, you pause, then nod, offering a faint wave before stepping out into the night.

-

7:45 p.m.

There's nowhere to go.

You’ve been walking aimlessly since leaving the bar, letting your feet lead the way. Your hands are stuffed into your jacket pockets as you stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. The thought of returning to your apartment, where silence lingers like an unwelcome guest, feels unbearable.

You could visit your mother again, but the idea of seeing her only to leave her forever—it's too much to handle.

There are so many things you want to do, yet none of them feel right.

The light finally turns green, and you step off the curb. But before you can take another step, something grabs your shoulders and pulls you back. A motorcycle speeds past, narrowly missing you.

Your mind goes blank. Instead of your life flashing before your eyes, everything shuts down for a moment.

"Come on!" a voice urges. A hand takes yours, pulling you across the street just as the light turns red again.

You don’t realize what just happened until you’re safely on the other side. Someone has just saved you. If they hadn’t stopped you, that motorcycle might have dragged your body halfway down the street.

You turn to look at your savior and freeze. He’s beautiful—stunning, even—and for a moment, you’re speechless.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

His words snap you out of your daze, and you hurriedly compose yourself. "Yeah, I’m sorry, I was—"

"No, no, it’s not your fault. That motorcycle ran the light," he interrupts, shaking his head.

Why are you apologizing? You should be thanking him. But when you look at him, the words catch in your throat, so you glance away. "Thank you… for, uh, earlier," you manage to say.

He smiles, and his eyes curve along with it, warm and genuine. But then his next words take you by surprise.

"Your death isn’t today, right? I’m pretty sure it said tomorrow."

You freeze again, alarm bells ringing in your head. How does he know that? You take a step back, suddenly wary.

Realizing he’s scared you, he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I’m sorry—I should’ve explained first."

He lowers his hands and exhales before continuing, "I was in the bar earlier. I accidentally saw the notification on your phone when I was getting my drink. And then I followed you..." He grimaces. "Wait, that makes me sound like a creep."

He stops rambling and pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, tapping the screen until it lights up. He turns it toward you, revealing a notification identical to yours.

His death is tomorrow, too.

"I guess we’re doomed, huh?" he says with a shrug, his tone oddly lighthearted.

You’re at a loss for words, staring at the screen and then at him. How is it possible that someone like him—this beautiful, radiant man—is doomed?

He puts his phone away and looks at you earnestly. "I know this is sudden, and random, and... probably really weird. But do you want to have dinner with me?"

It is sudden, random, and undeniably strange. But as you look at him—this stranger who saved your life—one thought crosses your mind: What’s the worst that could happen?

You’re going to be dead in a matter of hours anyway.

"Okay," you say.

-

08:10 p.m.

The two of you decide to walk to dinner, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, his adjusting his beanie every few steps. He finally breaks the silence as you pass the second block from where you met.

"I'm Hyunjin, by the way," he says.

You glance at him and give your name in return. When you expect the exchange to end, he extends his hand, and you shake it, feeling the chill of his skin against yours. His long fingers, adorned with rings, seem oddly delicate.

"Nice to meet you," he says with a small smile, pulling his hand back to adjust his beanie again.

“So... when did you get your notification?” he asks after a beat.

“This morning,” you reply, freeing your hands from your pockets now that the silence has been broken. “You?”

He tilts his head back slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “Two hours ago.”

A strange feeling of unease stirs inside you, but he doesn’t let the conversation falter. “How do you feel about all this?”

“All this?” you echo.

He nods, waiting for your response. You search for the words, trying to name the whirlwind of emotions you’ve carried since the moment you opened that notification.

“I feel... alright, I guess.”

Hyunjin stops mid-step, turning to look at you with incredulity. “Alright?”

You shrug, unsure how to elaborate.

“You’re not angry? At all?” His tone sharpens, his brow furrowing in disbelief.

Angry? That hadn’t crossed your mind. There’s an odd peace in accepting what you can’t control, a clarity you never expected. You shake your head. “No.”

His eyes darken, and he mutters, “Well, I am.” He starts walking again, this time faster, his strides growing wide and purposeful.

“I’m livid,” he says through gritted teeth. “If death had a face, I’d punch it.”

You pick up your pace to match his, almost jogging, until he notices and abruptly halts.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his frustration dissolving into concern.

You nod, panting slightly.

He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons. “Sorry, I tend to walk fast when I’m angry.”

The two of you fall into a slower, more deliberate pace, hands swinging at your sides. You want to ask what exactly makes him so angry, but before you can, he stops again.

“We’re here,” he announces, holding the door open for you.

You step inside and immediately feel out of place. The restaurant is elegant, full of people dressed to the nines. Self-consciousness creeps up your spine, and you spin around to look at him—only to bump into his chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, looking down.

Hyunjin steadies you with a firm grip on your shoulders. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, stepping back to stand behind him.

“Table for two, please,” he tells the hostess.

She leads you to a table by a large window overlooking the city, the full moon casting a gentle glow over the skyline. As she places menus in front of you, Hyunjin mutters a polite thank-you, his attention already elsewhere.

You glance at him as he removes his jacket, folding it neatly over the back of his chair. He seems unbothered by the setting, completely at ease. He flips open the menu, his eyes scanning the options.

“Any ideas on what to have?” he asks, glancing up at you.

You fumble to open your menu, pretending to read it while avoiding his gaze. Finally, you lean forward and whisper, “Don’t you think we’re underdressed?”

He gasps dramatically, as if your words remind him of something crucial. Tugging off his beanie, his dark hair tumbles down, slightly damp and shiny, framing his small face. He ruffles it quickly, then shrugs.

“Steak? Pizza? Pasta?” he suggests, ignoring your question entirely.

You hesitate. When he offered to take you to dinner, you’d imagined a casual spot, maybe a pizza joint or noodle bar. Not this. And while you’re trying not to think about money, the menu’s prices make your stomach turn.

“I think we should go somewhere else,” you say quietly, your eyes darting over the options.

“Why?”

“It’s... too expensive.”

Hyunjin laughs, low and amused. “Do you think I can’t afford it?”

You shake your head frantically. “No, no, that’s not what I meant—”

“I’m kidding,” he interrupts with a grin. Leaning forward, he drops his voice to a whisper. “Honestly? I can probably only afford a plate of pasta and garlic bread.”

Your eyes widen, but his sly smile makes it clear he’s joking again.

“Good thing we’ve got the pity card,” he says, leaning back with a nonchalant shrug.

You freeze, reminded of the pity card. It’s a small perk that comes with the notification—a free pass to almost anything, covered by taxes. A gesture from the system to say, “Sorry you’re dying soon—here’s a little something.”

But the thought of using it makes your skin crawl.

“No,” you say, shaking your head firmly. “Not the pity card.”

“Why not?”

You struggle to explain. “It just... feels wrong. I don’t want their pity.”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Who cares? We’ll be dead in a few hours.”

Before you can respond, a waiter approaches to pour water and set down a plate of bread. Hyunjin thanks them softly, then turns back to you.

“It’s not like we’re taking their pity with us to the grave,” he says, lifting his glass. “So, what do you say?”

You glance at the clock on the wall. Four hours left. Soon, none of this—money, pity, pride—will matter.

“We only die once, right?” you say, lifting your glass awkwardly.

Hyunjin laughs, his grin lighting up his face. “We only die once,” he echoes, clinking his glass against yours.

-

8:20 p.m.

You're not much of a conversationalist, so Hyunjin takes it upon himself to break the silence, his curiosity about you driving him forward. He has a myriad of questions on his mind but decides to start simple.

"May I ask what you do?"

His question makes you look up at him, and after a moment's hesitation, you place your hands under the table and answer with a sheepish smile, "I'm a ballet instructor."

The pieces click into place for him—the flowy skirt, black tights, and your hair tied neatly into a bun.

"So, you're a ballerina," Hyunjin remarks, nodding thoughtfully.

"I was," you correct him softly.

He tilts his head, his brows furrowing slightly. "Was?"

"I'm retired," you say briefly, offering another shy smile.

Hyunjin blinks in confusion. Retired? You seem far too young for that. "May I ask why?"

You adjust the cutlery in front of you, your hand steady despite the weight of your words. "I got into an accident a couple of years ago. I badly injured my leg, and the doctor insisted I stop dancing if I wanted to keep walking..." Your voice trails off, and your lips curve into a sad smile as you avert your gaze.

The weight of your story hits him. He can empathize with the sense of loss; after all, his situation is eerily similar. You had to give up your passion because of an accident, while he faces an abrupt end because of the ticking clock. Both of you are here, grappling with the unfairness of it all on what could be your final hours.

"It's like that saying," you continue, "‘Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.’ So that’s what I’m doing now." You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear and flash him a reassuring smile, but Hyunjin isn’t convinced. He recognizes the facade; he’s worn it himself.

"And you're not mad about it?" he asks, fully aware he might be treading into private territory.

"I was, for a long time. But eventually, I realized there’s no point in drowning myself in anger."

This time, your smile is different—genuine, even serene. It’s as if you’ve made peace with the cruelty of life, embracing it with quiet strength. Hyunjin admires it, though he knows how hard it must’ve been for you to reach that place.

He takes a breath and shifts the conversation, sensing the need to lighten the mood. "So, you’re teaching at a dance company?"

"A dance academy," you correct him with a nod. "I teach girls between the ages of seven and sixteen."

He can picture it easily—you, guiding a room full of eager young dancers, patient and warm. You probably make their favorite teacher list without even trying.

"And what about you?" you ask, lifting your glass of water for a sip.

"I'm an athlete," he replies.

"Ah..." you murmur, intrigued. "What sport?"

"Take a guess," he says with a playful grin, leaning back in his seat.

Your laughter fills the air, and you give him a once-over, your eyes narrowing as you search for clues. After a moment of deliberation, you venture, "You’re tall and lean so... basketball?."

Hyunjin chuckles, pleased with the compliment but shakes his head. "Nope."

You purse your lips in thought. "Soccer?"

"I like soccer," he admits, leaning forward, "but that’s not it."

You groan in mock defeat, covering your face with your hands. "I’m terrible at this!"

Hyunjin laughs, finding your reaction endearing. "I’m a swimmer," he reveals.

Your eyes widen in surprise. "That’s amazing!"

"I was scouted for the national team," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "I was supposed to compete this summer."

The realization of his words hits him mid-sentence, and the excitement drains from his face. Summer is two months away—a future he knows he won’t see.

"That’s incredible," you say gently, your empathetic smile offering comfort.

Just then, the waiter arrives with the menus, saving the atmosphere from slipping into melancholy.

"Would you like to order some wine?" the waiter asks, presenting a list.

You scan the menu and suggest, "I think I’ll have white wine."

Hyunjin glances over the options, muttering to himself, "Vanilla and peach... sounds nice."

"Viognier, sir?" the waiter recommends.

Hyunjin looks to you for approval, and your small nod seals the deal. "We’ll have that," he says.

The wine arrives alongside your meals, and the two of you fall into a rhythm of eating, sipping, and conversing between bites.

"How long have you been swimming?" you ask.

"Since I was eight," he replies, pausing to take a sip of wine.

"Wow. I didn’t even realize I wanted to be a ballerina until I was twelve," you admit.

He’s struck by how much more at ease you seem now, whether it’s the wine or simply warming up to him. "What did you want to be before that?"

"A lot of things. An astronaut, a doctor, a ventriloquist..." You pause, your cheeks flushing with a laugh. "A vampire slayer."

Hyunjin bursts into laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "You really wanted to be everything."

"My mom broke my heart when she said I couldn’t be a vampire slayer," you say, your expression deadly serious.

"Honestly? I’d be sad too," he jokes, grinning.

You lean in, lowering your voice as if sharing a secret. "Then she told me this: ‘It’s okay if you can’t achieve your dream. You can always go back to sleep and live a new dream.’"

Your laughter carries across the table, and Hyunjin smiles faintly, though the sentiment hits too close to home. Finding a new dream is one thing—but having the time to chase it is another entirely.

You finish your meal and dab your lips with a napkin. "The academy I teach at isn’t far from here, just a few blocks away. I actually have to stop by to grab a few things."

You glance at him, your expression soft. "Do you want to come with me?"

The invitation catches him off guard, but the warmth behind it makes it impossible to refuse.

"I’d love to," Hyunjin answers, smiling. For a fleeting moment, he feels less alone in facing the inevitable—because now, at least, he has a friend.

-

09:15 p.m.

"We'd like to pay with this," Hyunjin slides his phone across the table to the waiter.

The waiter studies the screen for a moment. You can see the subtle shift in his expression as realization dawns—Hyunjin's pity card, stark proof of his limited time, is what he offers as payment. The waiter looks back at both of you, his eyes softening, probably assuming this is some kind of farewell dinner.

He forces a smile and says, "We'll process it right away."

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows at you, a small grin tugging at his lips as if to say, Here it comes.

Sure enough, the waiter, taking a step away, turns back around and says solemnly, "We're very sorry."

Both of you burst into quiet laughter, your shared amusement breaking the gravity of the moment.

"That's one!" you tease, raising your coffee cup as if to toast.

When the waiter returns with Hyunjin's phone and the bill, his demeanor is still tinged with melancholy. As Hyunjin signs, the waiter fidgets slightly, clearly wrestling with unspoken words. In the end, all he offers is another subdued, "I'm very sorry."

You glance at Hyunjin with a smirk. "Two," you whisper under your breath.

The waiter departs, but not before the lady at the till calls after you as you're leaving. "Thank you, and we're very sorry."

The moment the door closes behind you, you and Hyunjin burst into unrestrained laughter.

"A hat trick!" he says, shaking his head, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

As you stroll to the academy, you find yourselves critiquing the meal like professional food critics, though the details blur in your slightly tipsy haze. The wine stands out—delicious enough that you’d kept asking for refills. Thankfully, the cool evening air helps clear your head by the time you reach the academy.

You unlock the studio door, the faint scent of wood polish and faint traces of rosin welcoming you. The dim overhead lights flicker on, casting a warm glow over the polished floor and mirrored walls. Hyunjin steps inside, his eyes widening as he takes in the space.

"This is where you work?" he asks, his voice tinged with awe.

You nod. "My second home."

Hyunjin walks around the room, his footsteps echoing softly against the floor. He pauses by the ballet barre, running his fingers lightly over the smooth wood. "This place is beautiful," he murmurs.

You smile, setting your bag down. "It has its charm, doesn't it?"

His gaze falls on the wall of framed photos—groups of smiling children in costumes, candid shots of performances. "Are these your students?"

"Yes," you say, walking up beside him. "They’re the reason I still love what I do."

Hyunjin glances at you, his expression soft. "I can see why they'd love you as a teacher."

The compliment catches you off guard, and your cheeks warm. Quickly, you motion to the barre. "Want to try something?"

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Are you offering to teach me ballet?"

"Why not?" you say, grinning. "You’re an athlete. It’ll be fun."

-

10:25 p.m.

You stand in front of him, arms crossed, as Hyunjin tentatively grips the barre. His tall frame looks comically out of place in the elegant studio.

"Okay," you begin, stepping closer. "We’ll start with something simple—a plié."

Hyunjin looks at you skeptically. "A what?"

You laugh softly. "It’s just bending your knees. Easy."

Demonstrating, you lower yourself gracefully, your knees bending outward as your back stays straight. Hyunjin watches, nodding, and attempts to mimic you.

His execution is… not as graceful.

"No, no," you say, laughing, stepping behind him to adjust his posture. "Straighten your back. And don’t forget to keep your heels on the ground."

You place your hands lightly on his shoulders to guide him. The moment your hands touch him, he stiffens, looking up at your reflection in the mirror.

"Relax," you say softly, your gaze meeting his.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and finally eases into the position. You step around to face him, studying his form critically.

"Not bad," you tease. "But your turnout needs work."

"What’s that?" he asks, genuinely curious.

You tap his knee gently. "It’s the angle of your legs. Let me show you."

You crouch slightly, your hands brushing his calf as you adjust his stance. He watches you intently, his dark eyes following your every move. When you glance up, you find him staring.

"Something wrong?" you ask, standing upright.

He blinks and shakes his head. "No, it’s just… you’re really good at this."

You chuckle, stepping back. "It’s my job."

Encouraged by your patient coaching, Hyunjin tries another plié. It’s still a little stiff, but he manages to get through it without wobbling.

"See? You’re getting the hang of it," you say, clapping lightly.

"Don’t lie," he says, laughing.

"Okay, you’re still stiff," you admit with a grin, "but that’s expected. Ballet is all about control and precision."

Hyunjin straightens up, rolling his shoulders. "It’s harder than it looks."

"Now you understand why ballerinas are tough," you say, playfully nudging him.

He laughs, the sound light and carefree. "Okay, what’s next?"

You hesitate, considering. "Maybe a pirouette?"

"A what?"

You demonstrate the spin, moving with effortless grace. Hyunjin stares, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, no," he says, laughing nervously. "I’ll break something."

You step closer, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "I’ll guide you. Trust me."

As you position him for the spin, your hand lingers on his waist. The closeness brings an unexpected tension between you, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

"You ready?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin nods, his eyes locked on yours.

"Okay. One… two… three."

He spins—clumsily, of course—but the two of you dissolve into laughter as he nearly stumbles into you. You catch his arm to steady him, the laughter fading as you find yourselves standing mere inches apart.

"Not bad for your first time," you say softly, your hand still on his arm.

Hyunjin smiles, his gaze lingering on you. "Only because I had a good teacher."

-

10:55 p.m.

The quiet of the studio wraps around you like a soft blanket, interrupted only by the faint hum of the overhead lights. Hyunjin leans against the barre, watching you adjust your pointe shoes with practiced precision. The thought has been circling his mind since you both left the restaurant, but now, in this space that seems so deeply a part of you, he can’t hold back his curiosity.

“So…” he begins cautiously, his voice light but uncertain, “how did it happen?”

You pause, looking up at him with a flicker of confusion.

“I mean, your accident,” he clarifies quickly, his expression apologetic, as though he’s afraid he’s overstepped. “If it’s okay to ask.”

A faint smile touches your lips, and you straighten, leaning against the mirror. “Two years ago,” you say softly, the words feeling fragile yet certain, as if the memory lives just on the edge of your voice.

Hyunjin stays quiet, giving you space to continue.

“I was preparing for an audition—Swan Lake,” you say, your eyes shimmering with a mix of pride and pain. “I’d been working on my fouettés for weeks, trying to perfect all thirty-two of them. It was… everything to me.”

He can see it in your expression, the longing for something lost yet deeply cherished.

“The morning of the audition, I was rushing to catch the bus,” you continue, your hand gesturing lightly as though retracing steps from that day. “I was almost out the door when I realized I’d forgotten my shoes—the ones I believed would bring me luck. So, I ran back to get them.”

Your voice falters, and Hyunjin feels a pang of dread, already sensing what comes next.

“When I stepped out of my apartment building, a car came out of nowhere.”

You take a deep breath, your fingers brushing over the edge of the barre. “It wasn’t even going that fast, but the way I fell… My leg took the worst of it. Surgery, physical therapy… the usual.”

Hyunjin swallows hard, unsure what to say. “Do you… regret going back for the shoes?”

A soft, almost bitter laugh escapes you. “Every day.”

The silence that follows feels heavy and fragile, a moment suspended between reflection and grief.

“Can you dance at all now?” Hyunjin asks gently, his voice barely above a whisper, unsure if he wants to hear your answer.

You surprise him by smiling. “Why don’t I show you?”

Standing in the center of the studio, a quiet determination settles over you. The space transforms as you raise your arms, your posture suddenly regal, every movement deliberate and graceful.

“This is the introduction to Black Swan, Act III,” you say, your voice steady. “It’s what I’d prepared for the audition.”

Hyunjin nods, unable to take his eyes off you as you begin to move. You are mesmerizing, every gesture steeped in a passion he can feel even in the silence of the room. But as you transition into the fouettés, he notices the strain in your expression. Your balance falters, your leg wobbles, and before he can call out, you tumble to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

Instead of answering, you let out a loud, breathless laugh that echoes through the studio. You collapse back onto the polished floor, holding your stomach as the laughter spills out, unstoppable.

Hyunjin blinks, confused at first, but the sound of your laughter pulls him in. A small smile tugs at his lips. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, lying down beside you.

The quiet returns, the two of you staring up at the ceiling.

After a moment, you speak, your voice softer now, almost wistful. “Sometimes, I like to think there’s another me out there, one who made it to the audition, who got to live that dream.”

Hyunjin turns his head to look at you. Your expression is calm, tinged with longing but also a quiet acceptance.

“And you know what?” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m happy for her and that’s enough for me.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say, so he simply stays beside you, sharing the silence. There’s something achingly beautiful about your acceptance, the way you’ve found peace in the life you have now.

In that moment, he realizes how much strength it takes to smile at what could have been and quietly say, That’s enough.

-

11:13 p.m.

The studio falls into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels like a warm embrace. After a while, you sit up, brushing your hands over the smooth wood of the floor, and glance at Hyunjin lying beside you. He looks peaceful, almost lost in thought, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips as an idea forms.

“I showed you my dancing,” you say, breaking the quiet. “Now I want to see you swim.”

Hyunjin’s head turns toward you, his brows lifting slightly in surprise. “You want to see me swim?” he asks, his voice soft yet curious.

You nod, leaning back on your palms. “It’s only fair. I want to see you doing what you do best.”

For a moment, he studies you, as if trying to gauge whether you’re serious. Then, a small chuckle escapes him, and he pushes himself up to sit beside you. “Alright,” he says, a playful smile spreading across his face. “If you really want to.”

He rises to his feet effortlessly and extends a hand to you, his fingers warm and steady as they wrap around yours. With a strong tug, he pulls you up, but the motion catches you off guard, and your body stumbles forward, colliding with his.

Your breath hitches as you find yourself pressed against him, your hands instinctively landing on his chest for balance. Hyunjin’s hands settle on your waist, steadying you, and for a moment, the world feels still again—but this time, it’s charged with something unspoken.

You glance up at him, and your heart skips a beat when you notice his gaze lingering on your lips. The air feels heavier, your pulse quickening under his touch. His expression is unreadable, his eyes soft yet intense, as if caught in a moment of indecision.

Flustered, you look away quickly, stepping back to put some distance between you. “I should, um, clean out my locker first,” you say, your voice slightly rushed. “Then we can go.”

Hyunjin blinks, the spell broken, and his lips curve into a small, understanding smile. “Alright,” he replies simply, his tone easy and light, as though nothing happened.

You turn toward the studio door, your cheeks warm as you try to steady your racing thoughts. Behind you, Hyunjin’s footsteps follow quietly, his presence a steady comfort in the stillness of the room.

-

11:49 p.m.

As the taxi pulls up in front of the aquatic center, Hyunjin is the first to step out. The cool night air brushes against his skin as he circles around to your side, offering his hand to help you out of the back seat. You take it with a quiet "thank you," and he smiles softly in response, his fingers lingering for a moment before he lets go.

Inside, the center is quiet, the fluorescent lights casting a pale glow over the sleek, tiled interior. Hyunjin leads the way, his footsteps echoing lightly in the stillness, but after a few steps, he notices you’re no longer beside him.

He turns around, his brows knitting together in concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You hold up your phone, its screen glowing in the dim light, and his eyes fall to the numbers displayed there. It’s past midnight. The date has turned, and the realization hits him like a weight in his chest—this is it. The day has come.

“It’s today,” you say quietly, your voice steady but tinged with sadness.

Hyunjin studies your face, searching for any sign of fear. “Are you scared?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer right away, your lips curving into a sad smile instead. Then, with a steadying breath, you meet his gaze and say, “Promise me something.”

His heart tightens at your tone. “What is it?”

“If my time comes first,” you begin, your voice cracking slightly, “I want you to move on. Keep going. Finish your day, okay?”

Hyunjin’s chest tightens, his head shaking before you can even finish the thought. “No,” he says firmly, stepping closer to you. “I can’t do that. Not unless you promise me the same thing.”

You hesitate, your eyes glistening under the soft glow of the lights. After a moment, you nod, your voice a whisper. “Okay. We’ll both keep going.”

He takes your hand in his, his grip firm but comforting. “We’ll do it together,” he says, his voice steady and resolute.

You smile at him then, soft and bittersweet, and he feels his heart ache at how brave you are in this moment.

Hyunjin squeezes your hand gently and tilts his head. “So,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips, “do you still want to see me swim, or is there something else you’d rather do?”

You shake your head, a quiet laugh escaping you. “I still want to see you swim,” you insist, your determination making his heart feel lighter.

He chuckles softly, releasing your hand and motioning toward the pool. “Alright then,” he says. “Let’s make this count.”

With that, he turns and walks with you into the aquatic center, the weight of the clock pressing on both of you, but your shared promise holding it at bay for just a little longer.

-

12:07 a.m.

The sharp, unmistakable scent of chlorine stings your nose as you step inside the aquatic center. The lights overhead cast shimmering reflections across the vast, still water, and you pause, taking it all in. The pool is immense, almost intimidating in its size, with the kind of quiet that feels both peaceful and eerie.

You walk to the edge, peering over cautiously. The water glimmers below, deceptively inviting, but as your gaze shifts downward, the sheer depth of the pool sends a chill through you.

“Can you swim?” Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the stillness, pulling your focus to him.

You shake your head, your lips pressing into a tight line. “No,” you admit softly. “I almost drowned once when I was ten. I’ve been afraid of swimming ever since.”

Hyunjin studies you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then, with a small smile, he says, “It’s not too late to learn, you know.”

You hesitate, your arms wrapping around yourself. The idea alone sends your pulse racing, the memory of water filling your lungs still too vivid in your mind. “It’s… not that easy,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze.

Hyunjin steps closer, holding out his hand to you. His voice is gentle but insistent. “Come with me. I can teach you how to swim… without the water.”

You glance at his outstretched hand, uncertainty swirling inside you. But the way he looks at you, so patient and reassuring, nudges you forward. Slowly, you nod.

“Alright,” you say, placing your hand in his.

He leads you to a smaller pool, its drained interior revealing its tiled floor. Hyunjin climbs down the ladder first, but the rungs don’t reach all the way to the bottom, and you watch as he drops the last few feet with an easy, practiced grace.

“It’s not so bad,” he calls up to you, extending his arms. “Come on. I’ll guide you down.”

You grip the ladder, your knuckles whitening as you lower yourself carefully. Hyunjin watches you closely, his gaze steady and encouraging. But as you near the bottom, your foot slips on the slick metal.

Your heart lurches as you lose your grip, your body tilting backward into the empty pool.

“Hyunjin!” you cry out, the name leaving your lips instinctively as panic seizes you.

For a split second, the world tilts and blurs, your breath catching in your throat. The feeling of falling stretches out endlessly, your chest tightening with dread. Is this it? Is this the moment everything ends?

The silence in the pool amplifies the rush of your heartbeat, drowning out everything else.

-

12:15 a.m.

It all happens so fast that Hyunjin doesn’t fully register the moment until you’re lying at the bottom of the drained pool, unmoving. A jolt of fear grips him as he rushes to your side, kneeling beside you.

“Hey,” he calls softly, his voice trembling. His hand hovers over your shoulder, unsure whether to shake you or give you space. Your eyes remain closed, and there’s no reaction. For a second, his breath hitches.

Then, just as his chest tightens with panic, you let out a low whine, your hand reaching for the back of your head. Relief crashes over him so strongly that he nearly laughs out loud.

“You scared me!” he exclaims, leaning closer as he gently brushes his fingers against the back of your head to check for any injury. “Does it hurt here?”

You wince but then immediately chuckle, brushing him off. “That would’ve been such an anticlimactic death,” you joke, trying to sit up.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky laugh, torn between exasperation and amusement. “I don’t think I’d recover from that,” he mutters, helping you up. To make sure you’re okay, he holds up three fingers with a mock-serious expression. “Alright, genius. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Rolling your eyes, you swat his hand away, a grin tugging at your lips. “I’m fine, Hyunjin.”

“You sure?” He narrows his eyes, clearly still worried.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you reply, waving him off. “Now, are you going to teach me how to swim or not?”

He laughs and takes a step back, gesturing for you to follow him to the center of the empty pool. “Alright, since you’re so eager. Do you have a swimming style in mind?”

“Uh… backstroke?”

“Backstroke, huh? Fancy choice.” He teases, listing a few others—freestyle, breaststroke, butterfly—all with a playful grin. Shrugging off his hoodie and tossing it to the side, he positions himself in front of you, standing tall and confident.

“Okay,” he says, holding his arms out in front of him. “Rest your back on my arms. I’ll guide you.”

You hesitate, your brows knitting together. “I don’t know, I might be too heavy—”

“Seriously?” He rolls his eyes and interrupts you. “I’m an athlete. I’m strong enough to hold you. Just trust me.”

Still unsure, you eventually take a deep breath and lean back, letting your weight settle onto his arms. His grip is steady, firm, and reassuring.

“See? No problem,” he says, his voice soft now, coaxing you to relax. “Alright, keep your body straight, like you’re floating on water. Flap your arms back and kick your feet forward, just like this.”

You follow his guidance, mimicking the movements, and he begins to move backward, gently carrying you along. It feels so real that for a moment, you let yourself believe you’re actually swimming.

But then your focus drifts as you glance at him—his sharp features illuminated under the pool’s dim lights, the concentration in his expression, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

He catches your gaze and quirks a brow. “What?”

Flustered, you quickly look away, and your hand smacks against the tiled wall at the end of the pool. Startled, you sit up.

“Whoa, swimmer!” Hyunjin teases, his laughter echoing in the empty pool. “If this was real, your head would’ve hit the wall instead of your hand.”

You can’t help but laugh with him, the moment so lighthearted and surreal that it temporarily pushes the looming reality of the day out of your mind.

Hyunjin chuckles as your laughter fades, his hand brushing back his damp hair. The glimmer in his eyes is playful, but there’s an undercurrent of something softer, almost protective, as he watches you sit up fully, still smiling from his teasing.

"Alright," he says, crossing his arms. "You’re not bad for someone who’s never been in the water."

You roll your eyes but can’t help grinning. “Thanks to my amazing teacher, right?”

He bows theatrically. “Obviously. Natural talent helps too, but I’ll let you take some credit.”

You shake your head, standing up as you stretch your arms. “Well,” you say with mock seriousness, “now that I’ve impressed you with my not-so-real swimming skills, it’s your turn to show me what you’ve got.”

Hyunjin straightens, his grin widening. “Oh, you want to see me swim for real?”

“Of course,” you reply, stepping aside and gesturing toward the other end of the pool. “How else am I supposed to judge if you’re actually any good?”

He smirks at your challenge, the competitive spark in his eyes lighting up. “Alright, I’ll show you,” he says confidently, already pulling his hoodie back on. “But don’t blink—you might miss how fast I am.”

You laugh, following him as he leads the way out of the drained pool, anticipation bubbling in the air between you.

-

12:55 a.m.

The aquatic center feels almost otherworldly in its stillness, the faint scent of chlorine hanging in the air. When Hyunjin finally reappears, dressed in nothing but his swimming trunks, towel, and goggles in hand, it takes you by surprise. His tall, lean frame seems even more striking now, the hoodie he'd worn earlier having hidden the breadth of his shoulders and the defined lines of his physique.

You catch yourself staring, and before you can stop it, an awkward giggle slips out. Hyunjin tilts his head, confused but amused. "What?" he asks.

Shyly, you admit, "Nothing, I just— I was starting to get creeped out being here all alone when you went to change."

He chuckles softly, walking to the edge of the pool. He crouches to scoop water into his hand, splashing it onto the back of his neck before straightening up.

"I need to warm up first," he says casually. You nod, stepping back to give him space.

Hyunjin drops to the ground and starts doing push-ups, his muscles flexing with each movement. You’re mesmerized despite yourself, your gaze tracing the way his body moves with fluid strength. Feeling the heat creep up your face, you force yourself to look away just as he finishes, bouncing lightly on his feet to shake out his wrists and arms.

"Don’t blink," he says, smirking as he heads toward the pool. "I swim so fast, you might miss it."

Rolling your eyes playfully, you respond with a teasing, "I’ll try to keep up."

Hyunjin dives in, his body cutting through the water with ease. The rhythmic splashing fills the air, and you can’t help but admire him. Watching him move with such precision and grace, he looks almost otherworldly—like a god emerging from the sea as he surfaces and climbs out of the pool.

The sight of water beading on his skin makes you avert your gaze, your heart racing. Grabbing the towel he'd left behind, you hand it to him without meeting his eyes.

"What did you think?" he asks, running the towel over his hair.

"Eh, it was alright," you tease with a grin.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow at your playful jab but chuckles, grabbing a stopwatch from his things. "Alright, critic. Let’s make it official. Time me this time."

"I don’t know if I’ll get it right," you protest, but he waves your concerns off.

"It doesn’t have to be perfect," he reassures you, securing his swimming cap and goggles. Once he’s ready, he asks, "You ready?"

You move closer to the pool’s edge, holding up the stopwatch. "Ready when you are."

Hyunjin steps onto the starting block, his form taut and focused. You start the countdown, your voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "Three... two... one!"

At the sound of "one," he dives in, and the water comes alive with his movement. Squatting down, you watch intently as he powers through the length of the pool and then back again, his speed almost unbelievable. The closer he gets to the edge, the tighter your grip on the stopwatch becomes.

When his hand finally slaps the wall, you hit the button, exhaling in relief.

Hyunjin surfaces, wiping his face. "What’s the time?"

You glance at the stopwatch, still catching your breath. "Forty-six point six-five," you announce, your voice tinged with excitement.

For a moment, Hyunjin looks puzzled, then his expression lights up. Dropping his towel, he strides over and lifts you effortlessly by the waist, spinning you around.

"Wait—did you break your record?" you ask, half-laughing and half-stunned.

He nods, grinning, but the elation fades quickly. As he sets you back down, his smile dims, his joy giving way to something more subdued.

"Hyunjin, what’s wrong?" you ask, concerned.

He shakes his head, forcing a small smile. "It’s nothing," he murmurs. Without another word, he excuses himself to wash up, leaving you alone with the faint ripples in the pool and a lingering sense that something deeper is on his mind.

-

01:08 a.m.

The hot shower does little to clear Hyunjin’s mind, the cloud of thoughts stubbornly lingering as he dries off and dresses. He sighs, running a towel halfheartedly through his damp hair before giving up and heading out.

The sound of his footsteps echoes softly as he exits the changing room, and he sees you standing by the bulletin board, seemingly engrossed in its contents. At the sound of his approach, you turn, your face lighting up with a soft smile. Hyunjin feels something warm unfurl in his chest—a comfort he hadn’t expected.

“You didn’t dry your hair properly,” you tease gently, pointing to the still-dripping strands clinging to his neck.

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, and you tilt yours thoughtfully. “How about some hot drinks after this?”

Hyunjin arches a brow, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “Hot drinks, huh? I’ve got just the thing.”

The short walk to his apartment is quiet but companionable, and when Hyunjin opens the door, he apologizes for the small, bare setup. His apartment is modest and practical—one room with everything visible at a glance—but he doesn’t seem embarrassed, just matter-of-fact.

He heads straight for the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet. “This is what I mean by hot drinks,” he says, smirking as he pours two glasses.

You both take a sip, and the burn of the alcohol draws simultaneous gasps. Laughing, Hyunjin suggests snacks to enjoy the drinks with and disappears back into the kitchen.

While he’s gone, your attention is drawn to a shelf lined with photos, medals, and trophies. You step closer, taking in the collection of memories. There’s Hyunjin on a podium, his face glowing with pride as he holds up a medal; Hyunjin mid-dive, captured in perfect form; Hyunjin smiling so brightly that the photo seems to radiate his joy.

When he returns, balancing a plate of snacks, he pauses beside you, his gaze falling on the same shelf. For a moment, there’s silence, just the two of you standing there, and then Hyunjin lets out a soft sigh.

Hyunjin sets everything down on the small table, but his eyes linger on the shelf filled with memorabilia. The once-vivid memories of his accomplishments now feel distant, like faded photographs of a life that no longer feels like his own.

He steps closer, his gaze tracing over the medals hanging neatly on hooks, the trophies gleaming faintly under the dim light, and the framed photos of him on various winner's podiums. He can almost hear the echo of applause, the feel of a medal being draped around his neck, the weight of victory sitting proud on his shoulders.

But the applause has long since faded, and what hangs over him now is a heavier truth: it will all become nothing.

Hyunjin swallows hard, the realization pressing against his chest like a stone. Every record he broke, every trophy he held high—soon, none of it will matter. No one will remember him or the things he did. The glory, the pride, the recognition—it will all vanish as if it never existed.

He lets out a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “All of this... it’s meaningless now. Everything I’ve done—it’s nothing. Soon, it’ll all be forgotten.”

The weight of his words fills the room, thick and suffocating. His shoulders slump as he drops his gaze, unable to meet your eyes. For a moment, he feels like the water he’s so accustomed to—a surface rippling with movement, but underneath, a deep void pulling him down.

You stand beside him, quietly taking in his anguish. Finally, you turn to him, your voice steady, a soft but unyielding anchor against the tide of his despair. “I disagree with you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin looks at you, surprised by your tone.

“This is... your whole life and it shows that you achieved a lot of great, wonderful things. You can see how far you've become, your triumphs and failures, everything that makes you who you are now,” you say, your eyes locking with his. “And just because the whole world doesn't know how great you are this doesn't mean it's nothing. This is not nothing, this is everything.”

He watches you intently, your words weaving through the storm of his thoughts like threads of light. For a moment, he feels the weight on his chest lift, just enough for him to draw a deeper breath.

It's true that his dream is to make a mark in the world, he wants to be remembered by the world but as he looks at you, Hyunjin realizes that it only takes one person to know what he capable of. He doesn't need the whole world to know that he's great, he only needs one that fully acknowledges him as one.

-

01:22 a.m.

Hyunjin's words linger in the air, heavy with vulnerability, and for the first time since meeting him, you realize just how deeply he craves to make a mark on this world. It isn’t just about the trophies on his shelf or the accolades he’s earned—it’s about the story he wants to leave behind, the proof that he existed, that he mattered.

You see it in the way his fingers hover over the medals, in the wistful look in his eyes as they trace the photos on the shelf. For all his confidence and charisma, there’s a quiet fear beneath it all—a fear of being forgotten, of fading into obscurity when his time is up.

“Hyunjin…” you say softly, stepping closer to him. He doesn’t look at you right away, his gaze fixed on a photo of him on a podium, his smile bright but distant, like a memory that no longer feels real.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to say. But then, the words spill out. “You are something and you're a fool for thinking otherwise.”

That catches his attention. He turns to look at you, his expression unreadable, and for a second, you worry you’ve said too much. But then his lips part, as if he’s about to say something, and he stops himself.

Instead, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. And in his eyes, you see something shift—a softening, a quiet acknowledgment of your words sinking in.

You feel your pulse quicken, the air between you charged with something unspoken. “And I know that we'll go into oblivion soon,” you continue, your voice steady but quiet, “but I'm still here and I know, I know how remarkable you are.”

Hyunjin’s gaze doesn’t waver, and for the first time, you see him without the walls he’s so carefully built around himself. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to steady himself—or maybe you.

“I don’t know if I can believe that yet,” he murmurs, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “But… thank you.”

The way he’s looking at you now feels different—like he’s searching for something, something only you can give him. And as the silence stretches between you, you feel the weight of it shift into something warmer, something that pulls you closer to him without either of you realizing it.

When Hyunjin leans in, it isn’t sudden. It’s slow, deliberate, as if he’s giving you every chance to step back. But you don’t. You hold your ground, your breath catching as his face inches closer to yours.

And when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking a question he’s too afraid to voice aloud. But as you kiss him back, the answer becomes clear. For this moment, at least, he isn’t alone.

Hyunjin pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you both stay there, caught in the stillness of the moment. His gaze searches yours, hesitant but vulnerable, like he’s waiting for something—validation, reassurance, or maybe just the courage to believe in himself.

Before he can say anything, you lean in again, capturing his lips with yours. This kiss is different, deeper, more intentional. You pour everything you want him to know into it—all the words he needs to hear, the things you can’t quite say aloud.

You are something. You are remarkable. You are a wonder, both in the water and outside of it.

Hyunjin responds immediately, his hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you’re the anchor he didn’t realize he needed. You can feel the way his lips tremble slightly against yours, the way his touch tightens just enough to keep you close but not trap you.

Through the kisses, you try to tell him everything you feel. That his achievements aren’t meaningless. That his existence isn’t something that will fade into nothingness. That even in the face of the inevitable, he has already left a mark—on you, on the world, on everyone lucky enough to know him.

His hands move to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as if grounding himself in this moment, in you. His lips press harder against yours, the kiss turning fervent, desperate, as though he’s trying to absorb every ounce of comfort and affirmation you’re giving him.

You can feel the tension in his body begin to melt away, replaced by something softer, something more vulnerable. The world outside fades, leaving only the two of you in this small, quiet space.

When you finally pull back, it’s not far—just enough to catch your breath. Hyunjin’s eyes remain closed for a moment, his expression unreadable, but when they open, they’re shining with something you can’t quite name. Gratitude, maybe. Hope.

“You’re…” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. But he doesn’t finish. Instead, he leans in again, his lips finding yours once more, and this time, it feels like a promise.

The two of you melt into each other, the kisses growing slower but no less intense. You lose track of time, caught in the warmth and closeness, as if the weight of the world has lifted, if only for a little while. For this moment, at least, you’re both enough—just as you are.

-

01:52 a.m.

Hyunjin's forehead still resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. His fingers trail softly down your arms, and his gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. There’s no hesitation now, no doubt in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize every detail, every curve, every moment.

Without a word, he cups your face, his touch both gentle and steady, as if grounding himself in you. His thumbs trace slow circles over your cheeks, and you feel your breath hitch as his lips find yours again, softer this time, yet filled with a quiet yearning.

The world around you feels muted, distant, as he leads you toward the bed. The dim light casts soft shadows, and the room seems to shrink until it holds only the two of you.

“You're breathtaking,” Hyunjin murmurs with a low, sultry voice.

"Wait, wait. I'm..." you protest in breathless sighs, your hips arching, lifting off the bed.

He rushes a kiss on your open mouth, his lips graze yours as he says, "Let go. I've got you."

Your abdomen flexes under his arm as you clench around his fingers so hard it nearly pushes him out of you. His cock has never been so jealous than when you begin to come. Your eyes grow big, and your mouth drops open on a silent scream, and your wall clutches around his long, dainty fingers harder with each pulse.

Unreal. Hyunjin says in his head as he looks at you with a pair of big, lustful eyes.

"Look how gorgeous you are, coming on my fingers." He coos, his eyes traveling down your naked body that feels small in his arms. You moan louder in response and he knows he hits his mark.

Eventually, looking is not enough for him so he uses his free hand to touch you. "Look at your eyes, your mouth, your breasts. This soft, soft skin..."

Hyunjin softly smiles at your beauty as you fall apart around him. "So beautiful..."

You're still climaxing and you need this more than he realized. Which means you haven't had it in a while, at least not this good.

"Hyunjin!" You shriek, almost in a panic.

He presses his plush lips to your ear, his breath hot and tickling. "You look perfect like this."

Low moans are spilling out of you, still coming and struggling to breathe through it. Hyunjin curls his fingers and taps you right in the spot in a quick rhythm, and your eyes roll back a little.

"Good girl, keep coming for me. You're doing so well. That's it, be my greedy girl."

When you collapse onto the bed, he ushers you onto his lap, then cradles your spent body in his arms. As soon as he pulls his fingers out, your thighs press together.

"Don't close your legs." Hyunjin rests a hand on your inner thigh, wanting to see every spasm as he tastes your lips. "You're done hiding from me."

You lie side by side, and Hyunjin hesitates for a moment, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. His gaze searches yours, as if silently asking for permission, for reassurance. You respond with a small nod, your fingers reaching to trace the curve of his jaw.

When he leans in again, it’s slow, deliberate. His lips move with yours in a rhythm that feels like a conversation, one that needs no words. His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing as he presses you closer, as if trying to erase the space between you.

“At least, we don't have to worry about condoms,” Hyunjin makes a funny remark as he settles himself between you.

A chuckle escapes your mouth in response, your head falls back onto the pillow. “That’s one way to see it!”

Hyunjin lowers his mouth on you, his trail of kisses begin from your ribcage, he goes lower and sideways, placing kisses on your abdomen that tenses as his lips get closer to where you want him the most. He flashes you a sly smile before placing the gentlest of kiss on your clit. As if that isn't enough to make you wet, he lands a few licks between your folds and drags his tongue upward only to swirls it around your clit and finishes it with another kiss on your clit, briefly sucking at it before letting go.

“I'm going in, yeah?”

You nod in consent, opening your legs wider for him and trying not to stare too much as Hyunjin will only stare back at you, and you'll likely crumble under his intense gaze.

“Oh...” you bite back a gasp the second you feel him entering you, just the tip but you can already feel that his size is above average.

Hyunjin props his hands on each side of you, deciding to hover above you as he pushes the rest of his length by motioning his hips. In this proximity, you can see the way his pupils gradually dilated and his eyelids fluttering the more of him being inside you. Overwhelmed, Hyunjin throws his head back and pushes the rest of his cock until he's fully sheathed in your warm, velvety walls.

“Argh...” his moan raw and broken as if something wounded him.

The world feels suspended, reduced to just the two of you and the quiet rhythm of your breaths. His bare skin glows in the dim of the light, the contours of his body sculpted with an almost otherworldly beauty.

As he thrusts into you at a slow, steady pace, you reach up, your fingers tracing the elegant lines of his collarbone, the smooth expanse of his chest. Every touch feels like discovering him for the first time, each detail making your heart ache with something too profound to name.

“You’re staring,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice soft, almost teasing, though a faint blush colors his cheeks.

“Can you blame me?” you whisper, your voice filled with awe as your fingers trail over the curve of his shoulder. “You’re so beautiful, Hyunjin.”

His lips twitch into a small, shy smile, but his eyes stay locked on yours, filled with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You make me feel like I’m more than I am,” he says quietly, the vulnerability in his voice wrapping around you.

You shake your head, your hand sliding to the slope of his waist, marveling at how perfectly he fits into the moment, into you. “No,” you whisper. “You’re exactly as you are. And that’s perfect.”

He lowers himself slightly, his long hair brushing against your skin as his lips hover near yours. Your hands continue their exploration, tracing the ridges of his ribs, the softness of his hips, and the strength of his arms as they're now propped in each side of your head.

“You’re not real,” you murmur, your fingertips brushing along his jaw, marveling at how soft yet strong he feels. “You can’t be.”

Hyunjin laughs softly, the sound vibrating through both of you. “I’m real,” he assures you, lowering his lips to brush against yours in a kiss that feels as light as air. “But if I’m not,” he whispers against your mouth, “then I’m glad I get to exist in this moment with you.”

Your hand finds his face, cupping his cheek as you pull him down into a deeper kiss, your body pressing against his as if to anchor him to the earth, to you. And in this moment, as you touch and hold and feel him, you believe in the magic of him, in the impossibility made real, and in the fleeting beauty of this shared, perfect moment.

The rest of the night unfolds in whispers and warmth, every touch and movement filled with quiet intimacy. There’s no rush, no urgency, just the two of you discovering and rediscovering each other, as if this fleeting moment is all that matters.

Eventually, the room falls into a soft silence, broken only by the sound of your breathing. Hyunjin’s arm wraps around you, pulling you into the curve of his body. His hand rests lightly against your waist, his thumb drawing lazy patterns on your skin.

In the stillness, he presses a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re remarkable too,” he murmurs, his voice low and laced with sincerity.

A small smile tugs at your lips, and you nestle closer to him, your fingers brushing against his. For the first time, the weight of the day seems to lift, leaving only this shared moment, this connection, that feels infinite despite the inevitable.

-

02:59 a.m.

The early dawn filters softly through the curtains, casting a bluish glow over the room as you lay next to Hyunjin, your head resting on his arm while his other hand lazily traces small patterns along your back. His warmth surrounds you, and for a moment, the world feels still and quiet.

With a curious smile, you tilt your head to look up at him. “Hyunjin?” you call softly, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Hyunjin turns his head to the side and softly gazes into your eyes. “Yeah?”

“What would your perfect day look like?”

Hyunjin grins, a playful gleam in his eyes. “This,” he says, gesturing to the two of you tangled together under the covers. “Right here, right now. Best way to be found dead.”

You laugh and gently swat at his chest, shaking your head. “Stop saying things like that,” you scold, though the smile on your face betrays your amusement. “I want a serious answer.”

Hyunjin hums thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as he considers. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’d start the day early, maybe before sunrise. I’d drive to this lake I used to visit when I was younger. It’s peaceful, surrounded by trees, and the water’s always so calm in the morning.” His voice softens as he speaks, a hint of nostalgia coloring his words. “It must be beautiful this time of year.”

You shift slightly, propping yourself up on your elbow to get a better look at him. “Is it far?”

“Not too far,” Hyunjin replies, turning his head to meet your gaze. “About two hours by car.”

A spark of determination lights up in your eyes, and you sit up, pulling the blanket with you. “Then let’s go,” you declare, your voice filled with excitement. “Let’s create a perfect day. It’s the last chance we have, so why not make it count?”

Hyunjin looks up at you, his expression softening as his lips curve into a tender smile. For a moment, he says nothing, just gazes at you like you’ve just handed him the world.

“No, let’s just stay here. It's perfect like this,” Hyunjin says with a sly grin.

You gently slap his chest and whine, hoping to put some senses into him.

Slowly, he sits up, leaning closer until his lips brush against yours in a kiss so gentle it feels like a promise. When he pulls back, his face lingers close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Okay. Let’s do it,” he murmurs, his voice low but steady. “Let’s go.”

-

03:25 a.m.

Hyunjin is scribbling something on a piece of paper when you return, holding two bags of snacks and drinks from the convenience store. The way his brow furrows slightly in concentration catches your attention, and you pause for a moment, noticing he's using your red hairtie to tie his hair into a low ponytail and engrossed on writing something on a piece of paper.

You step closer and knock on the windshield, grinning as his head snaps up, startled. His wide eyes make you laugh, the sound light and teasing as you shake your head. He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance but leans over to push the car door open for you.

“Need help with those?” he asks, already reaching for the bags in your hands.

“Thanks,” you say, handing them over as he places them neatly in the backseat.

“Did you get everything?” he asks, glancing at the bags.

You nod. “Yep, all set.” Then, reaching into your pocket, you pull out something small and hold it up. “Oh, and this,” you add with a smile.

Hyunjin tilts his head, curious. “What’s that?”

“For you,” you say, showing him the little star-shaped pin in your hand. “Your reward for breaking your time record today.”

His expression shifts, his gaze softening as he looks at the pin. A smile spreads slowly across his face, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Without waiting, you lean in and carefully attach the pin to the lapel of his jacket. “There,” you say, stepping back slightly to admire your work. “Congratulations, Hyunjin.”

He looks down at the pin, his smile widening, and when his gaze lifts to meet yours, there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “You're not going to kiss me?” he asks, his voice teasing yet warm.

You let out a soft laugh and lean in, brushing a quick kiss against his lips. But before you can fully pull away, Hyunjin’s hand comes up to the back of your neck, and he pulls you in for another kiss—deeper, slower.

You giggle against his lips, your laughter muffled between you, and he smiles into the kiss before finally pulling back. The warmth in his gaze lingers, leaving you breathless and smiling.

“Alright,” he says, settling back into his seat and starting the car. “Shall we?”

You buckle your seatbelt, excitement bubbling up as you nod. “Ready when you are.”

Hyunjin glances at you, his own excitement mirrored in his expression. “Alright, here we go,” he says, pulling out of the parking lot, the perfect day waiting just ahead.

-

04:11 a.m.

The hum of the car fills the air as you and Hyunjin drive down the winding road, the sun rising higher with each passing mile. You’re both relaxed, trading stories and laughing as a small mountain of snack wrappers begins to pile up between you. Hyunjin occasionally glances your way, his smile soft but constant, as if the moment itself feels too perfect to break.

Reaching into the bag beside you, you pull out a can of soda and hand it to him. “Here,” you say, passing it over without thinking.

Hyunjin takes it with one hand, his other still loosely gripping the steering wheel. As he shifts his attention to crack the tab open, the can slips from his fingers. The drink spills across the front of his t-shirt in an instant, cold liquid spreading like a stain across the fabric.

“Ah, shit!” Hyunjin exclaims, pulling the car slightly to the side as you grab a handful of tissues.

“Hold still,” you say, leaning over to help dab at the spill.

Hyunjin laughs, the sound tinged with embarrassment as he attempts to help, both of your hands awkwardly brushing against each other. “You’re worse at this than me,” he teases.

“Hey, it’s your fault for spilling in the first place!” you counter, trying to keep your tone light as you both focus on cleaning up the mess.

But then it happens—Hyunjin’s attention strays too long from the road, and neither of you notice the dog suddenly darting into the street.

“Hyunjin!” you scream, your voice sharp with panic as your hand instinctively shoots out to grab his arm.

His eyes snap forward, and his body reacts instantly. The tires screech against the asphalt as he slams on the brakes, the force jerking both of you against your seatbelts. The world feels as though it’s spinning for a second, the weight of the abrupt stop pressing hard against your chest.

The car comes to a halt just inches away from the small, trembling dog, its wide eyes staring at you through the windshield.

Your heart is racing, your breaths shallow and shaky as you sit frozen, staring out at the still figure on the road. Hyunjin grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white as he exhales a shaky breath.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and thick with concern.

You nod numbly, your voice catching in your throat as you try to answer. “Y-yeah. Are you?”

He glances at you, his expression softening when he sees your trembling hands. “I’m fine,” he assures you, though his voice is quieter now, more careful.

The two of you sit in silence for a long moment, the sound of your racing hearts almost audible in the stillness. Then, Hyunjin glances at the dog, who scampers away unscathed, disappearing into the brush.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice cracking slightly as he turns to face you fully.

You shake your head quickly, trying to reassure him. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” you say, though the adrenaline coursing through your veins makes your words waver.

Hyunjin’s hand hesitates for a moment before it finds yours, his fingers squeezing gently. “We’re okay,” he whispers, almost as if convincing himself.

You nod again, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, we are.”

As the car slowly starts moving again, the tension lingers, but there’s a quiet understanding between you—a shared moment that feels heavier than words, as if both of you silently acknowledge how fragile this perfect day could have been.

-

05:22 a.m.

The car ride is quiet now, the earlier tension still lingering in the air. Neither of you speak for a while, each lost in your thoughts as the road stretches ahead. The sun begins to crest over the horizon, its warm light spilling across the landscape, painting the morning in hues of gold and soft pink.

You reach for the window switch and roll it down, letting the cool morning breeze rush into the car. It sweeps through your hair, refreshing and light, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation calm your nerves.

When you glance over at Hyunjin, he’s already looking at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You can’t help but smile back, warmth blooming in your chest despite the chill of the breeze.

“Look at the sky,” you say softly, nodding toward the view. “It’s beautiful.”

Hyunjin tears his gaze from you, his eyes following your gesture. The sky is breathtaking, streaked with the first slivers of sunlight that break through the faint morning mist.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and reflective. “It is.”

His hand leaves the steering wheel, searching for yours. When he finds it, he laces his fingers with yours and rests them gently on his lap. His touch is warm and grounding, a silent reassurance that everything is okay now.

Hyunjin keeps his eyes on the horizon, the soft glow of the sun reflecting in his gaze. “It’s beautiful,” he repeats, but this time, his voice is heavier, almost wistful, as if he’s savoring the moment in a way he never has before.

You tighten your hold on his hand, the simple gesture conveying what words can’t. Together, you sit in the quiet, watching the morning unfold, the world outside feeling peaceful and endless as the car moves forward.

-

05:40 a.m.

The car comes to a halt, and you step out into the crisp morning air. Hyunjin joins you, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfied sigh. You glance around, the scent of pine and damp earth filling your lungs as you take in the scenery.

After a short walk, the lake comes into view, and you gasp, unable to contain your amazement. The water is perfectly still, a mirror reflecting the sky and the towering trees surrounding it. The faint golden light of the morning casts everything in a dreamy glow. The trees, just beginning to turn with the season, stand like silent sentinels guarding this little piece of paradise.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the soft rustling of leaves.

Hyunjin looks at you, his smile growing at your reaction. He reaches for your hand and takes it, his fingers warm and steady against yours. “Come on,” he says, leading you toward the water’s edge.

The two of you stop just where the land kisses the lake. You peer down at the water, its surface so calm it feels like stepping into a painting.

“It must be freezing,” you say, giving Hyunjin a wary glance.

He narrows his eyes playfully. “That’s what makes it perfect for a morning swim.”

You shake your head firmly, taking a step back. “No way.”

Hyunjin laughs, undeterred. “Trust me. Once you’re in, it’s not that bad.”

You laugh nervously, shaking your head again. “Hyunjin, I still can’t swim, remember?”

His expression softens, and he takes both of your hands in his. “And I told you— No worries, I’ll hold you.” His tone is earnest, his dark eyes unwavering.

Despite your protests, he’s relentless, coaxing you closer to the edge until you’re standing there, shivering slightly in your underwear. You grip his hand tightly, trying one last time to dissuade him.

“Hyunjin, I’m serious—”

Before you can finish, he sweeps you off your feet, his arms locking around your waist. You let out a startled squeal, clinging to him instinctively.

“Hyunjin, don’t you dare—”

But it’s too late. He steps into the water, pulling you with him. The cold shocks your body the second you make contact, and you scream, the sound piercing through the stillness of the lake.

Hyunjin doesn’t stop until the two of you are submerged waist-deep. You’re clinging to him for dear life, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your legs curling up to avoid the icy water.

“See? It’s not as bad as you think,” he says, his voice light with amusement as he looks down at you.

Your teeth are chattering, and you tighten your hold on him. “You’re right,” you say through gritted teeth. “It’s worse than I thought it would be.”

Hyunjin throws his head back and laughs, his warm breath misting in the cool air. The sound is infectious, and soon you’re laughing too, your voices echoing across the serene lake.

He then adjusts your arms around his shoulders and gives you an encouraging look. “Hold on tight,” he says, his voice warm with reassurance. You do as he says, gripping him as he begins to move through the water with ease.

The cold from earlier feels less harsh now, your body gradually adapting to the temperature. As Hyunjin swims farther from the shore, you cling to him, feeling the strength in his movements as he effortlessly cuts through the water.

“Not so bad now, huh?” he teases, glancing over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes but can’t help a small smile. “I’m still debating.”

When he slows down, you notice just how far you’ve come from the shore. The lake stretches around you, a perfect circle of serenity framed by towering trees. Hyunjin turns to face you, still holding you securely as you float together.

“Relax,” he says, his voice softer now. His hands guide you gently, helping you stay afloat. You take a deep breath and allow yourself to loosen your grip, trusting him.

The stillness of the moment washes over you as you look around. The world seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you suspended in the calm water under the open sky. The reflection of the trees and clouds ripples gently with every movement.

“Still as bad as you think?” Hyunjin asks, a playful glint in his eyes.

You shrug, pretending to be unimpressed. “It’s... alright, I guess.”

Hyunjin bursts out laughing, his joy infectious as it echoes across the lake. He leans in slightly, his arms finding their way around your waist. Before you can react, he pulls you down with him, both of you plunging beneath the surface.

The cold water shocks you as it rushes over your head, and you instinctively hold your breath. A moment later, you break the surface, gasping for air.

“Hyunjin!” you sputter, wiping water from your face. “What was that for?”

He’s already laughing, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. “You should’ve seen your face!”

You glare at him, about to launch into a scolding, but he interrupts by cupping your face in his hands and pulling you into a kiss.

Your protest dies on your lips, muffled by his. You try to hold on to your indignation, muttering complaints against his mouth, but his kiss is too warm, too insistent. Eventually, you give in, melting against him as his laughter hums through the connection.

When you finally pull away, Hyunjin grins at you, water dripping from his face. “Still want to complain?”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You’re lucky I can’t swim away from you right now.”

“Exactly,” he says, leaning his forehead against yours. “That’s why I had to bring you out here.”

The water is cold, but in this moment, surrounded by the beauty of the lake and the warmth of Hyunjin’s arms, you’ve never felt more alive.

-

06:21 a.m.

The sun climbs higher into the sky, warming your skin as you sit on the smooth rocks by the shore, your clothes drying slowly in the gentle breeze. Hyunjin’s jacket is draped over your shoulders, a welcome layer against the cool air still lingering from your swim. You glance at him and murmur your thanks, to which he responds with a small, warm smile.

Opening a can of soda, you take a sip, the drink now lukewarm but refreshing nonetheless. You tilt your head toward Hyunjin. “So, what’s next on your perfect day itinerary?”

Hyunjin sets his can down and grins, his eyes lighting up with boyish excitement. “There’s this diner I used to go to. It’s not too far from here. They make the best waffles.”

“Waffles, huh?” you ask, raising a brow, though his enthusiasm already has you smiling.

“They’re amazing,” he insists, his hands gesturing animatedly. “Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with this maple syrup that’s just—” He sighs in exaggerated bliss, making you laugh.

“Alright, alright,” you say, holding up your hands. “I’m sold. Waffles it is.”

Hyunjin chuckles and shifts closer, his hand reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. His touch is gentle, his fingers lingering for a moment before he tucks the strand behind your ear. Without a word, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s soft and slow, like the morning sun warming your skin.

When he pulls back, his smile is tender, and it makes your heart ache. “I'm glad I met you.”

“Me too,” you say back while placing your hand on his and hold it tightly.

The sunlight hits right on Hyunjin’s eyes, making them shine as he stares at you. You know you've only known him for barely a day but Hyunjin knows things most people doesn't know about you. He knows your prefers your flowers to be red than blue, he knows your dreams you never say out loud but you secretly wish to come true and that makes you feel significant to him as he is significant to you. You believe that is how Hyunjin going to make a mark on you.

“I’m going to take one more lap around the lake before we go,” he says, his voice quiet yet certain.

You nod, but before he can move, you catch his wrist, pulling him back toward you. This time, it’s you who closes the distance, pressing a kiss to his lips. It lingers, a silent plea that feels like it’s carrying the weight of everything you can’t say aloud. You wish for more time—just one more day, one more perfect morning.

Hyunjin seems to sense it, his fingers brushing softly against your cheek as he gazes at you, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. He leans in to press a featherlight kiss to your lips before pulling away completely.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a wink, his voice lighter now. “I won’t take too long.”

As you watch him dive back into the water, the sunlight catching on the ripples he leaves behind, you feel a fleeting, impossible sense of forever. For this moment, at least, Hyunjin makes you believe that forever is within grasp.

-

06:51 a.m.

The warmth of the morning sun wraps around you, its gentle rays brushing against your damp skin. The sky is alive with soft hues of gold and blue, a masterpiece unfolding before your eyes. Overhead, a flock of birds glides effortlessly, their formation cutting gracefully through the stillness. For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to marvel at it all—the simplicity, the beauty, the life you’ve taken for granted.

But the moment fractures.

You glance toward the lake, expecting to find Hyunjin slicing through the water, to hear the rhythmic splashes that have become so familiar. Instead, there is only silence. The lake mirrors the sky, undisturbed, serene, and empty.

A flicker of unease takes root in your chest. You scan the shoreline, your gaze darting to every shadow, every ripple. The stillness feels wrong now.

“Hyunjin?” you call out, your voice tentative, breaking the quiet.

No answer.

You step closer to the edge, the cool rocks pressing into your bare feet, your heart beginning to pound against your ribcage. “Hyunjin,” you try again, louder this time, but the name hangs in the air unanswered.

The warmth of the morning sun seems to mock you now, its gentle rays brushing against your damp skin as the sky stretches overhead, a canvas of soft gold and endless blue. The flock of birds that once felt like a sign of life now drifts aimlessly, their formation a cruel reminder of how fragile everything truly is.

You glance toward the lake, expecting to find him slicing through the water, his laughter echoing in the stillness. Instead, there is only silence. The lake reflects the sky perfectly, undisturbed, as if it had swallowed him whole and left no trace.

Your chest tightens. “Hyunjin?” you call out, your voice soft at first, hesitant to break the quiet.

No answer.

You step closer to the edge, the rocks digging into your bare feet as your pulse quickens. “Hyunjin,” you try again, louder this time, your voice trembling. But the name dissipates into the air, unanswered.

A flicker of unease blooms into full-blown panic. You scan the water frantically, your eyes darting across every ripple, every shadow. “This isn’t funny!” you yell, your voice rising with desperation. “If you’re hiding, just stop it and come out!”

Still nothing.

Fear grips you like a vice, and before you can stop yourself, you wade into the water. The cold seeps through your skin, biting and relentless, but you don’t care. You splash forward, the ripples spreading around you, as though trying to reach him through sheer force of will.

“Hyunjin!” you scream, your voice cracking under the weight of your fear. “Answer me!”

The water clings to you, dragging you down as if conspiring with your helplessness. You tread forward a little more, but you can’t go far. Your feet leave the ground, and you freeze, paralyzed by the sudden depth. You try to push forward, but your body resists—muscles locking up with the knowledge that you can’t swim.

Frustration and panic mix into a volatile cocktail in your chest. You slap the water with your hands, gasping for breath, tears streaming as you scream his name again.

“I can’t do this! Hyunjin!” you cry out, the words breaking apart into sobs. The lake offers no comfort, its silence an unbearable void. You flail for a moment, trying to search the surface, but every movement feels futile.

You cling to the thought of him, to his smile, his laughter, the warmth he carried with him like a shield against the world. But now, that warmth feels so far away, unreachable in the depths of the water.

“Hyunjin!” you cry again, weaker this time, the weight of your helplessness pressing down on you. You force yourself back toward the shore, stumbling onto the rocks as you collapse to your knees, breathless and shaking. “Please, don't— don't leave me...”

The water stills behind you, its surface reflecting the endless morning sky. You look out at it, broken and trembling, your heart refusing to accept what your mind is beginning to believe. It can’t be over. Not like this.

“Hyunjin...”

-

08:01 a.m.

The rocks beneath you feel sharp, unforgiving, but you barely notice. You sit there, knees pulled tight to your chest, your damp clothes clinging to your skin as you watch the rescue team comb through the lake. Every moment stretches painfully, the weight of silence crushing you with each passing second.

Your fingers dig into your arms as if grounding yourself can keep you from unraveling completely. Then, a shout echoes from the water. You see them—a group of rescuers—working together to pull a body from the depths.

Your breath catches in your throat.

They move with careful precision, carrying the body to shore in a black bag. You feel your body trembling uncontrollably as they approach. One of them steps forward, their expression solemn, as they lower the bag in front of you.

"Is this him?" they ask, their voice heavy with the weight of what they know must be unbearable.

You freeze, staring at the zipper of the bag, your entire being screaming to look and yet refusing at the same time. You can’t do it. You can’t see him like that.

But then your eyes catch something—a flash of red against the black. It’s your hair tie, wrapped around his wrist. You had given it to him, smiling at how absurdly adorable he’d looked wearing it. And now, it’s the confirmation you never wanted.

Your breath hitches as tears flood your vision. "It’s him," you whisper, the words breaking apart as they leave your lips.

Slowly, you reach out, your trembling hand finding his through the body bag.

With shaking fingers, you reach at the lapel of his jacket you're wearing and take off the star-shaped pin, the one you had given him just hours ago. It glints faintly in the sunlight, a small reminder of the joy he carried with him. Carefully, you place it in his palm and fold his fingers around it.

"Keep it," you say softly, tears dripping onto the bag. "It’s yours."

It’s cold—his hand is so cold it sends a shiver through you. But you hold it tight, pressing his lifeless hand to your lips. "Wait for me," you murmur, your voice cracking as the tears spill over. "I’ll see you soon, Hyunjin."

You step back as they zip the bag closed, sealing him away from you forever. The sound cuts through the air like a blade, leaving you raw and hollow.

The ambulance arrives, and they load his body inside. You stand there, watching, your hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. As the vehicle pulls away, your fingers brush against something—a folded piece of paper.

Curious and aching, you pull it out and unfold it with trembling hands. It’s his handwriting, messy but unmistakably his. A list of things he wanted to do today.

Swim in the lake.

Watch the sunrise.

Have waffles for breakfast.

Visit the art gallery.

Hot cocoa at the park.

The last line reads, Buy roses for...

Your lips tremble as you remember the promise you’d made to each other—the promise to keep moving forward, no matter who went first. The memory feels like a cruel joke now, but as you stare at his words, something inside you hardens.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your voice barely above a whisper as you say to the empty air, "I’m keeping my promise, Hyunjin."

The ambulance disappears down the road, and you stand there, the morning sun casting long shadows around you. Still, you refuse to believe that Hyunjin’s gone. He is not, he just goes to sleep to live a new dream.

-

09:14 a.m.

You sit in the corner booth of the diner, the same one Hyunjin had gushed about just hours ago. The waffles arrive, golden and drenched in syrup, the butter melting into small pools on the plate. You take a bite, the sweetness coating your tongue, but it tastes hollow. Your chest tightens as you remember how Hyunjin’s eyes had sparkled when he described them to you, as though they were a treasure worth crossing the world for.

Now, it feels like swallowing shards of glass.

The drive back to the city is quiet, the hum of the engine filling the void Hyunjin once occupied. His note sits folded on the passenger seat, a reminder of the day you’re piecing together without him. You glance at it at every stoplight, as if his handwriting might come alive and guide you forward.

Your next stop is the art gallery. You find his favorite painting almost instinctively, a swirling masterpiece of color and emotion. Sitting on the bench before it, you let your mind wander. You picture Hyunjin here, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted slightly as he studied the strokes.

"Do you see how the colors bleed into each other?" he would say. "It’s chaotic but still… perfect."

The memory slices through you, and you blink away the tears that threaten to spill.

From the gallery, you walk to a nearby café, the warmth of the cup of hot cocoa in your hands doing little to soothe the chill in your heart. You sit on a bench overlooking the river, the city split in two by its calm flow. The world moves on around you—people walking their dogs, children laughing in the distance—but you’re trapped in stillness.

You think of Hyunjin, of how he was alive and laughing mere hours ago. You think of his voice, his touch, the way he could make the ordinary feel extraordinary.

And now he’s gone.

For the first time, anger stirs beneath your grief. It rises like a storm, raw and uncontrollable. You clench the cup tightly, your knuckles whitening. How could death be so cruel? How could it take someone so vibrant and leave you tethered to feelings that have nowhere to go?

Death is so unfair. It takes the person, but not the love.

-

04:02 p.m.

The world has grown quiet around you, the buzz of the city dimmed to a distant hum as you sit alone on a park bench overlooking the river. The sun dips low in the sky, painting the water with hues of gold and amber. You clutch Hyunjin's jacket tighter around your shoulders, the scent of him still lingering faintly, a bittersweet reminder of everything you've lost—and everything you're about to gain.

The list he left behind is tucked into your pocket, crumpled and worn from your grip throughout the day. You pull it out, scanning the list. There’s only one thing left, unfinished: “Buys roses for…”

He hadn’t finished the sentence. You remember startling him as he jotted it down, and now the incomplete thought feels like a cruel echo. But you know what to do.

You find the nearest florist and step inside, the smell of flowers overwhelming you. "Roses," you tell the florist, your voice quiet but firm. "A bouquet of red roses."

They hand you the bouquet, the petals deep and vibrant, reminiscent of Hyunjin’s flushed cheeks and his soft lips. You trace a fingertip over the delicate blooms before asking for a card.

Sitting at a small table in the corner of the shop, you stare at the blank card. The weight of all you want to say crushes you, an endless stream of emotions that can’t possibly fit onto a single piece of paper.

Still, you write:

For what it’s worth, you showed me that there is such a thing as a perfect day. You made a mark on me, Hyunjin.

Your hand shakes as you finish the words. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to steady yourself, willing the tears to stay at bay. When you’re ready, you fold the card and slip it into the bouquet.

You stand at the corner of the street, clutching the bouquet of roses close to your chest as you wait for the light to turn. The city hums around you, alive and indifferent, the world moving on as it always does. But your mind drifts elsewhere, carried away by memories.

This was the place you met Hyunjin for the first time. You can almost see him standing there, smiling like the world belonged to him. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet so vivid it could have been yesterday. You replay the moment in your mind, the way he held himself with an effortless grace, the way his eyes met yours and lingered, as if he'd been waiting for you his entire life.

The light changes, and the crowd around you begins to move. Lost in your thoughts, you follow them, stepping onto the street.

A distant sound reaches your ears—a horn blaring, tires screeching—but it feels far away, as if it belongs to another world. By the time you register the rushing car, it’s too late. There’s no time to scream, no time to run.

This is it.

-

06:11 p.m.

The world comes back to you in fragments: the cool roughness of asphalt beneath your body, the distant murmur of voices, the sharp tang of blood in the air. Your vision swims, but when it clears, the twilight sky is the first thing you see.

It’s beautiful, painted in hues of lavender and gold, with the faintest blush of pink at the edges. The sight feels distant yet oddly comforting, like a gentle reminder of where you are—and where you’re going.

Your body is heavy, the pain a dull throb that seems to ebb and flow, fading as the seconds stretch on. You’re dimly aware of the rose petals scattered around you, spinning lazily in the air with every gust of wind. They look like they’re floating, as if gravity itself has softened its grip.

You close your eyes briefly and feel something shift inside you—a strange sense of clarity. This is it. You know it, feel it in your very bones. This is your ending.

But there’s no fear. Instead, a deep, resounding calm washes over you, carrying with it the promise of reunion. Hyunjin’s face fills your mind, vivid and bright, his laughter echoing in your ears, his touch still lingering on your skin.

You force your eyes open again, taking in the petals that now rest lightly against your arm, the faint scent of roses mingling with the cool evening air. A soft smile tugs at your lips, even as your breaths come slower, shallower.

Death is not an end, you think. It’s a reunion. It’s a promise kept. It’s my happy ending.

Somewhere in the distance, you hear sirens, but they feel like they belong to another world entirely. You’re beyond that now. Your heart slows, the pain dulls, and in its place is an overwhelming sense of peace.

The light in the sky begins to blur, stars flickering faintly above as if welcoming you home. You can almost feel him, his hand in yours, his voice calling your name like a melody you’ve always known.

Tears slip down your cheeks, but they’re not from sorrow. They’re from relief, from the quiet joy of knowing you’ll see him again, touch him again, love him again.

As the world fades, you exhale one last time, your voice barely a whisper in the wind. “I’m coming, Hyunjin.”

And then there’s nothing but light.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids

[northboreas]

Highlights from the TGWDLM watch party on RanbooLive's twitch for those who couldn't make it:

- Ranboo, a well known Twitch Streamer and longtime Starkid fan got some of the cast of TGWDLM together to rewatch the show & promote the kickstarter!

- It was a side collab, there will still be the main "Divining the future" and DnD Finale streams happening in the next weeks

- Joey Richter got ahold of the soundboard and he abused it wholeheartedly. Crickets, Buzzer sounds, Fart sound effects, ect.

- (Who gave him that power btw. Which one of you did it.)

- Everyone on the discord call had pictures next to their names instead of having their cameras on, most notably Lauren Lopez had a stock photo of a doctor, Jon Matteson had a picture of Jeff Blim, and Jeff had a picture of Jon

- The whole cast introduced themselves and basically said what they had gotten diagnosed with since they did the show

- "This is a HIPPA compliant stream" --Jamie Lyn Beatty out of context

- Lauren Lopez PHD confirmed that after TGWDLM she went to medical school and was the one who diagnosed all of her friends

- Most of the starkids hadn't rewatched the show at ALL until this stream

- Train Choreography mentioned!!!! the cast said James Tolbert is considering bringing it back for the reprise

- Lauren said shes going to be using all of the kickstarter funds to pay for med school

- "It took an apocalypse for him to get closer to his crush" - Jon talking about Paul Matthews

- Jamie made one of the "Tip for a song" sign props for TGWDLM!

- Jamie and Mariah said Alice and Deb are an OTP

- They also said they might make fake instagrams for them to promote the reprise. This is great news for potseed shippers

- There used to be a cut song before La Dee Da Da Day that had Peanuts the Hachetfield Pocket squirrel SINGING

- Lauren said that she would love to have peanuts actually make an appearance, "That squirrel budget is enormous"

- The "Should I take this chair?" "I'll take the piano!" bit was an ad lib

- All the "Okay"s from Paul were also ad libs, meant to give the actors more time to quick change, but now its a genuine part of his character

- They mentioned the homeless man so much, they said that they wanted cocaine to be under his nose for the reprise

- Lauren chimed in with "He doesnt have enough money for coke. He became homeless BECAUSE he spent all his money on coke."

- Lauren confirrmed that she specifically told James Tolbert to keep the "Cup of Roasted Coffee" choreo exactly the same for the remount

- The "Show Stopping Number" choreo will also be the same

- Jeff mentioned that hes planning on making Mariah's songs higher and his songs lower for the show too

- Lauren said she wanted to get a big dumpster for the "Paul, get in the trash can!" scene so the cast could actually be hiding in the trashcan (Probably a joke, but it'd be cool lmao)

- Mariah Rose Faith called TGWDLM a "Sexy Show"

- Lauren joked that shes going to add a line referencing "Janes a Car" from NMT to the scene where Emma talks about her sister's death

- They pitched Smoke Club / Perky's Buds branded joints, and Blue Goo edibles, all being sold at the TGWDLMR merch store

- Jon had to leave the stream right after Act 1 and the second he did the cast was like "Okay, so what do we really think of Jon?"

- "Actually, we're gonna be recasting Paul as this brand new actor named Aaron Tevit" -- Joey Richter

- Joey and Jeff had a headcanon that the army guy Joey plays in TGWDLM calls John MacNamara "Dad"

- During the show Jeff Blim once forgot to wear the watch while playing MacNamara

- "It was the most embarrassed I've ever been in my life"-- Jeff blim

- Ranboo told the cast that they once recorded a shot for shot remake of Show Stopping Number with all the choreo for his school

- America Is Great Again was actually a backup song, the original song that got cut was "goofy" according to Jeff Blim

- When Emma asked people for their phones at curtain call some people would actually give her theirs, and Lauren + The cast would go backstage and take photos with the phones for their fans

- We reached 475k (The Witches Budget) during this livestream, and we still have 14 days left for the kickstarter!

[ferrarifudds]

hiiii!! could u please write one where Charles has a crush on a girl who owns a small coffee shop in Monaco and he's never really had the courage to ask her out yet but Leo kinda acts as his wingman when Charles just got him? lmao, thank u sm! also, i adore ur writing <33

Coffee. ✷ Charles Leclerc

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x CafeOwner!reader

Summary: When Leo Leclerc decides to be a chaotic little wing man for his dad.

Word Count: 1.1k

Disclaimer/s: fluffff! ^_^ leo feature slay

Vera’s Voice! loved this request to death so had to get to it immediately. but!!! will be getting to my other requests soon!!! promise ^_^ thank u for requesting!!!! mwah! hope u enjoy!

The mornings in Monaco always held a quiet charm, a soft blend of sunlight bouncing off the pristine waters and the gentle hum of life waiting to stir.

For you, mornings meant the comforting clink of ceramic little tea cups, or the bittersweet aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. And the hum of your small cafe shop nestled along a cobblestone street just off the harbor was perfect.

It wasn’t grand or luxurious, but it was yours—as place as perfect as you, called La Petite Matin.

The regulars made the place feel like home. Businessmen grabbing espressos, elderly couples sharing croissants, and the occasional curious tourist wandering in off the beaten path.

But none of them made your heart skip quite like Charles Leclerc.

The first time he walked in, you didn’t even register it was him. Your brain was too preoccupied with the morning rush, juggling orders and making sure the almond croissants didn’t burn.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of you, all tall and handsome with that devastatingly soft smile, that it clicked.

“Bonjour,” He greeted, glancing at the handwritten menu above the counter. “Ehhmm..” He studied the contents before finally making a choic. “Could I get a cappuccino?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then stared, trying not to make it obvious that the guy from the posters on your cousin’s bedroom wall was standing in your shop, asking for coffee like he wasn’t Charles Leclerc.

“O—Of course,” You stammered, nearly letting out a nervous giggle as you fumbled to grab a cup.

That had been three months ago.

Since then, he had become a regular. On any morning he wasn’t traveling for races, he’d show up at precisely 8:30 AM, lean against the counter like he had all the time in the world, and flash you a smile that made your pulse stutter.

At first, it was overwhelming—serving coffee to one of Monaco’s most famous faces. But you quickly learned that Charles wasn’t anything like you’d expected.

He was easygoing, funny, and oddly humble for someone whose face was plastered across billboards. He’d ask about your day, tell you stories about his week, and even joke about how he probably should be ordering green smoothies instead of croissants.

What you didn’t know was that Charles wasn’t just coming for the coffee.

He was coming just to see you.

It was a warm and golden Tuesday morning when he walked in, but this time, he wasn’t alone.

He waved at you as he pushed the door open with one hand and holding a leash in the other. Trailing behind him was a small dachshund, its tiny legs moving at lightning speed as it padded into the shop.

You looked over the counter. “Bonjour!” You smiled. “And who’s this little guy?”

“Leo,” Charles said, crouching to unclip the leash and picking the animal up. “He’s… well, he’s quite the handful.”

Leo wagged his tail furiously, barking once in what could only be described as a hello. You leaned over to greet him, your heart melting as he pressed his nose against your hand that pet him.

“He’s adorable,” You said, scratching behind his ears. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

Charles shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “I don’t usually bring him out, but I figured he’d like to finally meet you.”

You froze for a second, glancing up at him. His expression was casual, but there was something in his tone that made your stomach flip.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you too, Leo,” You said, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

As Charles ordered his usual cappuccino, you gave him the okay to let Leo trot around the shop. The mini dachshund sniffed the furniture and charmed the few customers sitting by the windows.

You couldn’t help but laugh as he stopped in front of the display case, staring longingly at the pastries inside.

“Hmm,” You teased, handing Charles his beverage. “Think he’s saying you should get a treat with your cappuccino today.”

“Oh, he’s already convinced me,” Charles replied with a grin.

Before you could respond, Leo made his move. The little dog bolted toward the counter. He leapt up on his hind legs, paws resting on the wood as he barked.

“Leo!” Charles scolded, but there was no real heat in his voice.

“It’s okay,” You said, laughing as you leaned again to pet him. But just as you reached out, Leo darted to the side—right into the shelf of to-go cups.

With a crash, the cups tumbled to the floor, scattering across the tiles.

“Oh my,” You gasped with a laugh, hurrying around the counter.

Charles was already crouched down, gathering the cups as Leo sat innocently beside him, tail wagging like he hadn’t just caused chaos.

“I swear he’s not usually like this,” Charles said, shooting you an apologetic look.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” You assured him, though you were fighting back laughter. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive. He’s got a lot of energy for such little legs.”

Charles chuckled, stacking the cups in his arms. But as he stood up, something slipped out of his pocket—a small scrap of paper.

You bent down to grab it before he could, your eyes catching the familiar curve of your own handwriting.

It was one of the notes you wrote with his coffee cups.

You’d started the habit a few weeks ago, jotting down little messages like Good luck today! or Hope this makes your morning better. You’d never expected him to keep them.

“I—” Charles began, his ears turning pink. “I meant to throw that away. I’m not a stalker, I swear.”

You bit back a smile, holding the note out to him. “You kept this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Y—Yes… It was a nice message. And, uh… I’ve actually kept a few others.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as you stared at him, suddenly noticing the nervous energy radiating off him. For a guy who drove at 300 kilometers per hour for a living, Charles seemed unusually flustered.

“I like the notes,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “And I like coming here.” A pause.

“And sometimes, not just for the coffee.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Then, as if sensing the tension, Leo barked again—loud and insistent.

Charles groaned. “Leo, not helping.”

But you were already smiling, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Well,” You said, tucking the note back into his hand, “I’m glad you like the coffee. And the notes.”

Charles met your eyes, his nervousness melting into something softer, more genuine.

“Would you like to get dinner sometime? With us—or I mean, just me. Not Leo. Unless you want him to come too.”

You laughed, feeling a giddy kind of lightness. “I’d love to. But maybe just us for the first date?”

He grinned, his relief palpable. “Yeah, just us. That sounds perfect.”

As you scribbled your number on a napkin and handed it to him, Leo barked one last time, wagging his tail like he’d just sealed the deal.

“Guess I owe him a treat then,” Charles said, tucking the napkin into his pocket.

“Definitely,” you replied, your smile widening.

“Best wingman I’ve ever met.”

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated!!! ^_^ & please LMK if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list!!! mwah!!!!

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[deansbeer]

where the waves rest easy ・ DEAN WINCHESTER. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ pinned library

♡ SYNOPSIS. you and dean take the kids to the beach, where he opens up about his past, his love for you, and the life you've built together after leaving hunting behind.

♡ WARNING(S) fluff | angst | family bonding | mentions of past violence | major character death (pls dont hate me I’ll cry) | grief. mdni ♱ 18 plus. adult content.

♡ KARI NOTES. @deanswidow also contributed a tiny lil idea for this so dedicating this 2 her <3 she's dean's baby girl because it felt right 🤍 love u pooks !!!!!

IT'S BEEN TWO YEARS SINCE DEAN QUIT HUNTING.

two years since he put the colt and his sawed-off shotgun away for good. since he walked away from the life that had defined him for so long. since he said goodbye to the monsters, the blood, and the constant weight of death hanging over him.

two years since sam died.

god, you still catch him looking at the horizon sometimes, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists like he's bracing himself for something—like he's expecting the next apocalypse to come knocking at your front door. but it never does.

because dean walked away.

he walked away for you. for your family. for SAMMY, the little boy with his brother's name and his father's stubbornness. for JEMMA, the baby girl who's only been on this earth eight months and already has DEAN WINCHESTER wrapped around her tiny fingers. he walked away because he couldn't do it anymore—because burying his brother nearly killed him, and he knew if he didn't stop, he'd be burying you next. or the kids. or himself.

and you know sam would've wanted this for him. he would've wanted dean to have what they'd always dreamed about when they were kids: a home, a family, a life that wasn't overshadowed by death and duty.

so dean quit.

he got a job as a firefighter, of all things—because of course he did. being a firefighter lets him save people without the baggage of what came with hunting. it's hard work, but it's honest work, and it keeps his hands busy. it keeps his mind busy, too, most of the time. and you? you're a kindergarten teacher, which means your days are filled with crayons, storytime, and glue-sticked chaos.

it's not the life he ever thought he'd have—hell, it's not the life he ever thought he deserved—but he loves it. he loves you. he loves his kids. and even on the hard days, when the itch to hunt creeps up on him, or when he sees something on the news that makes his instincts scream at him to grab his gun, he reminds himself why he stopped. why he has to stay.

because this is worth it.

you and the kids are worth it.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

it's a friday when DEAN suggests going to the beach.

you both decided to take a day off—something rare, since your lives are usually so busy between work and the kids. but today, the sun is shining, the weather's perfect, and dean woke up with that lopsided grin you love so much, the one that makes him look ten years younger.

"whaddya think?" he asks as he pours you a cup of coffee, jemma balanced on his hip like she's always belonged there. "a beach day? sammy's been talking about it all week, and i think the squirt here could use her first dip in the ocean, don't you?"

you laugh, taking the coffee from him and leaning up to kiss his cheek. "sounds perfect."

so you pack up BABY with towels, sunscreen, a cooler full of snacks, and all the other million things you need when you have two kids under three. sammy's bouncing with excitement the entire drive, and jemma babbles happily from her car seat, her chubby hands reaching for DEAN every time he glances back to check on her. what a daddy's girl.

when you finally get to the beach, the first thing you notice is how peaceful it is. it's not too crowded—just a few families scattered along the sand, kids building castles and couples lounging under umbrellas.

and you can tell the moment DEAN steps onto the sand that this place means something to him.

you've been here before, of course—this is where he proposed to you. but there's something about the way he looks at the water, the way he takes a deep breath like he's letting go of something heavy, that makes you realize just how much this spot actually means to him.

"you okay, baby?" you ask softly, slipping your hand into his.

he turns to you, and for a moment, the smile he gives you is so FULL of love it makes your chest ache. "yeah, sweetheart," he says. "just… this place. it kinda reminds me why i'm here, y'know?"

you nod, squeezing his hand. and then sammy tugs on his leg, demanding to go play in the water, and DEAN laughs, scooping him up and spinning him around before setting him down and chasing after him.

you watch them run toward the waves, and your heart feels so full it might burst.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

a little while later, you're walking along the shore with him, jemma cradled in his arms. sammy's still splashing in the water, his laughter carried on the breeze, and you can't help but smile as you watch him. he really is a miniature version of DEAN—same green eyes, same freckles, same mischievous grin.

"he's got your stubbornness, too," you say, nudging DEAN with your shoulder.

he chuckles. "yeah, well, he gets that from both of us, sweetheart. don't kid yourself."

you laugh, leaning your head against his bicep as you walk. the sand is warm beneath your feet, the waves lapping gently at the shore, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

"you remember why i proposed to you here?" he asks suddenly, his voice soft.

you look up at him, surprised. "of course i do. but i wouldn't mind hearing it again."

he smiles, his eyes distant for a moment as he looks out at the water. "it was right after we found out sammy was on the way," he says. "i was scared out of my fucking mind, if i'm being honest. not about you—about being a dad. about screwing it all up. but then we came here, and you were sitting right there"—he nods toward a spot near the water—"and you just looked so… happy. like you weren't worried about anything. and i realized that if i was gonna do this—if i was gonna have a family, a real life—it had to be with you. because you make everything better, y'know? even when it's scary. especially when it's scary."

his voice cracks a little at the end, and you blink back tears, reaching up to cup his face. "baby…"

"i mean it," he says, his voice rough. "you saved me, sweetheart. you and the kids—you're the reason i'm still here. the reason i didn't just… give up after sam."

you kiss him then, pouring everything you feel into it. he kisses you back, jemma squirming a little between you but not enough to break the moment.

when you finally pull away, you're both smiling, and for the first time in a long time, you see nothing but peace in his eyes.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

the rest of the day is spent soaking up the sun, building sandcastles, and chasing sammy around the beach. DEAN lets him bury him in the sand at one point, laughing as both SAMMY and JEMMA work together to pile sand on top of him.

"i think they're plotting against me," he says, grinning up at you from his sandy grave.

"probably," you reply, laughing as jemma pats a handful of sand onto his chest.

as the sun starts to set, dean takes both kids down to the water to look for crabs. sammy's eyes light up every time he spots one, and jemma claps her hands excitedly, even though you're pretty sure she doesn't know what's going on.

you watch them from a distance, your hand resting on your stomach. it's still early—you haven't told DEAN yet—but you know he'll be just as thrilled as you are when he finds out you're expecting again.

watching him with SAMMY and JEMMA, seeing the way he lights up around them, there's no doubt in your mind that he was meant to be a dad.

and as you sit there, watching the man you love with the family you've built together, you realize that this is what happiness looks like.

it's not perfect—it's messy and chaotic and sometimes downright exhausting—but it's yours.

and you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

later that night, after the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, DEAN pulls you into his arms.

"thank you," he whispers, his voice barely audible in the darkness.

"for what?" you ask, resting your head against his chest.

"for this," he says, his hand moving to rest over your stomach. "for giving me a reason to keep going. for giving me a family."

you smile, tears pricking at your eyes again. "you don't have to thank me for that, my love. you've given me just as much."

he presses a kiss to your forehead, holding you close. and as you drift off to sleep, you can't help but think about how far you've both come—how far he's come.

because DEAN WINCHESTER may have walked away from hunting, but he's still a hero.

he's YOUR hero.

and he always will be.

♡ SPECIAL TAGS. @beausling @a1ecmcdowell @jasvtsc @titsout4nicholas @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @bluestrd @archiveofvirtue @ultravi0lence14 @rubyvhs @ohsc . . . ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

[divinewxrld]

Zodiac Sign's Energy 🤔

✨ (remind me of) ✨

Aries Energy : Firetrucks, First responders, military captains, toddlers, nascar, thunderstorms, spicy food, Just Do It (Nike Logo), color red, ww2, bruises, the one who raises their hand first, lighters

Taurus Energy : Blankets, sitcoms, luxury brand names, the color brown, fast food runs, mukbangs, singers, bathtubs, hot tubs, massages, Hawaii

Gemini Energy : Social media, cook outs, imessages, tiktok, rappers, writers, poets, post offices, mailmen, libraries

Cancer Energy : The moon, color white, homecooking, chefs, kitchens, cows, mother figures, rain, childhood homes, childhood shows, baking

Leo Energy : The sun, beaches, Los Angeles, the color gold, gold jewelry, curly hair, lions, instagram, actors singers, entertainers, theaters, influencers, Miami

Virgo Energy : 9 to 5, vegan food, green tea, gyms, stanley cups, directors, comedians, avocado toast, coffee shops, to-do lists, water, "clean girl aesthetic, the color olive

Libra Energy : The color pink, Barbie, fashion shows, fashion designers, interior designers, judges, mediators, counselors, valentines day, artists, couples, LA

Scorpio Energy : The color black, Birth, Death, Sex, Divorces, Dark chocolate, snakes, butterflies, black coffee, cemeteries, blackout curtains, leather jackets, candles, sunglasses, tarot readings

Sagittaurius Energy : The color orange, professors, travel agents, flight attendents, airports, encylopedias, zoos, religions, horses, passport, bonfires, afro beats, camps, bohemian styles, hair locks

Capricorn Energy : Bosses, businesses, suites, banquets, award shows, wall street, stock brokers, banks, government, politics, Navy blue, The color black, oldest sibling, parents, SUV''s, contracts

Aquarius Energy : LGBTQ community, the color silver, Anime, Japan, protests/rallies, DIY creations, alternative music, underground artists, celebrity interviewers, hypemen/women, cameramen, artist, anime conventions,

Pisces Energy : Actors, musicians, painters, therapist, the color teal, tie-dye shirt, hippies, late 1960's, celebrities, mansions, poetry, thrift stores, dream journal, incense, lo-fi music, oversize clothes, artists, ballerinas, ballet, writers

[parkersbliss]

A Domestic Life | S. Riley

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x female reader

warnings: none just some fluff bc I don’t see enough for him :(( maybe OOC

synopsis: just some fluffy headcannons about the infamous ghost and how he treats relationships

a/n: there is not enough tooth rotting fluff for this guy and I’m gonna fix that starting now

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

requests open for ghost!

—

sleeps like a log. the guy sleeps on his back, pointed at the sleeping and when he’s out he’s OUTTTT that boy does not sleep on the field so in an actual bed? he’s comatose. of course if you have a nightmare you can wake him up anytime. he’ll be a little confused at first but he’s got the spirit

enjoys cuddling but not in his sleep. he overheats so easily bc of how big he is so you guys keep your space. he is happy to hold you before bed though while watching a movie or scrolling on tiktok

he’s a DRY texter oh my god. it’s like your biggest pet peeve. “how’s your day” “fine” “made any progress?” “no.” you’re working on improving his skills but he’s just like that. you asked a question, he answers. besides he doesn’t frequently have time to text you long detailed replies

obviously ghost loves his mask, and it makes sense for him to conceal his identity but he doesn’t when he’s back with you. he likes to keep his identities separate. ghost and the mask for the field, regular simon at home. it’s not like anyone would know they were the same guy, except you of course.

on the off chance he’s home for halloween, he doesn’t use his mask as a costume (just in case anyone could connect the dots) but does keep the skeleton theme

his favorite holiday is christmas and he always makes sure he can have it off

he LOVES to cook. he doesn’t eat good when deployed so he loves coming home and cooking himself up exactly what he wanted. don’t get me wrong, he loves if you cook too but there’s something about not being able to control what you eat and then having full control and making homemade pasta for him

wears beanies all the time in winter. the dudes got a buzz cut, standard, so his heads cold. he loves when you wear a matching one with him

wakes up at the ass crack of dawn bc his body is just used to it after so many years

when he retires, he plans on having a small farm for even fresher homemade ingredients like eggs, milk etc. and he’ll wake up early to do the farm chores

again with the shitty food thing, he only likes gas station coffee. he’s so used to a crappy cup of joe that he can’t do the fancy shit. then again, he’s more of a tea guy anyway

loves his alone time but he likes you there, if that makes sense? like he loves reading a novel and not talking but just having you also read in the same room

likes just sitting on the couch together and watching a movie

It took him a while to adjust to physical touch after it being 1.) mostly abuse or 2.) enemies after him but he is not completely against it. he knows it’s important in relationships so he tries his best and eventually learns to love it

a sucker for slow dancing in the living room. bonus points if it’s with the christmas tree lights and music. he loves swaying around and the occasional stepping on feet and your giggles

his most prized possession besides the guns and you is a le creuset tea pot you gifted him for christmas. it’s bright blue with a gold handle and perfect.

he has a tea collection on display and is always trying new flavors from around the world. his green tea is imported from japan ONLY. always makes two cups for himself and you

loves to do any picnic dates or apple picking or farm style dates. the man loves food as FRESH as possible.

his bucket lists consists of food places around the world he wants to try and go with you.

including fugu from japan. you are totally opposed because of the whole life or death thing associated with it, but simon’s used to risks and he’ll do his research ofc.

he’ll never admit but he wants to go to america just to try the fast food there. he knows it’s bad and the opposite of what he stands for but the chinese in britain is ASS and doesn’t canes, in n out and chick fil a look SO good?

bicep holding >>> hand holding

he needs routine. simon needs to wake up at the same time, make breakfast for you guys at the same time, have his quiet time on the porch. watch the morning news with you and the tea. always at the same times. he tries not to but he can’t help bringing some of his military life home

his crew knows he has a wife but that’s it. ghost keeps simon separate and you are married to simon.

plus he can never be too safe when it comes to his work. the only name you went by when he’s deployed is “my wife” or “mrs riley”

doesn’t even carry a photo of you bc he’s that paranoid

you guys actually get married within 18 months because it just makes life easier. as soon as simon knew he wanted to marry you, he did.

it’s just easier in the military bc of pay, benefits, deployment, etc. and ofc he loves you and was locking that down ASAP

sends you recipes when he’s deployed for you to make and rate

when he can’t sleep, which is often, he just lays next to you not touching and contemplated how it is after all the bad he’s done, how he got it so good.

and he makes sure you know how appreciative he is

[coriihanniee]

WE'RE GONNA BE TIMELESS — ⋆˚𝜗𝜚

𓂃۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : boynextdoor reincarnated in present time, their connection remains unbroken

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x f!reader

𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : historical romance, reincarnation, contemporary romance, angst to comfort, fluff, slow burn, soulmates, second chance romance

𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of war, violence and death, emotional distress, subtle themes of grief, trauma and healing

𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 1.7k - 2.5k words / member

𓂃۶ৎ A/N : several of you wanted a continuation to my we would've been timeless fic so here it is! this is a birthday special post since today is my birthday~ as a present and to express my gratitude, I decided to give all members the happy ending they deserve!

strongly recommended to read first :

WE WOULD'VE BEEN TIMELESS (part 1)

SUNGHO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : world war II (1939 - 1945)

˖➴ PAIRING : nursing major!sungho x uni student!reader

The university café thrummed with its usual Monday mayhem—orders barked over the grind of beans, chairs dragged impatiently across tile, the sharp tang of espresso clinging to the air like a second skin. You moved through it with quiet focus, a delicate balancing act of textbooks, a slipping laptop bag, and a paper cup filled too close to the brim with hot americano.

You were nearly at the lone empty table when the impact came—sudden and clumsy, a shoulder brushing yours hard enough to tip your center. Coffee sloshed over the edge, searing against your wrist and bleeding into the fabric of your sleeve. You sucked in a breath, startled.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry,” a voice stammered, low and laden with genuine remorse.

You turned.

A boy stood before you—tall, slightly out of breath, brow creased in concern. He blinked as though stunned by the collision, or perhaps by something more. Before you could speak, he reached instinctively for a stack of napkins, moving with quiet urgency as he began blotting the spill with a care that bordered on reverent.

“I didn’t see you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “God, I wasn’t watching—”

His touch, though brief, was light. Thoughtful. Not the careless fumbling of someone desperate to fix a mistake, but something gentler, more deliberate.

You opened your mouth to assure him it was fine, that no harm was done—but the apology caught in your throat when your eyes met his.

Something shifted.

The room did not fall silent, yet the clamour faded into distance. He stared at you with a peculiar stillness, his expression caught between apology and awe. There was a flicker of something behind his gaze—something quiet and ancient. Not recognition, not quite. But familiarity. The kind that runs deeper than memory.

As though, in that brief moment, he’d stumbled into something forgotten. As though he had known you once—not here, not like this—but across time.

And in the space of that glance, you felt it too.

Something in you stilled.

“Do I… know you?” he asked, the words tentative, like they surprised even him.

You shook your head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

But the moment lingered. Like two ghosts brushing shoulders in a life they no longer remembered.

He introduced himself—Sungho, a final-year nursing student. His voice was steady but warm, with a trace of shyness that made you feel oddly at ease. When he offered to buy you a new coffee, you hesitated, not because you needed one, but because there was something in his gaze—something quiet and steady—that made it hard to say no.

As the two of you stood waiting for your drinks, the conversation unfurled easily—too easily, like you were remembering rather than meeting. He asked your name, made you laugh with a joke about caffeine being the only thing holding students together. And even when silence fell between you, it didn’t feel awkward. Just… natural.

Comfortable, in a way that didn’t make sense.

After that day, you started noticing him everywhere.

At first, you thought it was coincidence—catching a glimpse of him by the reference shelves in the library, his nose buried in a tattered anatomy textbook. Then again in a lecture hall, sitting alone in the back row, headphones in, eyes scanning the screen with quiet focus. Another time, waiting under the same bus stop you used every Thursday night, hands in his pockets, staring out at the rain like he was remembering something just out of reach.

Each encounter felt like stumbling into a conversation you’d never quite started—but somehow already knew how to finish.

One evening, as rain tapped against the windows of the quiet study hall, Sungho glanced up from his notebook. His voice broke the hush, low and almost hesitant. “I had the strangest dream last night. I was a soldier. And there was this nurse—she kept me alive. She had your eyes.”

You froze, pen pausing mid-word.

Something in the way he said it—soft, like he didn’t quite understand it himself—sent a shiver down your spine.

Because just hours earlier, you’d woken in a cold sweat, heart racing. A dream still clinging to your skin like the scent of smoke. You’d been in a field hospital, walls groaning as explosions rang out nearby. Dust rained from the ceiling, cracks splitting through concrete like veins. And in that dream, there’d been a soldier—his uniform torn, eyes wild with fear—as he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it hurt. As if the building was collapsing and you were the only thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

And those arms… were his.

You couldn't manage to say anything at first.

But then, during a casual conversation, he reached for your drink and his sleeve pulled back. A scar, jagged and pale, marred the inside of his forearm.

Without thinking, your fingers reached for it.

“Shrapnel,” you murmured. “I mean—how did you get it?”

Sungho blinked. “Bike accident. When I was twelve. But…” He looked down at your hand. “When you touched it—it didn’t feel like the first time.”

His brows furrowed as though trying to summon something long buried. “It was like… muscle memory. Like my skin knew your touch before my mind could catch up.” He shook his head softly, almost in disbelief. “I haven’t thought about that scar in years, but when your fingers grazed it, something just… shifted.”

The air between you changed. Not dramatic, not loud. Just quieter. Denser. Like a page had turned in a book you hadn’t realized you were reading.

You didn’t know what to say, only that you felt it too—something ancient and echoing, stirring beneath your skin.

Days passed. Neither of you brought it up again, but it lingered, unspoken and undeniable. Something had cracked open between you.

A week later, he sent a text.

> Found an antique shop. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to go.   > Will you come with me?

The shop was dim, musty, and hidden in a forgotten corner of the city. Dust clung to the air like a memory, and the shelves sagged beneath the weight of relics long abandoned. Time seemed slower here, suspended in the quiet hush of things left behind.

Sungho drifted through the aisles as if pulled by an invisible thread, until he stopped at a glass display filled with war memorabilia. His gaze fixed on a rusted pocket watch. Slowly, his hand rose toward it, fingers trembling.

“This watch,” he whispered. “I’ve seen it before. I don’t know how—but I have.”

From behind the counter, the shopkeeper—an older man with tired eyes and a voice softened by years—watched you both. “That came from a field hospital in Gangwon,” he said. “There's something else from that collection. Wait here.”

He disappeared into a back room and returned with a weathered envelope. Inside, wrapped in tissue like something sacred, was a photograph.

A field hospital. A line of nurses and injured soldiers.

And at the center—him.

Sungho, or someone who wore his face, one arm in a sling. And beside him, a nurse. Her hand rested protectively on his shoulder, her eyes hauntingly familiar.

Yours.

You couldn’t breathe.

Sungho turned the photo over. Written in faded ink: 

"Nurse L/N and Pvt. Park. Found in rubble after bombing. 1944.”

The shopkeeper’s voice softened. “Witnesses said they never ran. When the building collapsed, they were still holding each other.”

Sungho’s hands trembled as he cradled the photograph, his gaze anchored to the faces frozen in sepia. There was a flicker in his eyes—something ancient, aching, as though a door had cracked open inside him, letting in a memory too heavy to bear.

“They found this watch in his hand,” the shopkeeper said softly, nodding toward the tarnished timepiece in the glass case. “It stopped the moment the bomb struck. In his pocket, they found a letter—unfinished. He wrote that amidst all the ruin, she was the only peace he had ever known.”

Silence gathered around you, thick and fragile. It clung to your skin, to the photograph, to the aching quiet between heartbeats. You felt it in your bones—that this wasn’t grief for strangers, but something buried deep within you, long-lost and long-mourned.

The shopkeeper’s gaze lingered. “You two… you resemble them quite closely. It’s uncanny. Almost as if…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Sungho didn’t hesitate when he bought the watch. No one spoke of how his hands shook as he handed over the bills, or how your eyes refused to leave the image of the nurse and the wounded soldier, their silhouettes etched with unspeakable tenderness. There were no questions, only the unspoken understanding that whatever this was, it mattered.

Outside, under the awning as rain whispered against the pavement, Sungho finally broke the silence. His voice was low, raw. “I keep thinking about them. About the moment they must’ve realized there was no way out.”

You swallowed around the tightness in your throat. “But they weren’t alone,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “They had each other. Even at the end.”

Sungho looked at you then, his eyes shining with something too vast for words. “Some things,” he said, “are more important than survival.” His breath caught. “If it were me… if it were us…”

He trailed off, but the rest hung between you like a vow neither of you had to speak.

The watch, now warm in your clasped hands, pulsed faintly between you, as though echoing with a heartbeat once lost to war. And in that moment, there was no past, no present—only the weight of what had always been. A tether, invisible and unbreakable.

“I don’t remember them,” Sungho whispered, rain clinging to his lashes. “But I miss them. I mourn them like I knew them. Like I loved her.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden. There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. No grand declaration. Just a quiet truth lodged deep in his chest.

And somehow, you knew he already had. In another life, in another war, he had stayed.

You reached for him. Fingers tangled with his, grounding you both in a present that felt like a continuation of something unfinished.

You didn’t notice the watch had begun ticking again—its heartbeat restored after decades of silence. 

Some bonds are stitched too deeply into the soul to be unsewn. Some loves remember even when the mind forgets.

In this life, there were no bombs. No letters left unsent. Just two strangers finding each other in the middle of ordinary chaos, tethered by a history that refused to die.

And in this life, they’d have time.

RIWOO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : victorian era (1837 - 1901)

˖➴ PAIRING : literary preservationist!riwoo × antique bookstore owner!reader

The bookstore was your sanctuary. Nestled between a cozy café and a vintage clothing shop, Bound by Time specialized in rare and antique books. As the new proprietor—having inherited it only months ago from your late grandmother—you found solace among the shelves of timeworn spines and the scent of aging paper, as if the past itself had taken refuge there.

The bell above the door chimed, its sound delicate and familiar. You glanced up from cataloging a recent acquisition of first editions. A man stood just inside the doorway, dark hair dampened slightly from the mist outside, his gaze wandering the room with the quiet reverence of someone who believed in the sacredness of forgotten stories.

"Can I help you find something?" you asked, setting your pen aside, your voice gentler than usual. Something about his presence asked for softness.

He turned toward you, and in the silence that passed, his eyes held something that startled you—recognition, confusion, then a wistful smile. "I'm looking for..." He hesitated. "I'm not sure. Something called to me from your window display."

"That's my grandmother's doing," you replied, standing slowly. "She curated the Victorian literature showcase before she passed. I haven't had the heart to change it."

He stepped further in, rainwater softly pooling beneath his shoes. "Lee Riwoo," he said, offering his hand.

As your fingers touched, a strange sensation swept over you—a flicker, like recalling a dream you had long ago and weren't sure was ever real. You pulled your hand back a breath too quickly.

"Do you collect antique books?"

"I'm a literary preservationist," he said. "I restore rare manuscripts. This is my first time here. I travel often for my work, but... this place felt familiar."

Over the next hour, Riwoo wandered your shelves with a kind of hushed wonder, his fingertips tracing the spines as though memorizing their histories. His gaze lingered longest on the Victorian section, and you watched from behind the counter, your chest aching with a curiosity you couldn't explain.

Finally, he approached with a weathered diary in hand. "I was commissioned to restore this," he said. "It's from the mid-1800s. Several pages are damaged. I was hoping you might have paper from the same era—your grandmother's collection, perhaps?"

The diary, bound in cracked leather, trembled faintly in your hands as you opened it. The ink had faded and bled from years of water damage. But the handwriting within—looped and elegant—struck you with something more than familiarity. It struck you with grief.

"This handwriting..." you murmured.

"I know," Riwoo nodded. "It feels strangely familiar, doesn't it? I've been having trouble sleeping since I received it. Dreams of places I've never been, people I've never met."

You examined the diary more closely. It belonged to a nobleman who wrote of his younger brother's scandalous love for a servant girl—a love that ultimately ended in heartbreak when he was forced to marry within his class. Many entries were water-damaged, the ink blurred beyond recognition.

"I might have some matching paper in the back room," you offered. "My grandmother collected restoration materials."

The storage room was narrow, cramped with drawers and trunks of brittle documents and parchment. As you sifted through them, Riwoo stood behind you, and the air thickened with an unspoken tension. Not the kind born of discomfort, but the kind that lives in the breath before a memory returns.

"Have we met before?" he asked, voice low. "I can't explain it, but... you feel like someone I've waited a long time to find."

You smiled without turning around. "I'd remember meeting someone who restores books like a ritual."

Over the next weeks, Riwoo returned with the diary in tow, setting up at the corner table beneath the stained glass window. Sometimes he would read aloud, his voice reverent, coaxing lost stories back to life.

The first dream came like a whisper—fragments at first, then vivid scenes that left you waking with tears on your pillow.

In them, you were someone else yet entirely yourself. A servant in a grand estate, moving through shadows, your heart aching for someone you couldn't have. And there was Riwoo—not quite him, but unmistakably him—dressed in nobleman's finery, his eyes following you with longing across crowded rooms.

"You can't have what you want, Riwoo. It's not possible."

 Your dream-self's words echoed in your mind long after you woke.

You said nothing about these dreams, convinced they were simply your imagination running wild from the diary's stories. But Riwoo grew more agitated with each passing day, his focus on the diary becoming almost obsessive.

"The pages near the end," he said one evening, voice strained. "They're different—like someone else took over the writing. More desperate. More raw."

You peered over his shoulder at the damaged pages he was carefully treating. "Can you make out what it says?"

"Fragments. The nobleman's brother—he was in love with a servant girl. His family forced him to marry someone of his station, but..." Riwoo's finger traced a line of faded text. "He never stopped loving her."

That night, your dreams shifted. You saw Riwoo standing at an altar, his face a mask of composure while his eyes screamed silent apologies. You watched from behind a pillar, your heart shattering as he pledged himself to another. Before the ceremony ended, you slipped away, unable to bear witnessing more.

You woke gasping, a physical ache in your chest. When you arrived at the bookstore, Riwoo was already waiting outside, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I can't sleep," he said simply. "I keep dreaming about them—the nobleman's brother and the servant girl. It feels like I'm remembering, not dreaming."

Something in his voice made you shiver. "What happens in your dreams?"

His eyes met yours, filled with a grief that seemed centuries old. "I lose her. Over and over, I lose her."

The air between you crackled with unspoken recognition.

Days later, Riwoo called you after midnight, his voice urgent through the phone. "I found something. Come to the store. Please."

You found him surrounded by pages on the floor, his hands trembling as he held a partially restored section of the diary.

"Look at this," he whispered.

The entry described the day after the wedding—how the servant girl had disappeared from the estate without a trace. The nobleman wrote of his brother's descent into despair, his frantic searching, his slow surrender to hopelessness.

The final pages became increasingly difficult to read—not just from water damage, but because the handwriting deteriorated, as if the writer could barely hold a pen.

"There's a change here," Riwoo said, pointing to a particular passage. "The nobleman stopped writing. These last entries are from his brother."

With painstaking care, he had revealed the final legible words:

The laudanum offers temporary peace, but I find myself increasing the dose each night. My wife suspects nothing; she has long since accepted that our marriage exists only in name. I dream of my love each night—standing in the garden where we last spoke, promising to wait for me. I have searched for five years with no trace of her. Tomorrow, I shall join her in the only way left to me. Perhaps in another life, we will find each other again, and I will be braver than I was in this one.

Your hand flew to your mouth, a sob catching in your throat. "He took his own life."

Riwoo nodded, his expression haunted. "The nobleman's final entry confirms it. He found his brother's body in the study, an empty bottle beside him, clutching something in his hand."

"What was it?" you whispered.

"That's where the diary ends. Water damage destroyed the rest." Riwoo's voice cracked. "But I found something else."

From between the leather binding and backing, he carefully extracted a small, folded piece of paper that had somehow survived intact. As he unfolded it, his hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

It was a letter, the ink faded but still legible. Addressed simply: To her, when fate allows us to meet again.

The first line made your heart stop:

My dearest, followed by your name—your actual name, written in a hand you somehow recognized.

The world tilted beneath you as you took the letter, vision blurring as you read:

By the time you read this, I will have left this world, unable to bear its emptiness without you. Know that I searched for you until my strength failed. My greatest regret is not having the courage to defy convention and claim you as mine when I had the chance.

I make this vow with my final breath: I will find you again. In another time, another place, where the barriers between us no longer exist. Where I can love you as you deserve to be loved—openly, completely, without shame or hesitation.

If your soul recognizes mine as I know it will, please forgive my weakness in this life. In the next, I will be worthy of you.

Eternally yours,

L.R 

The letter slipped from your trembling fingers. You raised your eyes to meet Riwoo's, finding them filled with tears and a recognition that transcended understanding.

"It's my handwriting," he whispered, voice breaking. "And your name."

The room spun around you as fragments of memory—not dreams but actual memories—crashed through your consciousness: standing in the shadows of a grand estate, watching him from afar, the brush of his fingers against yours when no one was looking, his whispered promise: 

"I love you. And I will find a way to make this work. I'll make it work, I swear."

A promise he couldn't keep then.

"We found each other," you breathed, the realization both beautiful and devastating. "After all this time."

Riwoo reached for your hand, his touch igniting not just the familiar flicker of recognition, but a flood of emotion so powerful it brought you to your knees. He caught you, arms wrapping around you as though he'd been waiting lifetimes to hold you again.

"I don't—I don't remember everything," he said, his voice raw. "Just feelings. Fragments. But I know it's you. I've always known it was you, from the moment I walked into this store."

You buried your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by grief for what was lost and wonder at what had been found. "You didn't have to wait for another life," you whispered. "I would have run away with you then."

"I know," he murmured against your hair. "That's why I've spent this lifetime looking for you—to make it right."

Outside, rain began to fall, washing the world clean. Inside, surrounded by the fragments of your shared past, you held onto each other as the barriers of time crumbled around you—two souls finally completing a journey that began more than a century ago.

Not every memory would return. Not every wound would heal. But in that moment, as Riwoo's tears mingled with yours, you understood that some connections were never meant to be broken—only temporarily lost, then found again when the time was right.

JAEHYUN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 1920s Hollywood

˖➴ PAIRING : actor!jaehyun x script doctor!reader

The moment you met Jaehyun on the set of Bright Silence, something ancient stirred within you. It wasn't déjà vu—it was deeper, like muscle memory embedded in your soul. 

You'd been hired as a script doctor for the troubled production, tasked with breathing life into dialogue that felt stilted and forced. The director had called you their "last hope" with the kind of desperation that made your stomach clench. This was your chance to finally make a name for yourself in the industry after years of uncredited rewrites and ghostwriting for more established screenwriters.

The first day on set, you were making notes when he walked past—casual, unhurried. Myung Jaehyun, Korea's most sought-after actor making his Hollywood crossover. His eyes met yours briefly, and something electric passed between you. He faltered mid-step, his expression shifting from polite disinterest to something unreadable. For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in an impromptu staring contest that felt weightier than it should have.

"Have we met before?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of genuine confusion.

"No," you answered automatically, though the word felt like a lie on your tongue. "I don't think so."

He nodded slowly, unconvinced. "I'm Jaehyun."

"I know." You extended your hand. "I'm the new writer."

His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and for a bizarre moment, you had the overwhelming urge to never let go. A flash of something—a dimly lit room, his face illuminated by a different kind of light—passed through your mind.

"Strange," he murmured, reluctantly releasing your hand. "I feel like I know you."

That night, you dreamed of golden sunlight and long shadows, of hushed whispers and the mechanical whir of old film cameras. You woke with a start, heart racing, the phantom smell of smoke in your nostrils.

The studio lot where Bright Silence was being filmed had history—one of the original Paramount backlots that had survived decades of Hollywood's evolution. Walking through it sometimes felt like traversing through time itself, modern equipment jarringly out of place against the backdrop of buildings that had witnessed the birth of cinema.

You found yourself drawn to the oldest section, a preserved slice of 1920s Hollywood. During lunch breaks, you'd wander there, notebook in hand, telling yourself you were seeking inspiration. In truth, you were chasing the gossamer threads of dreams that felt increasingly like memories.

One afternoon, you found Jaehyun there, standing in front of Building 8, an old soundstage rarely used now except for period pieces. He was so still he might have been a statue, staring up at the faded lettering with an intensity that made you pause.

"They used to film the silent movies here," he said without turning, somehow knowing it was you. "The ones shot in black and white."

"Yes," you replied, though you hadn't known this for certain. "Before the talkies changed everything."

He turned to you then, his eyes reflecting the same confused recognition you felt. "I keep having these dreams."

Your heart stuttered. "What kind of dreams?"

"Old Hollywood. Black and white film. A script." He hesitated. "And fire. Always fire at the end."

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Since meeting Jaehyun, you'd developed an inexplicable aversion to open flames. Yesterday, when the gaffer lit a cigarette near you, your hands had begun to tremble so violently you'd had to excuse yourself.

"I've been having dreams too," you admitted. "But they don't make sense."

Something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, at not being alone in this strange experience. "How about we head out for lunch? We have an hour before they need us back."

At the small restaurant just outside the lot, tucked away from prying eyes and eager paparazzi, you talked. Not about the dreams directly—they felt too intimate, too bizarre to articulate fully—but about everything else. How writing had always been your refuge. How he'd fallen into acting, discovered in a photography shoot when he was nineteen.

"Sometimes when I'm on set," he said, stirring his iced latte absently, "it feels like I've done this before. Not just acting, but..." he searched for the words, "...like I've lived this specific life before."

You understood completely. "Like déjà vu, but prolonged."

"Exactly." He looked at you intently. "Since I met you, it's gotten stronger."

The confession hung between you, neither willing to explore its implications further. Instead, you discussed the script, the changes you were making, how his character needed more depth, more conflict.

"He loves her," Jaehyun said suddenly, referring to his character. "That's his real conflict. He loves her but doesn't know how to tell her before it's too late."

You blinked. That wasn't in the script—not yet, anyway. But he was right; it was exactly what was missing.

"How did you know that's where I was taking the story?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze drifting out the window to the studio lot in the distance. "I just felt it. Like I've played this role before."

That night, you pulled out an old box from your closet—university projects and early attempts at screenplays. Something had been nagging at you since your conversation with Jaehyun. A half-remembered project, something about Hollywood's golden age.

Near the bottom of the box, you found it: a screenplay titled Burning Bright. Your final project for your screenwriting course. You didn't remember much about writing it—just that your professor had called it "surprisingly authentic" for a period piece and that you'd received an A.

With trembling fingers, you flipped through the pages. It was a love story set in 1920s Hollywood—a screenwriter and an actor falling in love during the production of a film. Your eyes widened as you read. The dialogue, the scenes, they felt achingly familiar yet strange in your own handwriting.

The final scene made your blood run cold. The screenwriter, trapped in a burning studio, the actor desperately trying to reach her as flames consumed the building.

You dropped the screenplay like it had burned you. There, on the last page, were the words:

FADE TO BLACK as smoke engulfs the frame. The only sound: JAEHYUN screaming her name as the building collapses.

Jaehyun. You had named the character Jaehyun.

But you'd written this years ago, long before you'd ever heard of him.

Sleep eluded you that night. When you finally drifted off near dawn, your dreams were vivid and terrifying—smoke filling your lungs, the heat unbearable, someone banging on a door you couldn't reach.

Production moved to the old soundstage the following week. The director wanted authenticity for the climactic scene, and Building 8 provided the perfect backdrop with its vintage architecture.

You arrived early, the screenplay from university tucked in your bag. You hadn't shown it to Jaehyun yet; it felt too strange, too personal. How could you explain that years ago, you'd written a story about a character with his name dying in a fire?

The building felt different today—oppressive, almost hostile. As the crew set up lighting and cameras, you found yourself moving away from the vintage heat lamps they'd brought in for the period aesthetic. Their glow made your skin crawl.

Jaehyun arrived looking exhausted, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd slept as poorly as you had. When he spotted you, he made his way over immediately.

"I found something," he said without preamble, pulling a small envelope from his jacket. "In the studio archives. I was doing research for the role and..." he trailed off, handing it to you.

Inside was a photograph, brittle with age and burned at the edges. The image showed a man in 1920s attire, standing on what was clearly this very soundstage. The man was undeniably Jaehyun—or someone who looked eerily like him, down to the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Next to him stood a woman, but her image was partially destroyed, the right side of the photograph blackened by fire. Only half her face remained visible, but what you could see made your stomach drop. It was like looking in a distorted mirror.

"Turn it over," Jaehyun said quietly.

On the back, in faded ink: Hollywood Star Myung Jaehyun and his screenwriter, 1928. The last picture before the fire.

The room seemed to tilt around you. "This has to be some kind of joke."

"That's what I thought too." His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his unease. "But I couldn't find any record of who placed it in the archives. It's been there for decades, according to the archivist."

Before you could respond, the director called Jaehyun to set. He gave your arm a gentle squeeze before walking away, leaving you with the photograph and a growing sense of dread.

They were filming the scene where his character confronts his rival. The vintage heat lamps glowed ominously in the background, casting long shadows across the set. You watched from a distance, unable to shake your discomfort.

Everything was going smoothly until one of the heat lamps malfunctioned, sparking violently. It was a minor issue, quickly handled by the effects team, but the moment you saw Jaehyun walk toward it, something inside you fractured.

"Stop!" The word tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Get away from there!"

The entire set turned to stare at you. Jaehyun froze mid-step, his expression shifting from confusion to concern as he took in your panic-stricken face.

The director called for a break, clearly annoyed at the interruption. As the crew dispersed, Jaehyun approached you cautiously.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leading you to a quiet corner away from curious eyes.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking. "I don't know. When I saw you near that lamp, I just—" You broke off, unable to articulate the visceral terror that had gripped you. "I think I'm losing my mind."

Instead of dismissing your fears, he took your hands in his, steadying them. "You're not. Something's happening to both of us." He hesitated. "Last night, I dreamt of a fire again. But this time, I remembered more. I was trying to reach someone—banging on a door, screaming..." He swallowed hard. "Screaming your name."

Your eyes met his, and in that moment, something clicked into place—not a full memory, but the shadow of one, like looking at your reflection in troubled water.

"I wrote a screenplay in college," you said quietly. "About a screenwriter and an actor in 1920s Hollywood. The actor's name was Jaehyun, and they both died in a fire."

His grip on your hands tightened. "When did you write it?"

"Years ago. Before I knew you existed."

A long silence stretched between you as you both grappled with implications neither of you wanted to face.

"Do you think we're..." he began, unable to finish the thought.

"I don't know what we are." You pulled the photograph from your pocket, studying the half-burned image. "But I think we've been here before."

The director, impatient with the delays, decided to shoot the climactic scene the next day. It called for dramatic lighting, heightened emotions—and fire elements controlled by the special effects team.

The mere thought made your stomach churn. You considered calling in sick, but the prospect of Jaehyun facing those flames alone was somehow worse.

You arrived to find the set transformed. The vintage architecture of Building 8 now prominently featured in the shot, with carefully controlled fire elements positioned strategically around the perimeter. 

Jaehyun found you before filming began, his face drawn with concern. "You don't have to stay for this."

"I do," you insisted, though every instinct screamed at you to run. "I can't explain it, but I feel like if I leave..."

"Something bad will happen," he finished for you. "I feel it too."

When filming began, you stood as far from the fire elements as possible while still maintaining a view of the set. The scene called for Jaehyun's character to make an impassioned confession, surrounded by the symbolic flames of his inner turmoil.

As he performed, something shifted in the atmosphere. His delivery wasn't just good—it was transcendent, as if he was channeling emotions from somewhere beyond himself. The crew fell silent, captivated.

"I should have told you sooner," he was saying, the scripted lines taking on a different weight in his mouth. "Before it was too late. Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

Your breath caught.

 That last line wasn't in the script.

Jaehyun's eyes found yours across the set, filled with a recognition that transcended the present moment. For a heartbeat, the decades between then and now seemed to collapse, and you weren't on a movie set in the present, but somewhere else—somewhere you'd been before.

One of the fire elements flared unexpectedly, higher than it should have. Someone from effects cursed, rushing to control it. Jaehyun didn't flinch, his eyes still locked with yours as if nothing else existed.

"Cut!" the director shouted, breaking the spell. "Effects, get that under control! Jaehyun, that was brilliant, but stick to the script."

Jaehyun nodded absently, his attention still on you. As the crew reset for another take, he made his way to your side.

"Those weren't my lines," he said quietly. "They just... came out."

You nodded, understanding completely. "It felt right, though."

"It felt like something I've spent lifetimes chasing.” 

The weight of his words settled between you—not a full confession, but the acknowledgment of something unfinished, something that had been waiting decades to be resolved.

You could almost hear the echo of a different time, of a different version of him, still trying to say what had never left his lips.

A whisper, a touch, a confession lost in the haze of fire and smoke. The burning that had taken everything from you both.

The director called for positions. Jaehyun squeezed your hand once before returning to his mark, surrounded once more by the controlled flames that nevertheless made your heart race with ancestral fear.

As filming resumed, you watched him deliver his lines—the right ones this time—but the wrong ones still lingered in the air between you.

“Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

You didn’t know what he meant. Not fully.  

But somewhere deep inside—beyond memory, beyond logic—you understood.

There were nights you still woke to the phantom scent of smoke. Moments when the touch of warmth on your skin made you flinch without reason.  

A life you didn’t remember.  

A love you had never finished.

Whatever had been left undone in the 1920s—whatever words had been swallowed by flame and fear—still pressed against the edges of your heart, waiting.  

The universe rarely offered second chances. Rarer still was the chance to recognize them when they came.

You watched him now, the set lights soft on his face, his expression too serious for the lines he recited.  

As if he remembered, too.  

As if some part of him knew there had once been a fire, and that it had cost him everything he hadn’t been brave enough to say.

The past tugged at you, quiet and merciless.

This time, you would not wait for the world to end to tell him you were already his.

TAESAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : zombie apocalypse

˖➴ PAIRING : reincarnated unaware!taesan x reincarnated aware!reader

The Gwangju subway station hums with mechanical precision and indifference. Steel carriages arrive and depart with mathematical certainty, carrying bodies from one destination to another as they have for decades. You stand on the platform, your reflection fragmented in the polished tiles of the opposite wall—pieces of yourself scattered across the surface like the memories that haunt you.

It happens when you least expect it. The scent of antiseptic and industrial cleaner. The fluorescent lights flickering twice before steadying. The distant screech of brakes against metal rails. These ordinary elements of metropolitan life shouldn't trigger anything in you, and yet they do.

Blood on your hands. The weight of a gun. His eyes—lifeless but somehow still filled with forgiveness.

You blink, and the vision dissipates like morning fog. Your therapist calls them "intrusive thoughts with vivid imagery," likely stemming from trauma or an overactive imagination. She doesn't know about the dreams—dreams so visceral, so painfully real that waking feels like dying all over again. Dreams of a world consumed by chaos, of survival against impossible odds, of him.

Taesan.

The name never leaves you. It sits on the tip of your tongue during your waking hours, burns itself into your consciousness during sleep. A name that belongs to someone you've never met in this life but somehow know more intimately than yourself.

The subway car approaches, its headlights cutting through the tunnel darkness like searchlights. People around you shift forward in anticipation, clutching bags and phones, their faces illuminated by blue light. No one else flinches at the sound of the brakes. No one else hears the groans of the undead in the mechanical whine.

Only you.

The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss. Bodies file out, others push in—the eternal dance of urban commuters. You step inside, finding an empty seat by the window. Your reflection stares back at you, features blurred against the backdrop of the station sliding away as the train pulls out. You look tired. You always look tired these days.

Three stops later, the doors open again. You don't look up immediately—there's no reason to. But something shifts in the atmosphere, something imperceptible yet undeniable, like the air pressure changing before a storm. A prickling sensation crawls up your spine, and your eyes are drawn up as if by magnetic force.

He stands there, scanning for a seat, dressed in a charcoal suit that sits perfectly on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than in your dreams, styled with modern precision. No dirt on his face, no blood on his hands. Clean. Unburdened.

Alive.

Taesan.

Your heart stutters, then races. Your lungs forget how to function. The subway car suddenly feels too small, too hot, too loud. Is this another hallucination? Another cruel joke your mind is playing?

But no—other people see him too. A woman offers him her seat. He declines with a polite smile, gripping the overhead handle instead. He looks... normal. Ordinary. A businessman on his evening commute. Not a survivor. Not a protector. Not the man who died in your arms, confessing love with his last breath.

You stare, unable to look away, cataloging the similarities and differences between this man and the one who haunts your dreams. The same sharp jawline, the same penetrating eyes. But his posture is different—relaxed, not constantly coiled like a spring ready to unleash. His hands are smooth, lacking the calluses from weapons and hard labour. This Taesan has never had to fight for his life. Never had to make impossible choices. Never had to protect you.

And yet, it's him. Every cell in your body recognizes him, calls out to him across the distance between you.

He doesn't notice you. Not at first. He's preoccupied with something on his phone, thumb scrolling with casual indifference. You wonder what mundane concerns occupy his mind. Work deadlines? Dinner plans? So far removed from survival, from the visceral reality of existence that consumed your shared past life.

The train lurches slightly as it rounds a bend, and his gaze lifts momentarily, sweeping across the car. For a fraction of a second, his eyes meet yours, and the world stops.

Something flickers across his face—confusion, perhaps. A slight furrow between his brows, a momentary pause in his breathing. He blinks, and then looks away, returning to his phone with practiced nonchalance. But you see the tension in his shoulders now, the slight stiffness in his posture that wasn't there before.

Did he feel it too? That electric shock of recognition? That soul-deep knowing?

The automated announcement chimes overhead: "Next station: Hwajeong 1-ga." His stop, somehow you know. You shouldn't know that, but you do, just as you know he takes this train every weekday at exactly this time, that he lives alone in an apartment overlooking the river, that he drinks his coffee black with just a hint of sugar.

Knowledge that isn't yours to possess in this lifetime.

The train slows, and he moves toward the doors, still not looking at you. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a wild animal seeking escape.

Say something. Do something. Don't let him walk away. Not again.

But what would you say? 

The absurdity of it freezes you in place as the doors open. He steps out onto the platform, merging seamlessly with the evening crowd. In seconds, he'll disappear, swallowed by the city, and you'll be left with nothing but dreams and fragmented memories that might be delusions.

Your body moves before your mind decides. You're on your feet, squeezing through the closing doors at the last possible moment, stumbling onto the platform. The crowd jostles you, impatient bodies pushing past on their way to exits and transfers. You scan frantically, catching a glimpse of his charcoal suit ascending the escalator.

You follow, heart thundering in your ears, unsure what you'll do when you catch up to him—if you catch up to him. The escalator seems to stretch endlessly upward, each mechanical step too slow for the urgency building inside you. By the time you reach the top, he's already passing through the ticket gates, moving with purpose toward the eastern exit.

"Taesan!" His name tears from your throat before you can stop it, echoing against tile and concrete.

He stops. Slowly, methodically, he turns around. From twenty meters away, his expression is unreadable, but his posture is rigid with surprise. For a long moment, he simply stares at you across the distance, commuters flowing around both of you like river water around stones.

Then, deliberately, he walks back towards you.

Each step he takes coils the tension tighter in your chest.

 What if you’re wrong? What if this is just some cruel twist of fate, a mirror image meant to break you? Or worse—what if it is him, but the man you loved is gone, replaced by something unrecognizable?

He stops before you, close enough to see the amber flicker in his dark eyes. Those eyes—his eyes—once so full of warmth as they watched over you through every danger, once clouded with pain as life slipped away, now look at you with nothing but uncertainty.

"Do I know you?" His voice is the same—deep, slightly rough around the edges, but missing the weariness, the weight of a world collapsed.

You swallow hard, reality crashing down.

Of course he doesn't remember. Why would he? The universe isn't that kind. It gave you these memories—this curse—and left him blissfully ignorant.

"I'm sorry," you manage, voice barely above a whisper. "I mistook you for someone else."

A lie. A necessary one.

He studies you, head tilted slightly, brows drawn together. "Are you sure? You seem... familiar."

Hope flares, bright and dangerous. "Familiar how?"

He frowns, eyes narrowing as if trying to bring something into focus. "I don't know. It's strange, but I feel like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way his gaze lingers on your face, searching for something he can't articulate. A connection he feels but doesn't understand.

"Have we met somewhere before?" he asks, the question tentative, as if he's not sure he wants the answer.

Your heart constricts with painful clarity. In his eyes, there's no recognition of shared foxholes or whispered confessions in the dark. No memory of the night he told you, 

"You don't have to carry all that weight alone. We're in this together." 

No recollection of his final words, gasped between labored breaths,  

"I love you. I never... I never said it, but I do. Always."

Just polite confusion from a stranger who might have passed you on the street once.

"I don't think so," you lie again, each word like glass in your throat. "I'm new to Gwangju."

Another lie. You've been drawn to this city for months, pulled by something you couldn't name until this moment. Some cosmic thread connecting you to him, even across lifetimes.

"Ah," he says, nodding slightly, but the furrow between his brows doesn't smooth out. "Well, I'm Taesan. Han Taesan."

The name vibrates through you like a struck bell. It's confirmation of what your soul already knew—this is him. Reborn, remade, without the scars and traumas of a world that never happened in this timeline. 

"Nice to meet you," you say, offering your name in return. It feels surreal, introducing yourself to the man whose blood once stained your hands, whose weight you felt grow cold in your arms.

An awkward silence stretches between you, filled with the ambient noise of the station. Commuters brush past, announcements echo overhead, and somewhere distant, a train rumbles into motion.

"Well," he says finally, shifting his weight. "I should probably..." He gestures vaguely toward the exit.

"Of course," you say quickly. "Sorry for bothering you."

He nods, turns to leave, then pauses. "Actually," he says, turning back. "Would you like to get coffee together sometime?"

The question catches you off guard, leaves you momentarily speechless. This isn't how you imagined this encounter going. You'd prepared yourself for dismissal, maybe even suspicion or fear. Not... this.

"You don't have to," he adds, misreading your silence. "It's just—" He stops, seemingly embarrassed by whatever he was about to say.

"Just what?" you prompt gently.

He looks at you directly then, something indefinable in his gaze. "I can't shake the feeling that I should know you. It's probably nothing, but..." He trails off with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't usually do this. Ask strangers for coffee, I mean."

“It's too late. You know it is.”  

“No!”

“You should've stayed away from me. I'm not the man you think I am.” 

You blink away the memory, forcing yourself back to the present. To this Taesan, who looks at you with curiosity rather than shared understanding.

"I'd like that," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

His smile—genuine, unguarded—makes your chest ache. You've seen that smile before, but so rarely. In another life, smiles were precious commodities, rationed like water during a drought. This Taesan smiles easily, without the weight of survival pressing down on him.

"Great," he says, pulling out his phone. "Can I get your number?"

You exchange contact information, the mundane action feeling strangely surreal. In your past life, such normal activities had been rendered obsolete—no phones, no casual meetups, no easy exchanges of pleasantries.

"I'll text you," he promises, pocketing his phone. "There's a good café near here that stays open late."

"I look forward to it," you reply, and mean it despite the storm of emotions raging inside you.

He nods, seemingly satisfied, then turns to leave again. This time, you let him go, watching as he moves through the crowd with that same casual confidence, so different from the hypervigilant man of your memories.

As he disappears around a corner, you stand frozen, trying to process what just happened. The weight of your memories presses down on you—the apocalypse, the losses, the final, brutal moments of Taesan's life in that other reality. The gun in your hand. The decision you had to make.

"Taesan,"

"I'm so sorry."

One last look.

One last breath.

One last shot. 

You shut your eyes against the memory, the weight of it sinking into your chest like lead. When you open them again, the subway station is just that—bright lights, hurried commuters, distant echoes of announcements bouncing off sterile tiles.  

No groaning bodies.  

No blood staining the ground.  

No apocalypse.

Just you, standing in the present, shackled to a past that only you remember.

Your phone chimes, its soft ping a cruel reminder that the world moves on, indifferent to the wreckage it leaves behind.  

Taesan, still keeping a promise he never made, unaware of the price you paid to survive.

> Coffee tomorrow evening? 7 PM?

You stare at the words, as ordinary as they are devastating.  

In another lifetime, you held him as his body grew cold. Felt the life slip away from his eyes. Made the impossible choice to end his suffering before the world could claim him fully.  

And now, here he is, asking you for coffee.

The reply slips from your fingers with a quiet "Yes." But beneath that simple word, your heart shatters, a crumbling, jagged thing.  

Grief lingers like the taste of ash. Hope feels like an open wound.  

A lifetime of unsaid things stretches between you—memories that you carry, but he can never know. Memories that belonged to a world that has long since crumbled to dust.

As you step into the cold night, the city alive around you, you wonder if this is your penance—or your salvation. To be the only one who remembers what was lost. To carry the ghosts of a love that never had the chance to breathe, alone.

But maybe this is it.  

Maybe memory is your only salvation.  

Not to reclaim what was shattered, but to hold on to the possibility of something new, something free from the horror of the past.

In this life, Taesan doesn’t need you to be his shield.  

He doesn’t need you to carry the weight of his death in your bones.  

He just needs you to be here.  

The you who made it through the ruins, the you who dares to hope despite the wreckage.

The night air cuts sharp against your skin, the city sprawling endlessly beneath you. The lights flicker like dying stars, far too distant, too cold.  

Above, the real stars are silent witnesses to the story that only you know.  

Tomorrow, you'll meet him—this stranger who feels like home. A man who loved you in another life, but who won’t remember a thing.  

Maybe, if the universe owes you anything, you'll hear him say those words again—  

Not as a final confession, but as the start of something whole:

"I love you. Always."

And maybe this time, always won’t just be a fleeting echo. Maybe it will stretch into forever.

LEEHAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 18th century, coastal village

˖➴ PAIRING : marine ecologist!leehan x intern!reader

Leehan woke with a gasp, sheets twisted around his legs like kelp. The same dream again—drowning, but not afraid. Arms reaching for someone in murky water. A voice calling his name. And always, always that crushing sense of loss when he woke.

"Just a dream," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

But it never felt like just a dream.

The digital clock by his bed read 3:12AM—the exact time he'd woken every night this week. Outside his window, a full moon hung low over the city skyline, its light catching on the distant shimmer of the bay.

Leehan's apartment was fifteen miles from the ocean, but some days he swore he could smell salt in the air. Some days he caught himself staring at the horizon, as if waiting for something—or someone—to emerge from the waves.

His phone buzzed. A text from his supervisor at the marine research center:

> Don't forget we have a new intern starting tomorrow. I need you to show them around.

Leehan groaned. The last thing he needed was babysitting duty. He'd joined the research centre to study marine ecology, not to play tour guide. But the grant money was good, and the location—right on the coast, with its own private beach—was perfect for his research.

Even if being near the water made his chest ache with a longing so profound it threatened to hollow him from within.

The marine research facility gleamed in the morning sun, all glass and steel perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the bay. Leehan nodded to the security guard and swiped his key card, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder as he made his way to the main lab.

"There you are!" Dr. Kwon waved him over. "Our new intern is waiting in the tide pool room."

Leehan checked his watch. "They're early."

"Eager to start, I guess." Dr. Kwon handed him a folder. "Show them the basics, then get them started on cataloging the samples from yesterday's collection."

Leehan took the folder without enthusiasm and headed to the tide pool room—a sprawling space with shallow tanks mimicking the coastal ecosystem. As he pushed open the door, the smell hit him: salt water, marine algae, the particular mineral scent of shells. It usually calmed him, but today it made his heart race.

And he laid his eyes on you. 

You were leaning over one of the pools, fingers trailing in the water, completely absorbed. The morning light caught in your hair, casting a glow around you that seemed almost... iridescent.

Something ruptured inside Leehan's chest—recognition, fear, longing—so intense he nearly staggered backward. A tidal wave of emotion surging against the fragile shores of his composure.

"Hello?" you called, turning at the sound of the door. "Are you Leehan? They said you'd be showing me around."

Your voice. It was both foreign and achingly familiar. Like a melody from childhood he'd forgotten until this moment—the notes unchanged but somehow carrying the weight of years.

"I—yes," he managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "I'm Leehan."

You smiled, and the world tilted on its axis.

"Nice to meet you," you said, extending a hand. "I'm really excited to start working here."

When your fingers touched his, Leehan heard it—the sound of waves crashing against a wooden boat. The distant cry of seagulls. A laugh carried on salt-laden air.

"You were the best thing I ever found on the surface."

"Have we crossed paths before?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

You tilted your head, studying him with curious eyes. "I don't believe we have. But..." You paused, brow furrowing slightly. "You do seem familiar somehow."

Leehan released your hand, taking a step back. This was madness. He was acting like a lunatic over a complete stranger.

"Sorry," he said, trying to sound normal. "You remind me of someone."

"No worries." You smiled again, but this time, there was something hesitant in it. "I get that a lot."

Leehan cleared his throat, gesturing to the tide pools. "You seemed pretty comfortable with these already."

Your face lit up. "I've always loved the ocean. My parents say I could swim before I could walk." You laughed, the sound rippling through the room like water over stone. "I've been drawn to water my whole life. Weird, right?"

“Not weird at all,” Leehan thought, a chill racing down his spine like frost forming on glass.

"The thing is," you continued, turning back to the water, "sometimes I feel like I belong out there more than on land." Your cheeks flushed slightly. "Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous."

Leehan stared at you, unable to look away. Because it didn't sound ridiculous—it sounded like the words had been pulled from his own soul, a confession he'd never dared make aloud.

The tour of the facility took twice as long as it should have. Leehan couldn't explain the way he kept finding excuses to show you one more room, one more exhibit. Couldn't rationalize why talking to you felt like speaking a language he'd forgotten he knew.

By the time they reached the lab's private beach, the sun was high overhead, casting diamond-bright reflections across the water's surface.

"And this is where we do most of our field collection," Leehan said, his voice steady as he gestured to the pristine stretch of sand and tide-polished rocks. "The currents here carry in some unusual specimens—things you wouldn’t expect to find."

But you weren’t listening.

The wind had already tugged at your curiosity, the sea drawing you forward like it recognized you. You slipped off your shoes and stepped onto the sand, the grains cool beneath your feet, the scent of salt and sunlight filling your lungs as you walked—almost trance-like—toward the water’s edge.

"Be careful," Leehan called after you, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. A flicker of unease coiled in his chest. "The tide rises fast here. It catches people off guard."

You turned to look back at him, eyes glinting with mischief beneath the low afternoon light. A smile curved your lips—playful, knowing.

 "Relax, marine ecologist. I wouldn’t last a day without the sea."

The words hung in the air, too familiar.

“Relax, fisherman. I wouldn’t last a day on land.” 

Leehan stiffened.

They echoed somewhere deep in his bones, brushing against a memory that didn’t quite belong to this lifetime. A shoreline not unlike this one. A voice like yours, laughter caught on the wind. Those almost exact same words——spoken in another time, maybe even another world.

He couldn’t explain it, but they landed in his chest with the weight of something once lost and almost remembered.

For a moment, he just stared at you. And though he didn’t know why, something in him whispered: You’ve said that before.

"You should be careful. If anyone sees you—"

"They'll try to kill me? I know. Humans are predictable."

"Not all of them."

"No. Not all of them."

The memory—was it a memory?—vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Leehan disoriented and unsteady.

You had reached the water's edge, letting the waves lap at your feet. You closed your eyes, face tilted toward the sun, and for a moment—Leehan could have sworn he saw something shimmer around you, like scales catching light.

"Are you alright?" your voice broke through his daze. You were looking at him with concern, still standing in the shallow water. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Leehan blinked, trying to clear his vision. "I'm fine. Just... the sun."

You frowned, unconvinced, and started walking back toward him. But as you took a step, your foot caught on something beneath the surface, and you stumbled.

Leehan moved without thinking, crossing the distance between you in seconds, catching you before you fell.

Time ceased to exist.

Your eyes met his, wide with surprise. His arms were around you, holding you steady, and every point of contact burned with a strange familiarity that threatened to consume him whole.

"I would have chosen you."

"Do you hear that?" you whispered, not moving from his embrace.

Leehan swallowed hard. "Hear what?"

"I don't know. It's like..." you shook your head, struggling for words. "Like someone's singing, but far away. A lullaby, maybe."

Leehan listened, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the steady rhythm of the waves—a rhythm that seemed, impossibly, to match the beating of his heart.

"I don't hear anything," he said softly.

You stepped back from his arms, a flash of embarrassment crossing your face. "Sorry. That was weird."

"It's okay," Leehan assured you, though nothing about this felt okay. Nothing about this felt normal.

You bent down, reaching into the water where you had stumbled. "Look at this," you said, straightening up with something in your palm. "I think this is what I tripped on."

In your hand lay a small, weathered piece of metal. It looked ancient—green with patina and crusted with sediment. But as you turned it over, a shape became clear.

A crude, handmade harpoon tip.

Leehan's vision blurred, the edges of reality softening. For a heartbeat, he was somewhere else—somewhere cold and dark and desperate. He could feel rough wood beneath his palms, hear the screams of men, taste blood and salt on his tongue.

And arms—strong, unyielding—wrapped around his chest, dragging him back. He fought against them with everything he had, throat raw from shouting, but the grip only tightened. They were holding him down, keeping him from leaping into the chaos. From saving someone.

"It was always going to end like this, Leehan."

"Leehan?" Your voice pulled him back, anchoring him to the present. "You look pale. Maybe we should go back inside."

He nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat. As you guided him away from the water, your hand gentle on his arm, he noticed you were still clutching the harpoon tip.

"You should throw that back," he said, his voice rough with emotions he couldn't name. "It's just trash."

You looked down at the object in your hand, then back at him, a strange expression crossing your face. "I don't think I can," you admitted quietly. "It feels... like it's important somehow. Like it's been waiting for me."

Leehan wanted to argue, wanted to grab the rusted metal and hurl it far into the ocean where it belonged. But he couldn't explain that impulse any more than you could explain why you wanted to keep it.

As you walked side by side back to the facility, the sun glinting off the water behind you, neither of you noticed the way the tide had changed, pulling back unusually far from the shore—as if the sea itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Waiting for a story, centuries old, to finally find its ending.

Or perhaps its beginning.

You paused at the edge of the beach, turning back to gaze at the water one last time. The wind picked up, carrying salt and memories that belonged to someone else.

"By any chance…” you asked softly, "Have you ever grieved for something you don’t recall losing?"

Leehan looked at you, at the way the sunlight caught in your hair, at the yearning in your eyes that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to voice the ache that had followed him through endless nights of drowning dreams.

"Every day," he whispered. "Every single day of my life."

Something passed between you then—understanding, recognition, the first fragile thread of a connection that spanned lifetimes. As you turned together to walk back to the world of science and logic and things that could be explained, Leehan felt it—the subtle shift in his heart, like the turning of a tide.

Something lost was finding its way home.

WOONHAK 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : present day, with a twist of supernatural

˖➴ PAIRING : fighter!woonhak x highschool student!reader

The first time you met Woonhak, you had no idea just how much your life was about to change. It was late at night, and you were walking home from a study session, streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. That's when you saw them—three figures in the distance, their postures aggressive as they surrounded someone against the wall of a building.

Your instinct told you to walk away, to mind your own business, but something pulled you closer. As you approached, you could make out a man—tall with broad shoulders—facing down the group. Despite being outnumbered, he seemed oddly calm.

"Just hand over your wallet," one of them demanded, voice echoing in the empty street.

The surrounded man—Woonhak, though you didn't know his name yet—simply shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, his voice steady and controlled.

What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One of them lunged forward, but Woonhak moved with a precision that was breathtaking—a fluid sidestep, a redirection of momentum, and suddenly the attacker was on the ground. The others rushed him at once, but Woonhak's movements were practiced, efficient. He didn't even seem to be striking them so much as using their own force against them.

Within moments, all three had backed away, cursing as they retreated down the street.

You stood frozen, your legs barely holding you up as you watched him straighten his jacket. The silence that followed felt deafening.

Finally, you managed to speak, your voice betraying your awe. "That was... Where did you learn to do that?"

Woonhak turned to you, seeming to notice your presence for the first time. His expression softened as he met your gaze. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though there was something unreadable in his eyes—something that made your heart skip a beat.

"Just someone who knows how to handle himself," he said with a lightness that didn't quite match the intensity of what you'd witnessed. Then, his voice softened, his gaze never leaving you. "Are you okay? You shouldn't be out here alone this late."

You felt strangely drawn to him, despite the circumstances of your meeting. "I'm fine. I was just heading home when I saw... all this." You gestured vaguely at the now-empty street.

"I'm Woonhak," he said, extending his hand.

When your hands touched, something electric passed between you—a jolt of recognition that made no sense. His eyes widened slightly, and you knew he felt it too. For an instant, your mind was flooded with images: the two of you running through darkness, the gleam of silver weapons, creatures with glowing eyes, and blood—so much blood.

You gasped and pulled your hand away, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"Are you alright?" Woonhak asked, concern etching his features.

"I—" you started, then stopped, unsure how to explain. "Did you feel that?"

His expression shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, maybe—passing through his eyes. "Feel what?" he asked carefully, but something in his tone suggested he might know exactly what you meant.

"Nothing," you said quickly. "I should go."

You hurried away, heart pounding, but couldn't shake the feeling that something momentous had just occurred—like pieces of a puzzle you didn't know you were solving had suddenly fallen into place.

A few days later, you were working the closing shift at the campus library when you looked up to find Woonhak standing before your desk, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

"I need to talk to you," he said without preamble. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about our meeting."

As you walked together after your shift ended, he finally spoke the words that had been weighing on him.

"When we touched," he began hesitantly, "I saw... things. Things that couldn't be real, but felt like memories." He looked at you intently. "You saw them too, didn't you?"

You nodded slowly. "It was like remembering something I never experienced," you admitted. "You and me, but in some kind of... fight? Against creatures that couldn't possibly exist."

Woonhak stopped walking, his eyes serious. "What if they were real? Not here, not now, but somewhere else? Another life?"

"You mean reincarnation?" you asked skeptically, though the word felt right somehow.

"I've been having dreams since I was a child," he said. "Fighting monsters, protecting people. I always thought they were just nightmares, but lately they've been getting more vivid." His voice dropped. "And since I met you, I've been seeing you in them."

Over the following weeks, as you spent more time together, the visions became more frequent, more detailed. They always followed the same pattern—you and Woonhak fighting side by side against creatures of darkness. In these visions, he moved with the same precision you'd witnessed that first night, but with weapons that glinted silver in the moonlight. And you were there too, not as a bystander but as a fighter, your movements synchronized with his as if you'd trained together for years.

One evening, as you sat together in a quiet corner of a park, watching the sun set, a particularly vivid flash overtook you—a memory of standing in a dimly lit room, surrounded by ancient texts and weapons.

"We were hunters," you whispered, the realization settling over you. "In another life. We hunted... supernatural things. Together."

Woonhak's hand found yours, and instead of pulling away from the visions that contact triggered, you both leaned into them, allowing the memories to surface.

"We were good at it," he said with a small smile that felt both new and achingly familiar. "A team."

But as the memories became clearer, so did the shadow that seemed to hang over them—a sense of impending tragedy that coloured each recollection.

The final piece fell into place during a thunderstorm weeks later. As lightning cracked across the sky, you both experienced the same vision simultaneously—the moment when it all ended.

You were in an abandoned church, cornered by a creature more terrible than any you'd faced before. Its eyes glowed red in the darkness, its form shifting between human and something decidedly not. You remembered the fear, the certainty that this was an enemy too powerful to defeat.

Woonhak stood before you, his silver blade catching the moonlight as it filtered through the broken stained-glass windows. His silhouette looked too small against the monster looming in the dark, but his voice didn’t waver.

“Run,” he said, calm and certain, like it was the only answer. “I'll hold it off.”

You shook your head, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “No. No, I can't leave you.”

Your hands trembled around your weapon. But his didn’t. His never did.

“You’re safe,” he had once whispered in a world that no longer existed, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so tender it made your chest ache.  

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

That memory hit like a scream in a quiet room—loud, unwanted, real.  

The creature lunged.

But it didn’t go for him. It went for you.

Claws, long and gleaming with death, carved through the air.

And Woonhak moved.

Not like a soldier. Not like a hunter.

Like someone who had loved you across lifetimes.

“No!” you cried, the word torn from your throat too late.

He stepped in front of you, without hesitation, like he had always known he would.

The sound—the sound of claws meeting flesh—was wet and final. His body jerked. You saw the blood before you even understood where it came from. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even falter.

With the last of his strength, he drove his blade into the creature’s heart. They fell together—his body folding to the ground like paper, like it was never meant to hold that much pain.

You dropped beside him, hands reaching, grasping, praying.

“Please—please, stay with me—Woonhak—”

“Then we’ll fight together,” he had said before, firelight dancing in his eyes.

"You and me. Together.”

You pressed your hands to his wounds, but there were too many. Too deep. You couldn’t stop the bleeding. Couldn’t stop time.

His eyes, half-lidded and fading, still found you. Still managed to hold everything he’d never gotten to say.

“Live,” he breathed, voice barely a whisper.

"Find me again." 

Your fingers clutched his as his hand began to go slack in yours.

And in that moment, as his grip faded, another memory surfaced—soft and slow, like the last warmth before winter.

“Because... I don’t want to lose you,” 

“I don’t know when it happened, or why... but I think I’m falling for you.”

You blinked, but this time, your tears fell onto his bloodied skin.

 There was only silence.

A stillness so loud, it split your heart open.

In the present, you both sat in stunned silence as the memory faded, rain pounding against the windows.

"You died for me," you said, your voice barely audible above the storm. "In that life... you sacrificed yourself."

Woonhak's expression was solemn as he reached for your hand. "And I'd do it again," he said with quiet certainty. "In any life."

The realization of what you had been to each other—what you might be again—hung between you, too vast to fully comprehend.

"Do you think that's why we found each other?" you asked. "Some kind of cosmic second chance?"

Woonhak considered this, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I don't know if I believe in fate," he said finally. "But I do know that when I saw you that night, something in me recognized you. Not just from dreams or visions, but from somewhere deeper." His eyes met yours, and in them you saw the echo of countless shared moments across time. "Whatever we were then, whatever brought us together now—I'm grateful for it."

As lightning illuminated the room once more, you both understood that some connections transcended ordinary explanation—that souls could recognize each other across the boundaries of life and death, time and space.

"So what happens now?" you asked.

Woonhak smiled, that same reassuring smile you'd seen in both your present and your shared past. "Now we write a new story," he said simply. "One where neither of us has to say goodbye.”

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

perm taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh

[aventurineswife]

Okay I just had a funny idea, what if the trailblazer finds a cup of coffee, that cup of coffee belongs to the reader but everyone tells them not to try it and they do it anyway and immediately regret it, not because it's insanely bitter, but rather because it's insanely sweet. I got inspired by this TikTok https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT2DD9J1g/

“This Ain’t Coffee, It’s a Dessert”

Summary: The Trailblazer stumbles upon an unattended cup of coffee on the Astral Express and, despite multiple warnings from the crew, takes a sip. Expecting bitterness, they are instead met with an overwhelming sugar overload—because the coffee belongs to you, and your sweet tooth knows no limits. Now suffering from an extreme sugar crash, the Trailblazer learns a valuable lesson: never underestimate your taste in coffee.

Tags: Astral Express Crew x Reader, Platonic, Humor, Crack Fic, Fluff, Found Family Vibes, Trailblazer Suffering (Mild, Self-Inflicted), Coffee Disaster.

Warnings: Mild Caffeine Consumption, Excessive Sugar (Mentions of an absurdly sweet drink), Secondhand Embarrassment.

The Express was quiet. Too quiet.

Which, in hindsight, should have been the Trailblazer’s first warning.

They wandered into the lounge, eyes scanning for something to snack on, when they spotted it—an innocent-looking cup of coffee sitting on the table. No one else was around. The warm aroma of caffeine and something oddly… caramel-like filled the air.

The Trailblazer tilted their head. Just one sip wouldn’t hurt, right?

Right?

They reached out.

“Don’t do it.”

March 7th’s voice cut through the silence as she popped up from behind the couch, her usual mischievous grin replaced with something closer to amusement—and pity.

The Trailblazer blinked. “Why not?”

“That’s [Name]’s coffee,” Dan Heng said from across the room, not even looking up from his book. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Himeko, who had just stepped in, chuckled. “Oh, this will be fun.”

“Fun?” The Trailblazer furrowed their brows. “Come on, it’s just coffee. How bad can it be?”

Welt, sipping his own (presumably normal) coffee, sighed. “You won’t like it.”

At this point, the Trailblazer’s curiosity had escalated into determination. They ignored the warnings, picked up the cup, and took a big sip.

Silence.

March covered her mouth, eyes wide in anticipation. Himeko leaned against the counter, clearly holding back laughter. Even Dan Heng had paused mid-page.

The Trailblazer froze. Their brain short-circuited. Their tongue was drowning in liquid sugar.

This wasn’t coffee. This was a dessert in disguise. It was syrup with a hint of coffee. It was sugar in its final, most dangerous form.

They coughed. “What—what is this?!”

Himeko chuckled. “I did warn you.”

“This—this is pure sugar! I think my teeth are dissolving!” The Trailblazer shoved the cup away as if it had personally offended them. “How is [Name] still alive after drinking this?!”

March finally lost it, bursting into laughter. “Told you!”

Dan Heng shook his head. “They enjoy it. Somehow.”

Welt sighed, rubbing his temples. “You should listen when we give you warnings.”

Just then, the door slid open, and you walked in. You spotted your cup instantly. “Oh, hey! Has anyone seen my coffee?”

Everyone turned to stare at the Trailblazer.

The Trailblazer, still reeling from their near-death sugar overdose, slowly pointed at the cup. “You drink that?”

You blinked. “…Yeah? Why?”

March wheezed. “They tried it.”

You gasped. “Oh no. You poor soul.”

The Trailblazer groaned, slumping onto the couch as Himeko patted their shoulder comfortingly. Welt merely sighed again, and Dan Heng returned to his book, quietly muttering, “You brought this upon yourself.”

March grinned. “So… round two?”

The Trailblazer paled. “Never again.”

And so, they learned an important lesson that day: Never underestimate your taste in coffee.

[loveharlow]

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ PRETTY LITTLE BIRDS

JJ Maybank x Kitten!Reader [ more jj content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC ‧₊˚ [2.7k] Where your boyfriend just can't help how beautiful you are...or what you do to him

WARNING(S) & A/N ‧₊˚ slight dom!jj, slight sub!reader, sort of heavy smut, unprotected sex, scratching, biting, mentions of sex related injuries/blood, dirty talk, reader has jj's initial tatted on her, reader has abnormally sharp canines

YOU STIR SLOWLY, the afternoon sun a warm weight upon your eyelids. No memory clings to the moment sleep claimed you on the worn sofa of John B’s living room. Instead, the gentle press of fabric against your cheek and a blanket draped across you are the first whispers of awareness. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you rise, the material cascading down your back, a quiet groan your only protest.

"...'Mornin', sleepin' beauty." A familiar voice drifts from behind you. Unmistakable, belonging to none other than your own boyfriend.

"Mm..." You rub the sleep from your eyes, still half hunched over, one hand a steady anchor on the worn cushions. "Is it really morning or are you joking?" The question is a low murmur, thick with lingering slumber.

JJ simply chuckles, a warm sound in the quiet room, as he rolls a blunt on the far end of the sofa. His gaze, a silent caress, follows your form as you finally sit, stretching with a slow, luxurious grace. Unbeknownst to you, his hungry eyes trace the curve of your shoulder, the delicate valley of your back he longs to explore with the lightest touch of his tongue, and the tattoo. God, the tattoo drives him crazy.

What impulse had led you to brand your lower back with his initials, 'J.M.', surrounded in tiny, whimsical sparks? He had no idea. Yet, the sight of it stole his breath almost every time. Your untamed spirit was something he doubted he'd ever grow tired of. If he was honest, these spontaneous acts might just be the death of him.

He remains lost in his silent adoration until you turn, the plush blanket gathered around your hips, your still-sleepy gaze meeting his own, which remains fixed on the small of your back. He remains frozen, a half-rolled joint suspended between his fingers. "...J?" Your soft voice calls his name, and the sound alone sends a shockwave through him.

What did he do to deserve you?

Dragging his eyes from your lower half, his eyes meets yours. "Hm? What was that, mama?"

"The time...?" You reiterate, a delicate brow arching as you turn more fully to face him.

"Oh, right." He snaps back to the present, tapping his phone on the cluttered coffee table beside him. "It's only six, sun's goin' down soon." He tries to focus, completing the roll of the blunt and placing it on the ashtray. "You hungry? Kie dropped off some food."

You simply shake your head, a soft yawn escaping as you rise fully, stretching your arms above you, balanced on the tips of your toes.

JJ is forced to blink, to look away for a fleeting moment, otherwise his composure would surely crumble at the sight of you.

"C'mere." JJ's voice is a low drawl, shifting on the couch to widen the space between his outstretched legs. "Y'been sleep all day. I missed you..." He cooed as you drifted towards him, draping your legs over his, straddling him. His hands find your waist, then drift lower, softly cupping the curve of your bottom.

"...'M sorry, J." The words are a tired murmur, your voice still laced with sleep. One of his hands gently caresses the exposed skin of your back, ocassionally circling the slightly raised texture of your healing tattoo, tracing the 'J.M.' until it creates a clear picture in his mind. "You know I just get sleepy..." You apologized, leaning your head upon his shoulder, your fingers threading through his sun-kissed hair, lightly scratching his scalp. You tilt your face to look up at him, only to find his gaze already upon you, that familiar, adoring look.

"'S okay, pretty girl." He reassures, his hand moving to caress your cheek as your eyes meet. "I like watchin' you. You look peaceful."

You hum softly, shifting in his lap. "I am." Another yawn, revealing a hint of your unique smile, the one you dislike but he adores. He especially loves the way your sharp teeth graze his skin when you try to muffle your moans against his neck, or when you accidentally bite down on his lip while you're kissing like no one else is around. He loves every part of you. Yet, every part of you also ignites a fire within him. A junkyard of desires — images of everything he wanted to do to you, dreamed of doing to you, and things he'd already done. And your next words did nothing to help.

"All my dreams always have you in them."

It was as if you knew what you were doing, yet the innocence swimming in your wide eyes suggested otherwise. Here you are, still draped in the remnants of sleep, being an absolute sweetheart, and he can't get his dick to stand down.

"...I love you. Y'know that?" He whispers, his breath warm against your cheek as he traces its delicate curve.

A small giggle escapes you at his words, and you press yourself closer against him. "Yes. You tell me all the time."

"Mm." He hums against your ear. "You're beautiful. Do I tell you that all the time, too?" He presses, the hungry glint in his eyes intensifying.

"Sometimes..." You answer shyly, sensing the subtle shift in his demeanor. "...Mostly when you're fucking me, though."

His brows furrow slightly, his neck tilting back to look at you more fully as you lie nestled against him. "That's not true."

You knew it was a lie. JJ has made it his mission to remind you of the beauty he sees in you – not just in the bedroom, when he'd whispered in your ear or against your skin. He wanted you to know that you were his walking angel.

And now, with you straddling his lap, those large, sleepy eyes gazing up at him with such unwavering innocence, trust, and love – JJ felt his heart swell. And his desire, unbidden and insistent, stirs beneath his worn denim.

He cups your face in his calloused hands, his rough thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

"...I tell you every day," He murmurs, his breath mingling with yours as he pulls back just enough for his lips to still graze yours as he speaks. "Because it's true. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. My beautiful girl." A blush warms your cheeks at his words, and you dip your head shyly, but JJ will not allow it, tilting your chin back up with a gentle finger. "And I'm never gonna let anyone make you feel otherwise. Y'hear me?"

The possessive undertone in his voice sends a delicious shiver down your spine. You crave this fierce devotion, this unwavering declaration of your preciousness in his world.

"I love you..." You whisper, your hand trailing down his clothed chest, finding the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath your fingertips.

JJ's heart clenches, a sweet ache, as he pulls you to sit up, his gaze holding yours as you now hover above him, your hands entwined behind his neck. He draws you closer, your bodies molding together, and you cannot ignore the insistent pressure against your thigh. "I love you, too." JJ whispers, his tongue tracing his lower lip. "Every damn part of you..." He breathes, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving past your lips as if starved, desperate for the taste of you.

A soft moan escapes you, your tongue meeting his in a languid dance as you find yourself instinctively grinding against him. His arousal strains against the confines of his jeans, twitching with each subtle movement. Your fingers tighten in his sun-bleached hair as your own inhibitions begin to unravel. JJ's hands roam your body, a possessive exploration, his fingers pressing and kneading every inch of exposed skin.

The soft sounds of your lips meeting his fill the quiet room, the feverish exchange making the air thick with unspoken desires.

Finally, to your reluctant dismay, JJ breaks the kiss, only to quickly tug at the hem of your loose-fitting shirt, his desperation to feel your bare skin against his own a palpable thing. Simultaneous heavy breaths escape your lips as JJ yanks your shirt over your head and tosses it aside, using one hand with practiced ease to unfasten your bra.

His blue eyes sweep over your exposed breasts, his pupils dilating visibly. "Fuck." He sighs, his hands leaving trails of fire as they glide over your waist, rising to cup the fullness of your chest. "Look at you. Just perfect..." You arch into his touch. "Too perfect."

"J..." A soft whimper escapes you, your hips pressing against his as your fingers dig lightly into his scalp.

"Talk to me, baby." He coos, his head dipping to kiss your neck as he waits for your whispered desires. "What d'you need?" He murmurs against the delicate skin of your throat, his teeth grazing you lightly – an action that sends your head falling back, a stifled moan escaping as your hand grips the worn fabric of John B's couch.

"I need you." The words are a breathy plea, your head thrown back as tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Your sensitivity is a delicate landscape he knows intimately, and he never fails to explore every contour, every point of exquisite vulnerability.

"Good girl." He smiles against the crook of your neck. And before you can fully register the shift, a small yelp escapes you as he rises from the couch, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. He carries you down the narrow hall to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him before gently lowering you onto the soft mattress.

Your hair fans out around you on the pillow as you watch him above you, stripping away his own shirt before grasping your ankles and drawing you down towards the edge of the bed. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm as you watch him remove your shorts, tossing them carelessly across the room before crawling over you.

Your breath catches in your throat as his mouth begins a slow descent between your breasts, each kiss a burning brand, tracing a path lower until his lips hover just above the place that aches for his touch – his warm breath a tantalizing whisper against your most sensitive flesh. He looks up at you briefly, his blue eyes dark with lust, before his gaze returns, and he wastes no time burying his face between your thighs.

The moan that tears from your throat is involuntary as his mouth claims you. The warm, wet velvet of his tongue explores every hidden crevice, every delicate fold. The sounds of his devotion fill the small room with each flick and swirl.

It would not surprise you if the entire Cut could hear the strangled cry that escapes you as he slowly slides a finger inside, curling it within you, a gentle pressure before another joins it, their rhythm a slow, deliberate dance.

With each curl of his fingers, each tantalizing flick of his tongue, each gentle suction, you feel the slickness gathering beneath you, the tide rising, pulling you closer and closer to the precipice. The rhythmic contractions of your inner muscles must signal your nearing climax, too swift for his liking. Abruptly, the exquisite torment ceases, a frustrated groan escaping you as he pulls his face from between your trembling thighs, withdrawing his soaked fingers.

He balances on his knees above you, your naked form splayed out beneath him on his worn mattress. His hands make quick work of the last barrier, his shorts joining yours across the room. He settles between your thighs, his hands sliding beneath you, drawing you even further towards the edge of the bed.

He hovers above you, his length a stark promise, hard and slick with anticipation, a bead of precum tracing a path down your stomach. One hand wraps around your thigh, holding you captive, while the other takes hold of his desire, smearing the clear liquid over the smooth head and down the rigid length. His tongue peeks out from between his lips as he strokes himself above you, a heavy sigh escaping him before he stills, aligning himself with your yielding entrance.

"Hey," JJ's voice is a low, husky murmur. "Look at me." A command, gentle yet insistent, your eyes flickering between his and the place where you yearn to connect, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself in the storm of sensation.

A small, knowing smirk plays on his lips as you obey, your wide eyes filled with a raw longing. He leans down, his wet lips finding yours, a feverish claiming before he pushes into you, stretching you open around his thick form.

A gasp escapes you as the kiss breaks, the hand that guided him now cupping your face, your foreheads touching in a silent communion. He continues his slow descent, stopping only when he is fully sheathed within you. "Kiss me." He whispers, his breath warm against your lips, his damp hair brushing your face. "Kiss me while I fuck you stupid." He doesn't wait for your response, slowly withdrawing only to plunge back in, and you arch your neck, your lips meeting his once more.

JJ sets a steady, torturous rhythm, thrusting deep and hard, the worn mattress protesting beneath your intertwined bodies. The sounds of skin against skin, your escalating moans, and JJ's occasional guttural cries fill the small space. His pace quickens, a primal hunger driving him, chasing the shared precipice. He wants to witness your unraveling, to draw every last drop of pleasure from you.

With his increasing intensity, your control over your voice, over the tightening of your inner muscles, begins to slip away. Your hands find purchase on his back, the closer you drift towards your own release – one hand tangling in his sun-bleached hair, tugging with a desperate need that only fuels his fire, the other clawing at the smooth skin of his back, making his desire impossibly harder as he continues his relentless assault.

"There you go." He moans against your ear. "Let go, baby. You're okay." He coos, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, lifting you slightly as he sits up, pulling his face from yours to gaze down at you. "I got you." He whispers, fucking you onto himself.

Before you fully comprehend the shift, your back arches off the bed, a wave of pure sensation washing over you, your legs locking around his hips as JJ continues his relentless rhythm, riding the crest of your release. It is not long before his own climax approaches, his thrusts becoming impossibly faster, a frantic surge before he stills, buried deep within you, filling you completely.

You both gasp for breath as JJ collapses onto you, slick with sweat and the aftermath of your shared ecstasy. A deep sigh escapes you as you turn your hand, a warm, slightly sticky residue clinging to your fingertips.

"Oh, shit." A frown creases your brow as your eyes find JJ's back – a canvas of old and startlingly fresh scratch marks, the newest additions beading with tiny droplets of blood.

"It's fine." JJ mumbles against your chest, already aware of your silent remorse, the faint burning sensation blooming across his skin. You always feel a pang of guilt in the aftermath, seeing the tangible evidence of your passion.

"I'll try and stop..." You whisper, as JJ pushes himself up and off of you, rising to gather your discarded clothes from the floor.

"Don't." JJ says, tossing your garments into the wicker hamper by the door. "I like it. And I like that everyone else gets to see it." He smirks at you from across the room as you prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him. "Plus," He laughs softly to himself, pulling a pair of faded shorts up his legs and grabbing one of his clean t-shirts for you. "I like returnin' the favor." His eyes linger on the village of teeth marks and burgeoning hickeys adorning your neck and chest, a visible testament to his own fervent affections.

JJ Maybank Taglist & Kitten!Reader Taglist in replies!

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[hwaslayer]

the space between us three (jyh) | nine.

⇢series masterlist | series playlist

⇢summary: while juggling the demands of life, yunho continues to do his best to raise his independent 11 yr old daughter, seora. throughout the years, they've built a strong foundation, an unbreakable bond— one that consists of late night talks and food runs, father/daughter dates, and sideline cheerleading at her basketball games. so when you unexpectedly come into their world, things shift. despite the uncertainty and the fear of stepping outside of their comfort zone, yunho and seora eventually learn how to open their hearts and learn how to rebuild a home where three can thrive together.

⇢pairing: single dad!yunho x f. reader

⇢genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, single dad au | fluff, angst, smut

⇢word count: 4.4k

⇢chapter content/warnings: something a little light and soft for their comeback (hehe ty for waiting <33), kisses, affectionate moments, mentions of death, visiting eunha at the columbarium, very brief descriptions of the cemetery/columbarium/religion/death, some doubts especially from family members, overthinking, small tinder talk lol, a bit of a calm before the [small] storm 🥹

⇢a/n: also made this quick wooyoung piece in case you missed it! enjoy!

The next morning, you wake up to Yunho making coffee in your kitchen. He's back in his clothes from last night while working with your Nespresso machine. You turn a bit, pulling the sheets up while yawning— causing Yunho to shift his attention to you.

"Goodmorning baby." He takes two mugs in his hands before walking over to you, sitting on the edge of the bed as he hands you a cup.

"Hi." You sit up and wrap the sheets around your naked body, taking the fresh cup of coffee into your hands. The first sip is just what you need to wake up, to start your day off on the right note; along with Yunho by your side.

"How'd you sleep?" He kisses your temple before brushing your hair back affectionately. 

"Good. You?"

"Perfectly." He chuckles. "Why are you being so shy now?"

"Yunho!" You playfully scold him, continuing to sip your coffee.

"What? I'm just asking." He continues to look at you, causing the heat to rise to your cheeks. "You look so beautiful in the morning."

"Okay, I definitely need to get used to this." You giggle. "Thank you, Yu. You're too good to me."

"Nah." He lets out a little breathy laugh, free hand still lightly brushing your hair off of your shoulder. Caressing your cheek.

"So, what time do you wanna head out to the cemetery?"

"Mm." He looks at the clock on your nightstand. "Soon? I need to change and grab something from the house."

"What is it?"

"It's uh, Eunha's necklace. I wanna place it near her urn."

"Yeah, okay." You take a huge gulp of your coffee before setting aside on the nightstand before looking at him. "Let me go get ready." He nods, keeping his eyes on your bare back as you scoop your panties and clothes off of the floor.

"You can just walk over without it."

"Jeong Yunho." You at least throw on your panties and longsleeve before getting up to fix the bed. Yunho helps you on the side he occupies, grabbing your cup from the nightstand before asking you if you want more coffee or if he's good to wash the dishes. You shake your head, heading over to the bathroom to wash up and get changed. Yunho already washed up a bit this morning, taking the extra toothbrush you left him to brush his teeth and slapping some water to his face. You take a good 20 minutes to freshen up and change into a quick, comfy outfit consisting of leggings, a plain light grey pullover and an olive, long Nike quilted trench coat. You slip on some slouchy, crew neck socks before dipping into your white Nike P-6000's. 

"Yeah, let me get home so I can look decent." You snort at Yunho's comment while he eyes you up and down. Sooner or later, the both of you are headed out the door and off to Yunho's. The ride is silent, mainly because Yunho feels nervous. Scared, even. But, having you here makes it a lot less daunting.

It's nice how real it feels when he holds your hand.

He pulls up to his place, parking in his usual spot. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, mostly quiet.

Until—

"Oh shit." You say to yourself when you see your mom pop out of the house, noticing Yunho's car. You quickly unbuckle your seatbelt and dip forward to hide yourself when you see her observing a little harder than you'd like. "Yunho! Oh my god, that's my mom!" You harshly whisper and tug Yunho's arm. "Yunho!" He laughs.

"Baby, what?"

"She's gonna see me!" Yunho shakes his head and watches your mom trying to get a peek into the car.

"She won't. I'll distract her and I'll be quick, okay?" He laughs. "Wanna give me a quick kiss? She isn't looking, hurry, hurry, hurry—" He says in a strained but playful voice, causing you to smack him on the arm.

"Stop it! Go!" Yunho laughs again before stepping out.

"Yunho!" Your mom calls out.

"Morning!" He says, waving near his car.

"Who was that? Was that Seora? Is she hiding from her Auntie Love?" Your mom comes down the steps and Yunho shakes his head.

"No one. It's just me." He shrugs as he comes towards her, subtly blocking her from moving any closer to the car with his tall frame.

"I swear I saw someone in your front seat."

"Nobody." Yunho chuckles. "I have to go pick up Seora in a bit from Chan-mi's house. I just forgot to grab something I needed."

"Huh." Your mom says, making her tilt her head. "I know." She smiles. "You're seeing someone, aren't you?" Yunho's ears turn red and he shakes his head while laughing, slowly easing towards his door.

"I promise you, Auntie Love. There isn't anyone there." He checks his watch. "I gotta start heading out. We'll see you later?" Yunho jumps up the steps to unlock his door and rushes in, making your mom furrow her brows before getting back to her plants and flowers in the front yard. Yunho rushes into the house, straight to his room to change and grab Eunha's small necklace.

Seora had mentioned leaving it in her mom's niche eventually, and Yunho can remember the way her smile fell when it came up. And maybe she'll wanna do it herself, but he isn't entirely sure how she'd feel overall. He knows it's his fault for shielding her after Eunha passed, heavily based on his own feelings and not being able to accept his new reality.

Their new reality.

He walks into his room, quickly washing up and changing into something a bit more comfortable. He throws on some dark denim jeans, a hoodie and a jacket, ruffling his hair a bit with some water so it isn't too messy our out of place. He heads to his nightstand, letting out a small sigh when he finds the necklace shoved in the back of the drawer— something he purposely did because he knew he needed it for his own comfort, some sort of safety blanket, but he couldn't exactly look at it. He holds it in his hand, the necklace sparkling under the soft morning sun peeking into his room. He swallows the lump in his throat because he remembers having to take the necklace off of her; wanting to keep it as the last bit of Eunha that he had left. It has Seora's newborn foot print printed inside the lock.

Something he gifted her on her birthday as a token of his love, Seora's love, for her.

But, he was ready to reunite Eunha with her favorite necklace.

He lets out another breath when he carefully slips it into the pocket of his jacket, rushing through the house and back out the door. Your mom is still tending to her flowers and plants, but she's more distracted over the sick plants than Yunho's presence now. He gives your mom one last wave before slipping back into the car, noticing you're still bent down in hiding.

"You know she's busy tending to her plants, right?"

"You can never be too sure with her." Yunho laughs when he begins to drive off. You let out a small groan when you sit up, buckling your seatbelt as you sit back and finally relax.

"You could just.. tell her?" Yunho gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze that makes you chuckle a bit.

"I will. Just.. when the timing feels right. I know she loves you and Seora to death, but trust me, I don't think she believes in me enough to think that I could care for you and Seora." 

"Well, I beg to differ." Pause. "I do plan to open up to Seora about it, too."

"W-would she be ready?"

"I don't know, but I don't like keeping any secrets from her. In the end, I know she'd open up to you and warm up to you." 

"Hm. I hope so." He stays silent as he continues to drive off to the cemetery, also unsure of how things will play out. Not in your ability to care for Seora because he knows you'll do amazing, and you'll be able to give her the care and love she had been yearning for. You'll adjust beautifully.

But because of how Seora will react, your mom. All hurdles he knows that are inevitable.

He does a good job of keeping his worries on the down low, especially when he turns into the familiar entryway of the cemetery. It's been so, so long. Maybe since Eunha was placed in the columbarium niche, Yunho doesn't even really know. It feels like a blur because he's done all he can to avoid this place. 

Having you here really makes a difference.

Yunho parks to the side of the columbarium entrance. There's only one other car parked nearby, and the entire feeling is eery [as with any cemetery visit]. You look at Yunho when you find his eyes planted on the front doors, sliding your hand into his and giving it a good squeeze of reassurance. He responds with a very tiny, easy-to-miss toothless smile before walking in and leading the way. The columbarium is cold, and it smells lifeless. Though, the bright flowers and decorations on every niche give it a bit more color. He turns the corner at the end of the hallway before bringing you down another and doing a left turn. His steps slow when he approaches the small hallway with a window at the end, a glass painting of Mother Mary coloring the surface. Yunho plants his feet in front of Eunha's niche, and.. he doesn't say anything at first. 

So, you let him hold that space, give him time to process. You rub at his arm in a soothing motion before he gently lets go of your hand and unlocks the glass-front niche with his key. He grabs the framed photo of her, along with another photo of the two of them hugging toddler Seora.

"She's beautiful, Yu." You look at Eunha's picture, admiring the way Yunho looks at it with stars in his eyes. You can see Seora in the both of them, and it aches your heart knowing she didn't get as much time with her mom.

"That's Eunha." He looks at you with a soft smile.

"Seora is a good mix of you two."

"Yeah. I used to tell Eunha she was my twin, but I see remnants of Eunha in her the more she grows up." He lets out a breath before setting the photos back down inside the niche neatly, feeling a bit bad and guilty for leaving it so bare besides the two items. He's sure Seora will bring more life to it, though. "Eunha." He says, running his thumb over the surface of her urn. "I'm here. I'm sorry it's been so long." He digs into his pocket and takes the necklace out, laying it nicely along the bottom of the urn. "Brought you your favorite necklace." You softly smile to yourself, remaining silent to give Yunho his time with Eunha. "I promise I'll bring Seora next time. She's growing up so well." He chuckles a bit. "I see you in her more and more every day, and I know she misses you. She thinks about you all the time." He pauses.

You think he wants to save the rest for when Seora is with him. Or, maybe when he's alone. And he deserves that. He deserves that time and to sit in peace with her.

Yunho doesn't say anything else and continues to poke at the necklace before pressing his hand against her urn once more and shutting her niche close. Locked.

"Think we can sit here for a bit?"

"Of course. Whatever you wanna do." Yunho pulls up the two chairs nearby and you sit with him in front of Eunha. He takes another moment before he's diving into memories and stories he's shared with Eunha, and you can tell how much it still aches Yunho to have lost his bestfriend. You can't even imagine how it feels, and even as early as it is, you can't imagine losing Yunho like that already. It's too scary a thought.

But, the stories bring some comfort and you love that he's comfortable enough to share this with you.

He revisits the way they met, the way Eunha got pregnant early and how their family seemed to be against them. How they pushed through and persevered no matter how difficult it got. Seora. Enjoying time outdoors, trying to explore as much as they can in between working hard just to expose Seora to the world. Show her new things together. Their trips, activities. Crafts she'd do with little Seora.

He already touched on this before so he doesn't go into too much detail, just enough. Enough to be reminiscent of other stories, memories. It gives you and Yunho an extra 15 minutes with Eunha before Yunho is satisfied. 

"Alright. Ready?"

"You sure you're good?" He nods, standing and reaching for your hand. He bids his last farewell to Eunha for now, pressing his fingers to his lips before running it across the glass. "You okay?" You ask him softly, gently squeezing at his arm as you walk out side by side.

"Yeah. I feel a lot better, actually." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you for coming with me and for doing this with me. You have no idea how much I appreciate you for it." 

"Of course." You give him a smile before he kisses you again, this time on the forehead. He gives the small of your back a little tap before opening the passenger door to let you slip in. He lets out a small breath when he settles in the driver's seat, starting his journey back to your place to let you go for the day.

And he already misses you.

When you approach the familiar, narrow street and building, Yunho parks his car to the side before helping you out of the passenger's seat. He quietly walks behind you, hands dug deep into his pocket until you reach the door. You turn to him, a soft smile on your face as Yunho looks down at you.

"Thanks again for coming with me today, baby."

"You're welcome." 

"Any other plans for today?"

"Wonwoo texted me saying he wanted to come over. He said he'd buy me food if he can swing by."

"Can't go wrong with that." You nod.

"What time do you have to pick up Seora?"

"Whenever she texts me." He shrugs. "Which, she's very much in no rush to do." You chuckle.

"She'll come around soon." 

"Yeah." He says, wrapping his arms around you before dipping forward and kissing you sweetly. "I'll see you at work tomorrow? Wanna do our usual lunch dates?" You smile and nod.

"I'd love that." You tiptoe to kiss him on lips again, his large hands coming up to cup your cheeks. If it hadn't been for his phone, you wouldn't have pulled away— maybe invited him back inside. But alas, you rest your head against his chest as he continues to hold you and answers his phone.

"Speak of the beast." He jokes, making you chuckle. "Hey ace. You're ready now? That's surprising." He laughs. "Of course I miss you and want you home, I was just joking. I wasn't expecting you to call me so quickly cause you're usually attached to Chan-mi's hip." You slowly pull away and look at him, admiring his softness. His beauty. His kind, warm soul. "Okay, I'll be on my way." He ends the call, looking down at you with starry eyes. He kisses the tip of your nose before smiling, brushing your hair back. You love the way he looks at you. "That timing."

"Oh, you can always blame it on the timing." You laugh. "Get to Seora. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. Bye baby." He slowly steps backward while biting his lip. You slip into your place and wave before shutting the door close and texting your brother to come through.

It gets harder and harder to leave you.

But, Yunho can't wait to hang out with Seora for the rest of the afternoon. It always tugs on his heart strings when she's eager to get home to him so they can spend time together.

He can't wait until both worlds collide in the best possible way.

When Yunho leaves, Wonwoo pulls up to your place within the next 30 minutes. He's got a bag with two big bowls of black bean noodles, purely self-indulgent but you won't complain about getting free food [ever]. He plops himself next to you on the couch, slurping away as soon as he removes the lid from the bowl. He starts talking to you about the promotion he's getting, along with a separate surprise you were definitely not expecting [but you're happy for him].

The promotion you expected, yes. Your brother is always working so damn hard, being the team player that he is.

This other surprise, no. Because all he does is work and hang out with his boys doing whatever boys do. Travel, fish, camp.

"I met this girl on Tinder."

"You said what now? Since when were you even on Tinder?"

"Me and some of the boys decided to hop on for a week just to see how it is. See if there's any potential."

"Uh huh?" You raise a brow before taking another bite of your noodles. "So, how was the app in general?"

"Fine. Nothing too special. But, yeah. I met someone on there, and we got as far as exchanging numbers. Been texting every day. She seems cool. We vibe well and have lots in common."

"That's cute. What's her name?"

"Chaeyoung." You nod.

"So, what're you gonna do? Are you gonna take her out and see if it develops, or is this purely casual? Were you on there looking for something casual?" 

"I just put unsure."

"You can do that? That makes it worse!"

"No, it doesn't! At least I'm being honest about it, right? Besides, I can't really tell what's gonna happen right away. I just wanna keep myself open to the possibilities."

"Touché." You drink some of your Coke Zero. "So, back to the plan. What're you thinking about doing at this moment in time?"

"Yeah, I wanna kick it with her and see where it goes."

"Good for you, baby brother." He laughs.

"Aye, this doesn't let you off the hook. What's going on with you and Yunho now? Are you guys official?" You dig your fork into your noodles, shifting your attention away from your brother so that he doesn't see the small smile building on your face. 

"Yeah."

"Nice. I like him. I can tell he's a genuinely good guy." You nod.

"He is. And the best dad." You continue to look down, which triggers your brother to ask—

"So, what's the issue?"

"What? There is none." You bluff.

"You must forget how bad of a liar you actually are." He snorts. "Plus, you mentioned it at the club. Seora. Mom." He mimics you, making you roll your eyes.

"Well, it's true. I don't know how his daughter would feel, but I can't imagine she'd be happy about it."

"She'll just need time because she's young. She doesn't know how to navigate big changes properly yet."

"I don't know. I'm just scared, and I already feel guilty for changing the dynamic already."

"It'll be fine, I promise. Just don't rush her, and she'll be good over time." You nod.

"Then, you know mom."

"Yeah, I do." 

"She's gonna give me an earful and call me out. She's gonna say I don't know how to take care of a child, let alone an 11-year old that isn't mine."

"Don't worry about it. I'll talk to her when the time comes. You know she says things without thinking first. Once you knock a bit of sense into her, she'll step back and think."

"I guess so. We'll see how it unfolds. Can't say I'm not scared, though." Wonwoo nudges you playfully.

"You scared? Never." You laugh, always grateful your brother is there to remind you of who you are. "It'll all be okay. It'll play out the way it should."

"Yeah."

"For now, you're happy with him and you're solid. Take that. Keep going with it."

"I will." You give him a soft smile before laying your head on his shoulder, the energy more lighthearted when Wonwoo jokingly cringes and shrugs you off.

Speaking of Yunho, he's currently at the grocery store grabbing more ingredients for dinner tonight and running through the list he didn't get to since he spent his weekend with you. Seora is wandering around aimlessly, trying to slip in some snacks before her dad can reject her choice. She asked for steak tonight, which caught Yunho by surprise. Steak, mashed potatoes and some veggies specifically. She claims she saw it on the show last night and it made her crave it ever since. So, Yunho being the dad that he is, finds ways to deliver. He finds the juiciest cuts of steak while grabbing other ingredients to make the mashed potatoes from scratch, along with a mix of vegetables he can boil. When Yunho is heading to the checkout line, he notices how many additional items have piled into the cart— making him roll his eyes and laugh playfully as he checks out. During their ride home, Seora continues to tell him about her weekend with Chan-mi and how her parents are always so sweet to each other.

She says it almost reminds her of him and mom.

Yunho isn't sure how she remembers it so well, but who is he to say? She'll remember small, odd details like the shirt he wore on their camping trip a trillion years ago, or how she fell at the park and nicked her knee on that play structure when she was 3.

He thinks tonight'll be a perfect time to ask if she wants to go see her mom next weekend.

When they get home, they each shower and get comfortable for the evening— Yunho throwing on his usual hoodie and sweats before throwing down in the kitchen. Seora sits in the living room, finishing up some homework in between watching and conversing with her dad. She wants to be close to him even though she's a little distracted and is getting hungrier by the minute from the smell of the food being cooked. She watches her dad go to work in the kitchen, laughing when he animatedly reacts and tries to keep himself together [aka not burn the food]. 

"Dad, do you need help?" She asks while laughing, writing away for her homework.

"Nope! All good! Almost done."

"I believe in ya, champ!" She smiles at him before returning her attention to the TV. 

"Means a lot, baby girl." Yunho laughs. It isn't long before he's setting the food neatly onto a plate, wiping the sides down clean in order to present a picture perfect meal to his little one. He calls for her to come join him at the table, the TV still on as she shuts her notebook close and runs over. She gasps, taking a picture of the food before thanking her dad for the delicious meal tonight. They sit quietly at the table for a few seconds, saying grace before they dig in and enjoy their 5-star meal.

He watches carefully as Seora takes the first bite, nervous about how it tastes for her. But, her eyes glow in response and she claps in approval.

"Oh my god, this is so good! Thank you, daddy." 

"You're welcome." He smiles.

"Literally have the best dad ever."

"Yeah, you're spoiled."

"And you keep doing it!" He snorts.

"You're always gonna be my baby, how could I not?" She giggles.

"So, what'd you do this weekend? Is Uncle Hwa still in trouble?" Yunho cocks a brow up before slicing another bit of his steak.

"Uh, yeah. He is, and he will be for awhile."

"Ouuuu."

"That's why you shouldn't always listen to him and take his advice."

"I mean, he doesn't give me advice about that stuff."

"Good, he better not or I'll drop kick him." Seora laughs. "To answer your other question, I just.. hung out and did my own thing. Cleaned." He avoids contact and eats away.

"Huh. Nothing at all?"

"Nope."

"Why didn't you do the groceries?"

"I knew you'd have a request so I waited."

"Hm." She tilts her head. "What's that on your neck?" Seora peeks into his hoodie, making him shy away from his daughter.

"Excuse you, what's with the questions? Is this how you show your affectionate for me?" He furrows his brows at her. "It's a rash." He tugs and fixes his hoodie.

"Please. Kinda gnarly for a rash. Looks like a hickey."

"Don't please me." He scoffs a bit with laugh.

"You never get rashes."

"There's a first time for everything."

"You're so suspect, dad."

"I'm suspect?" Yunho cocks his head to the side, eyeing her. "How do you even know what a hickey looks like?"

"TV shows, movies?"

"The hell are you watching without me?" Seora snorts.

"Goodness, what do I do with you?" Yunho shakes his head.

"You aren't supposed to know that." The two look at each other— Yunho's brows furrowed, Seora with an amused smile. "Anyway, no. I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Like, that? That kind of talk? Hickey talk?"

"No! Stop." He waves his hand. "Stop right now. Stop saying that. You're too young and this isn't what I wanted to talk to you about. Hell, as a matter of fact, let's quickly settle on this now. I won't give you that talk until you're 30." Seora laughs.

"Okay, jeez. Calm down, I'm kidding!" She surrenders. "What did you wanna talk to me about?"

"How've you been feeling?"

"About?"

"Just life, in general."

"Fine."

"No, seriously."

"Dad, I just told you." She chuckles, a bit confused as she pokes into her mashed potatoes and takes a big bite.

"Give me more."

"Mm." She hums again. "Well, school is good. I've been getting good grades, right?" She points to a copy of her latest report card on the fridge. "Basketball's good, I have a good feeling about this playoff run."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm! Friends are good. You're good. We're eating steak and mashed potatoes. I dunno, I can't complain."

"You don't feel like you're lacking anywhere?" Yunho doesn't really know where he's going with this— hence, why he keeps avoiding some contact. Maybe he wants to hear Seora say she wishes she had her mom, or even a motherly figure to do things. Some kind of window to talk about you.

"Not really, no."

Maybe he shouldn't.

There's nothing wrong. Seora doesn't feel like she's lacking anywhere. Why would Yunho do anything to ruin that right now?

He'll just rip the bandaid off at some point. He will. Not now.

"Okay then."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am. As long as you are." She nods, continuing to eat. "Got another question for you."

"Shoot!"

"Do you.. wanna go visit your mom next weekend?" Her eyes light up, but she tilts her head. Almost like all of this is unreal.

"Y-you mean it? You're really gonna take me to see mom?" Yunho nods.

"Yeah."

"Okay." She smiles. "Yes please. I'd like to see her. I.. made some small decorations for her. Hoping I'd get to put it near her urn."

"Then, we can go decorate it together."

"I'd really like to."

⇢taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @nopension @curse-of-art @thechaotictheoryy @likexaxdaydream @dalsuwaha @enha-stars @yasuraokaa @professormingisglasses @yunyunrin @pommelex @astral-trashcan @laura1399 @domfikeluva @tournesol155 @hwaskookies @yusalterego @hwa-stars @hyukssunflower @chngbnwf @jaytheatiny @lucid-galaxys-world @chaotic-floral @sofkloster @honeyrecommends @hwashua-luv @luvv4bby @spicxbnny @pandyandy71 @sanniesaurus @angel-hyuckie @wolviejex @purpleyou7x @honeyhotteoks @woovalin