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coriihanniee · 1 month ago

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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

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brokenengene · 22 hours ago

Text

not safe for work {track one}

pairing: producer! jay x pop star! fem reader

genre: american music industry au, romance, urban contemporary, coming of age/self-discovery

summary: Just one take. That's all your new producer asks of you. Each harmony that leaves your lips brings you closer to a line you shouldn't cross. Soon, he's not just hearing your voice on the demos; it's in his ear, moaning his name. And both of you know that actions always come with consequences.

This content is only for readers 18+

content warnings: cursing, mention of drugs (weed), making out/kissing, explicit sexual content, suggestive content, toxic work environment, exploitation in the music industry, mild objectification, manipulative behavior, mild angst, alcohol usage

chapter specific warnings: oral sex (f receiving), fingering, mirror play, voyeuristic undertones, praise kink, soft!dom jay, protected sex (yay!), strong language, emotional vulnerability, crying during sex, anxiety/self doubt/insecurity, aftercare (double yay!), brief mention of cheating

word count: 9.9k

soundtrack: muse-partynextdoor/ come thru- summer walker & usher/ talk 2 u- brent faiyaz

'demo_01 : not by your side'

Ever since you were a little girl, it was your dream to be on stage. Whether it was open mic karaoke or your middle school theater production, you always had to be dragged away from the microphone. Music was your everything.

It was more than just an escape for you. It healed. But now it feels like it could be the very thing that breaks you apart.

The city is vibrant and bustling like always. The vivid lights mix with the sound of cars rushing through the vast center of the city. That's what you loved so much about it, the city was awake at night and so were you. You thrived on that. From years of experience, you know the best ideas come to you at night.

You check your wristwatch for the time as you drive and weave your car through the narrow city streets. 11 pm it reads.

You turn up the radio and crack the windows, the faint smell of weed hits your senses as you navigate through the chaos. The studio isn’t far from your condo, but you always take the long route to fit more songs into your commute.

You turn right off the main road and into the parking garage of the studio. You back your car into your designated parking spot and take the elevator up.

Your younger self wouldn't believe you were here. Keycard access, your name on the door with your own equipment inside.

With habit, you make your way through the building's security screening. The skyscraper is massive, with floors upon floors of rehearsal rooms, recording studios, and offices.

You take the elevator to the 10th floor labeled “Dreamscape Records” You step out of the elevator and stop by a large window, briefly peering at the lively city beneath you.

You walk through the dimly lit and near-empty halls. Hardly anyone comes to the studio at this hour, but you prefer it that way. Less distraction, less noise.

You step in front of a door labeled with your name. You punch in the four-digit code on the door before pushing it open. Your backpack falls to the ground as you swiftly turn on the lamps scattered around your dedicated space, anything besides those overhead fluorescent lights that are sure to give you a headache.

With a sigh, you lie back in your chair. You take out your laptop and notebook and set them up on the table next to all your new equipment. You open the notebook, scribbling a few more tasks onto your never-ending to-do list.

Since being under contract with Dreamscape Records, singing hasn’t been the same. It's all deadlines, shitty producers, overbearing managers. It's like you never have time to just be you anymore. Some days it feels like you're always performing, and creating for the charts, not for your own heart.

But this is what you wanted, what you dreamed of, and you are determined to make it work for your own sake.

Your phone buzzes as a notification illuminates the screen. You glance at it, opening the text.

Luke (manager) [11:30 pm] Are you going to be at the studio tonight? You[11:31 pm] Yes, I'm probably gonna be here a few more hours. You know my work always comes out better with no distractions. Luke(manager)[11:32 pm] I know this is short notice, but that new producer we talked about just landed, he’s blowing up my phone, itching to get working already. I told him he could stop by and meet you. His name is Jay Park, you might not have heard of him before, but his work is incredible, y’all will hopefully make a good team. You[11:35 pm] Thanks for the heads up. I'll keep an eye out for when he comes around. Luke(manager)[11:36 pm] No worries. Don’t stay up too late. We'll talk more tomorrow.

You let out a deep sigh as you lock your phone. The black screen reflects your stressed appearance right back at you.

Jay Park, you repeat to yourself. Doesn't ring a bell, but you can't tell if his dedication to get straight to work is admirable or if he's got a really big ego like the other men in this industry.

You open up your notebook. It's a mixed-up mess of journal entries, lyrics, and anything you need to get out of your head and onto paper. This very notebook is the reason you're even sitting in the Dreamscape Records building at this hour.

You were scouted singing at a shitty bar downtown a few months ago. The bar totally wasn’t your style, but you pushed through and made it work, and it seems to have paid off so far.

The sound of pen on paper fills the empty room as you write. Finding any space and filling it with your thoughts and feelings. It’s therapeutic, feeling like a physical release of all the pressure.

Your train of thought is interrupted when you hear a knock at the door. It’s got to be that new producer that Luke told you about. You stand up from your work desk to unlock the door.

A man who appears to be in his early twenties stands in the doorway. His hair was tousled, and his attire was comfortable. He looks like he just walked off a plane. You didn’t expect him to be so young. Young and attractive at that.

Your breath catches as you notice the way his messy, dark hair complements his golden skin. The way his tired eyes sparkle in the dim light.

He smiles as he looks at you. His breath catches in his throat as he sees you in person for the first time. Breathless, he speaks up softly.

“I’m Jay Park..I talked to management, they should’ve told you I was stopping by.” He says a little too enthusiastically for someone who just stepped out of the airport.

“Oh yeah! It’s nice to meet you, come on in.” You say as you step to the side to let him into your intimate space. He looks over the small square room. Decorated with lamps and other keepsakes. A small diffuser puts off a comforting scent, while the screens from music equipment produce an illuminating glow.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Jay compliments as he pulls the second office chair up to yours. He sets his bag down on the floor and swiftly pulls out his laptop.

“I–well, um thank you..” You reply casually as you lock the door behind him before taking your spot back at your desk. God, why is he making you so flustered? Your notebook is still open to a page of visible scribbled madness.

“You're a night owl, too?” You ask as you twist your pen in your hands, trying not to feel nervous around your new coworker. You glance through your peripheral vision as he immediately gets to work on his laptop.

“Yeah, I work better at night, less noise, less distractions.” He says as he flashes you a soft, charming smile.

“I feel the same, I always get the best ideas at night. I’m lucky they let me stay here this late.” You say trying to casually continue the conversation.

“Sounds like we’re gonna make a good team.” He says truthfully. There's a slight pause, you catch him glancing into your eyes before he gently shakes his head.

“So what have you got so far for this album?” He asks, prying his eyes away from the laptop screen to give his full, undivided attention to you.

You’re slightly nervous as you reply. Partly because it’s your first time meeting Jay, but also because the way he’s glancing at you sends a rush of heat down your spine.

“Well, Luke and I have been discussing what the label wants, and they want a star, they want innocent pop hits and a marketable face, so I’ve been trying to slash something out,” You say as you look at the lyrics roughly jotted down on the paper. You furrow your brows, biting the back of your pen with your teeth.

You push the page towards Jay, letting him scan over what you’ve written. His face contorts with focus. He scans over the lyrics, basic, uninspired, safe. “It’s not bad, but I’m just going to be honest, it’s a little bland...” he critiques softly.

You flush, visibly nervous at the new man in front of you and the fact that he’s not exactly impressed with your work. Jay lets out a soft breath before he turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers on your eyes, on your lips. He opens his mouth to speak. “You don’t seem like the type of girl who writes music that gets played in grocery stores.” He says softly under his breath, his gaze still locked on yours.

Your eyes widen. What exactly does he mean? You watch as he slides closer. Bringing his laptop along as well so you can see. “Listen to this and see if this is more…you.”

Jay says as he bites his lip. He slides his headphones from around his neck and gently places them on your head.

You’re a hot mess as his fingertips brush against your skin. Dammit, why is he making you react like a teenager? You take a deep breath to calm yourself as he hits the space bar on the computer. Jay sits back in his chair, arms resting behind his head as he watches your reaction with a smirk.

The music fills your ears. The beat is new and different. Like a breath of fresh air after what you went through with your past producers.

The music continues to flood your ears. You close your eyes, letting your mind drift. You subconsciously hum along to the beat. Your voice fills the otherwise quiet room as you savor the rhythm. It’s sultry, it’s intense, it’s sexy and mature, and you love it. You can't hold back a smile as you hum a melody to the sultry sound.

You take off the headphones as the song comes to an end. You glance at Jay, watching you with a smirk on his face. “What’d you think?” He asks calmly.

“God, I love it…you’re a talented producer. It was so raw, so different from what I usually write.” You say, biting your lip as you process the demo he just shared.

“You have such a gorgeous voice. It was sexy, sultry—Those pop songs, they kill your potential,” Jay says as he continues to watch your expressions.

“Wow, thanks, I mean I know my voice, but I don’t really know how to use it.” You say breathlessly as you take the notebook, flipping through the pages again.

“May I?” Jay whispers as he watches you flip through the journal. You’re heart stops, and you hesitate. The notebook was never really meant for any eyes besides your own. You’re not sure yet exactly how you feel about Jay, but he looks at you like he wants to understand you.

You cave in. “Just try not to judge too hard.” You say with a forced chuckle as you slide the notebook in front of him. You’re cheeks flushed hot as he skims through the worn pages.

He flips through your notebook, dark eyes scanning over lyrics, half-written hooks, written crash-outs, and confessions.

“I sink down on your heat, I don’t want to leave, Hands-on my knees, everything I need, Let me give you a ride before you’re gone for the night, Only to wake up in the morning, not by your side.”

“Wait, I like this…” Jay says breathlessly as he grabs his blue-inked pen, messily scribbling and writing down his thoughts over the top of your written black ink.

“Oh! That..um, management would never let me produce anything like that, so I just scraped it.” You say bluntly as you watch him flesh out more of the song.

“Have you ever tried to record it before? I just know you’re voice will sound heavenly over this...”

Jay says his voice completely breathless with awe as he scans the lyrics again. As you gaze at him it’s like you're visibly watching the gears turn inside his head.

“No, I just... was having one of those nights and drafted that out—” You reply lightly in response, the lyrics on the page making your cheeks and ears burn with intensity.

“What if we made a demo, like tonight...using this..” Jay whispers as his fingertips gently trace the spine of your notebook like it's some kind of special artifact.

“Jay I can’t—If I record songs like this they’ll be on my ass. I’ve got to keep it professional, got to keep it surface level,” you say, your voice shaky as you feel like your heart is starting to crush from the pressure.

“You wrote this about someone, didn’t you?” Jay interrupts, your breath catching in your throat as he calls you out.

“Doesn’t matter. Songs like this don’t sell, I’ve already been told—“

“What happened that night?” Jay asks firmly. His hand gently slid across the table, his fingers barely brushing against the skin of your own. His eyes glance you up and down as he waits for your response.

There’s a moment of silence before you suck in a deep breath replying.

“It just wasn’t meant to be...we kept meeting up in secret. I knew the label would kill me if they found out, but that night I had a gut feeling that it was the last time we’d ever fuck and I was right. I woke up in the morning to a cold bed alone. After giving him everything.”

Jay can hardly breathe as you tell him exactly what inspired the lyrics. He shakes his head, chuckling softly with disbelief.

“That’s what makes great music. Experiences, feelings, emotions not looped choruses, charts and streams.”

“This is the real, unfiltered version of you,” Jay says as he turns back to the laptop, pulling some more demo tracks and half-finished beats from his library. “Just imagine what that version of you could do,” Jay whispers almost to himself.

Jay goes back and forth between the computer and your notebook. You watch almost in awe as he makes everything look so effortless.

“Screw safe...let’s lay this down right now, just for tonight. No pressure. You don’t have to show it to management or anything. I’m dying to hear what that voice can do when you’re not caged.”

Caged..he described it perfectly. That's exactly how this whole album production process has felt. You glance at the notebook and then at the microphone. Heart hammering in your chest with fear, but also with excitement. Excitement to try something new, to create something raw and real.

“Let’s do it”

Your fingertips reach for the microphone. Jay signals a countdown from three. Shortly after, the music starts to fill your headphones. You glance at the notebook, one more time, before you start to sing. The lyrics spill from your tongue effortlessly.

You don’t even have to look at the page. The memories flood back. The way he touched you, the way he felt inside you, the way your heart dropped when you woke up and he wasn’t there.

You close your eyes, voice shaking as you tumble through the notes, you softly wipe a few tears from your cheeks as the song comes to a close. You’re shaking, partly because you re-lived the memories through the lyrics and partly because, for the first time, you finally let go and let yourself feel.

Jay looks at you in awe. Your glassy eyes meet his as you slide the headphones off your head and set them gently on the desk.

“That was incredible..you’re incredible..” Jay says his voice is soft and intimate. You feel a rush of heat in your chest from his words.

“Thank you.” You whisper. Your voice shakes as a few more silent tears fall down your face.”

Jay notices. His expression is soft as he leans closer, gently wiping them with his thumbs. You can smell the faint remnants of his cologne, a soft amber blended with notes of vanilla.

The two of you don’t speak. It’s silent as he softly caresses your cheek with his hand. It’s comforting, you almost want to lean into his warmth, but you stop yourself.

Jay pulls away after a moment, nervously clearing his throat. You swear that his cheeks were flushed as he looked back over at his laptop.

You glance at the clock on the wall. 2 pm. You let out a deep sigh, glancing at Jay tweaking some parts of the demo on his computer.

“It’s getting late I should probably head out.” You say softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re probably right..” Jay says as he continues to adjust the layers of the song on his computer. The sound of his mouse clicking can be heard in the silence as he keeps replaying that one lyric he can’t get out of his head.

“Let me give you a ride before you’re gone for tonight…” Jay glances at you as you pack up. His gaze lingers on your figure. He bites his lip, his voice dropping low.

“Is that an offer?”

You let out a nervous chuckle, face flushing with heat as you shove your notebook into your backpack.

“I mean, technically it’s more of a metaphor, you know, for the feeling of—"

Jay lets out a playful laugh that makes your heart race. “Well, if you ever want to change the ending to that song, here’s my number. You know where to find me.”

Jay says as he slips a piece of paper into your hand with his personal phone number scribbled on it. He glances at you softly, letting his fingertips linger on yours before he slips out the door.

“Drive home safe, I can’t wait to see what else we can come up with together,” Jay says, flashing you a charming smile before slipping out the door into the darkness.

...

You jump awake to the sound of your less-than-pleasant alarm. Shit…you set the wrong time, again. You throw the covers off your body and rush to the bathroom to try and make yourself look as presentable as possible.

You run down the stairs in your condo parking lot, backing your car out of its designated spot without even looking. This time, you take the shortcut, the engine rumbling as you swiftly weave in and out of traffic. You know Luke is going to give you a scolding for being late, and you start praying he won't take away your nightly studio session privileges.

“Sorry, I'm late!” You exclaim as you barrel through the halls, adjusting your hair and clothes. Your backpack hangs open on your shoulders. As you open the door to your room, you're met with the silhouettes of two men deep in conversation already.

“Nice of you to finally show,” Luke says as he turns around, his eyes raking up and down your less-than-professional appearance. Luke is far from impressed.

“Sorry, I just set the wrong alarm. I don’t really—” You start before you're roughly cut off by Luke’s frustrated voice.

“This happens again and you lose after-hours privileges, got it? Luke says firmly leaving no room for rebuttal.

“Yes sir, I apologize.” You say as you make your way over to the desk, flashing Jay a nervous smile in the process. You start to unpack your notebook, your laptop, and an energy drink you pulled from the fridge.

“Now, since I have both of you here. I'm sure you know you are on a tight release schedule. With the summer season coming up, we need to get your voice out there if we want a number-one hit from you."

"The higher-ups have a pre-release single scheduled for you to drop two weeks from now. I don’t care that Jay just got here or that you don't have any demos finished yet, that single will be dropping in two weeks, no exceptions.”

You watch shock flash across Jay's expression as Luke gives you the rundown of what's expected. Two weeks? That's not nearly long enough to craft something meaningful.

“And you...” Luke says as he whips his head around, eyes narrowing as he locks his eyes on yours. “You know what's expected, and remember your contract is on the line. Don’t make me regret choosing you.”

And with that Luke is out the door, slamming it and leaving the room silent.

“Two weeks?” Jay says running his hands through his messy dark hair as he paces back and forth. “That's not enough time to make something worthwhile.” He says putting his head in his hands with frustration.

“Well, it's not like we have a choice. This is just how management is here.” You say as you flip through your notebook again, the memories from last night already are starting to come back to you.

“The demo from last night..what if we just tweaked it a little and turned it in under an obscure name? They won't know what hit them.” Jay says as he steps closer to you, both of you visibly frustrated under the pressure.

Jay’s hand gently cups your face, his fingertips lingering on your skin as he steps closer. Your back hits the edge of the desk as he uses his free hand to cage you in.

“It would ruin my image if I put out a sex song. People would be furious, just imagine the hate I would get online.” You say softly, your eyes half-lidded from the oversleeping as you glance at Jay’s expression.

“What if those people aren’t your true audience? If you want to make an impact, you've got to take risks. Sure, it might make the studio a quick buck right now, but if you want to make music that you're proud of, I'll be more than happy to stand up for you.”

You pause, breath catching in your throat as Jay's warm hands gently trace mindless patterns into your cheek. You can't forget the feeling of recording the demo last night. How good it felt just to feel the lyrics and relive the inspiration even though it was painful. For the first time, your music didnt feel like a product.

“I’ll do it, Jay..” You whisper, the smirk on your lips not slipping past him.

Jay lets out a breath he didnt know he was holding. His forehead falls to meet yours. “God..” he whispers, his breath so close to yours you could almost taste it. You catch another whiff of his cologne the traces of dark amber and vanilla make your head spin.

Hours go by as the two of you record more layers and tweak the sound of the track. It almost feels natural the way you two work together. You’re deep in thought when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You stop to check the message.

Luke(manager) [5:55 pm] Send me what you have completed from the demo before 7 pm, no later. You [6:00 pm] No problem, I’ll send it over asap.

“Guess this is it.” You say to Jay as he saves the demo, titling it

"demo_01 : not by your side. "

You’re fingertips are practically shaking as you load the file onto an email to send to Luke. You let out a shaky breath as you click send.

“Hey, remember, whatever happens, I’ll be here to back you up, okay?” Jay looks into your eyes, he gives your hand a soft, comforting squeeze before he turns to start packing up his things for the day.

“Thank you, Jay, really, for everything..” You reply softly as you stand up from your chair and turn to do the same. You pack your laptop back into your bag and throw away the empty can of your energy drink.

Jay steps out the door and you follow shortly, turning off the lights and locking the door before you ride the elevator back down to the parking garage.

You stay on high alert as you walk in the dark towards your designated parking spot. Your car is messily parked between the lines, reminding you of the rush you were in this morning.

You unlock the door, tossing your bag of supplies into the passenger seat before fidgeting with your keys. You put the key in the ignition and turn it.

“What the fuck..” You mutter under your breath. You take the key out and try to turn it again, only to be met with more clicking sounds.

Fuck. The battery is dead, this can't be happening...

You groan as you hear the engine roar of a sports car echoing in the parking garage. You keep your head down as you listen to the car slow to a stop. The engine rumbles, and you hear the sound of a car door.

Great just what you need, to be bothered while you’re stuck in the vehicle with a dead battery.

“Hey, everything ok? You didnt respond to my text..”

Jay.. You hear his voice over the deep rumble of the engine of his car. You step out of the car, meeting him in the darkness of the parking garage.

“I think my battery is dead, I must’ve left a light on or something while I was in a rush this morning.” You say with a weak chuckle as you try to rub some of the tension from the back of your neck.

“Would you like a ride home? I really don’t mind.” Jay offers. “But if you're not comfortable, I don’t mind calling you and Uber—”

“I don’t live far, there’s no need to call an Uber.” You say kindly as you accept his invitation. You grab your things and hop into the passenger side of his car.

You can feel the vibration of the car engine beneath your feet as Jay exits the parking garage and starts to skillfully glide down the narrow city streets. The ride is mostly silent until the car slows to stop. Jay reaches over the dashboard to gently turn the music up, easing some of the tension. You look out the window, admiring the lights of the city at night.

“You know that line in the demo about waking up to an empty bed? I’ve felt that too,” Jay says, his voice barely above a whisper breaking the silence.

You tear your gaze away from the window, your eyes scanning over how he looks flushed in the red light. His eyes are a little tired, and his dark hair falls into his eyes.

“There was a girl I was with, I thought things were going well, we went on a few dates, I picked her up, brought her flowers the whole shebang,” Jay says his voice catching in his throat with emotion as he continues.

“And one night I took her out and things were going extremely well, she invited me in and well, we ended up fucking. I thought I was something special.” He says his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he continues the story.

“We woke up in the morning, tangled up in each other, God, you know how good that feels. But something was off, she checked her phone, and then told me I had to leave. I was so confused, but I figured maybe she needed space after everything."

Jau chuckles weakly as the memory replays in his mind.

"As I was leaving her place, another guy came down the hall and went straight for her apartment. Figured out she was cheating on him with me.” Jay says his voice is shaky as he pulls into the parking garage of your condo building.

“Oh my God...I can't even imagine how that feels.” You say softly as he puts the car in park and the two of you sit together in comfortable silence. After a few tender moments, you speak up, your voice cutting through the quiet, “You don’t deserve that, Jay..”

“I know exactly how you felt when you wrote those lyrics. The betrayal, the hurt, the longing.” He says his voice cracking as he turns to look at you in the darkness of the car, his hand resting on the gearshift as he looks into your eyes, his eyes briefly glancing at your lips before looking away.

“The longing but still missing the connection, and still missing the sex..” You whisper your voice shaky with how vulnerable you feel being so open with him like this.

“Exactly,” Jay whispers, his voice barely audible over the music that continues to spill from the car speakers. The air is thick and charged as you two sit and listen to the music from his playlist.

Jay's hand reaches out slowly as he reads your expression and reaction. He gently grabs your hand, slowly and intimately lacing your fingers together.

“You are so special..” He whispers as he pulls your joined hands to his lips, softly placing his warm lips on the back of your hand.

“I was serious about if you ever wanted to change the ending to that song—” He whispers as he lets your joined hands fall from his lips to rest between the two of you.

Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest at his words, at the way he is looking at you before you can even comprehend the words they desperately spill from your lips,

“You want to come up?”

You give his hand an encouraging squeeze, Jay’s lips curl into a soft smile, his thumb brushing against the knuckles of your hands.

“Only if you're one hundred percent sure..” He whispers back.

“I wouldn’t be asking you if I wasn't...”

...

You fidget with your keys as you unlock the door to your condo. Your hand hasn't left Jay’s until now. You reluctantly let go of his hand to turn on the lights around your small condo.

“Well, this is the place. Feel free to make yourself comfortable..” You say playfully with a laugh as Jay kicks off his shoes and makes his way towards the small couch in the middle of the space. There is a large TV to complement the couch and a window overlooking the city below. You sit beside Jay, flipping a playlist on to play over the speakers.

“You’ve really outdone yourself, the place is beautiful.” Jay compliments his voice, low and soft, as you come to rest comfortably next to Jay on the couch. His hand immediately tangles with yours again, and you can't help but smile.

“Thank you... And also, thank you for the ride.” You whisper shyly as Jay glances over you with awe. You both sit in a comfortable silence, the only noise is the music softly playing from the speakers and the sound of the bustling city below.

He just looks at you, his mind screaming at him to pull away, but he can’t. He doesn’t. After a few quiet moments, Jay’s voice cuts through the silence, a soft, intimate whisper as he leans in closer.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, his free hand sliding to cup your face gently. His breath hitches as he feels the softness of your hair against his calloused fingertips.

You can't even conjure up words in response. You nod, that's all Jay needs to see. He leans in, gently capturing his lips with his own, holding back a deep moan at the feeling of finally having your lips on his.

He gently guides you into his lap. His lips are still locked on yours as you straddle his hips. Your knees rest on either side of the couch as you capture and release each other's lips with precision.

You slowly explore his mouth with your own, smirk against his lips as you taste how soft and delicate they are. Your hands find his chest, feeling the strong muscles under his shirt, a moan slipping from your lips as you smell the familiar scent of dark amber and vanilla on his skin.

“You’re so perfect. Keep kissing me.” He moans against your lips. His voice drives you crazy, and you can’t hold back. Your hips start to grind into his heat, creating a slow, delicious friction. You whimper as his hands slide to your waist, gently helping you to rock into his hips with a painfully satisfying rhythm. His fingertips slide under your shirt, gently tracing small circles above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“I think..I want to change the ending of that song..” You whisper as you reluctantly pull your swollen lips away from his.

“Want to head to the bedroom?” You ask bluntly. Jay hesitates. There’s a flicker in his gaze like he didn’t quite believe what he just heard.

“I want you. Will you come to bed with me?” You ask nervously, biting your bottom lip with anticipation as you wait for his response.

He leans in, lips brushing against yours as he whispers.

“God Yes.”

He smiles into another quick, gentle kiss before pulling away. He gently helps you off him, and the heat between your bodies is picking up fast.

His strong arms pick you up off the couch. He holds you up with one hand on your back and one beneath your knees. You wrap your arms around his neck for support as he guides you to the bedroom.

He kicks the door open not even bothering to close it before he gently lies you onto the mattress. His breath is shaky with anticipation as his own body presses up against the soft curves of yours.

You gasp at the contact as your body sinks into the mattress. The faint sound of music can still be heard through the cracked door to the living room.

Jay leans in, his hands gently caressing your hips as his mouth finds your jawline. He kisses down your neck, his own heart beating faster in his chest as the room feels like it’s only getting hotter.

You moan breathlessly as he kisses your neck. His hands slid to the hem of your shirt, tugging it softly, asking for permission to take it off. You gasp softly before nodding with consent. Jay tears his lips away from your neck to help you slide the fabric up and over your head.

Jay's breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you. Hair spread out on the pillows, hips swollen from his kisses, your breasts sitting perfectly in your bra. He can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You are a fucking masterpiece..” Jay mumbles before his lips are back on your neck. Tracing down to your collarbone. He moans as he buries himself face-first in your chest.

Your back arches off the mattress, and goosebumps flush your skin at the contact of his lips. Jay's hands slide to your back, removing the clasp of your bra. He looks into your eyes as he slides it off your shoulders, tossing it aside.

“God...So pretty” Jay moans as his eyes glance over you’re bare tits. Hit cheeks are heating up as he steals glances at the shape and color. He leans down, kissing the valley between them.

His breath hitched with contact. You’re breath catches in your throat as he turns his head. Fingertips tangling in his dark hair as he kisses the fullness of your breast. He smirks against your skin with satisfaction, his hands gently holding your hips as he rolls himself into you.

You can feel how hard he is already and it makes you gasp. Jay smirks against your tits, as he kisses the soft delicate skin, his lips starting to add a little suction, and it doesn’t take long before small dark marks are left on your skin.

“Jay...” you moan as your back arches slightly off the bed. He takes your sensitive nipple in his mouth, his other hand massaging and holding your other breast in place.

You can already feel the heat between your thighs. Your arousal stirring as he plays with your tits. He doesn’t even realize how much it’s turning you on.

“You already sound better than anything I could ever produce,” Jay mumbles breathlessly. He pulls away from your nipple, leaving a string of saliva attached to your skin. He starts to kiss down your body. Down your chest, across your stomach, over your hips.

He gently hooks his fingertips into your sweatpants, pulling the soft fabric down your legs. He tosses them off the bed and onto the floor carelessly. His attention is fully on the heat between your thighs.

His vision is hazy as he notices the wet spot on your panties, a low groan spacing from his throat at the sight. His dick was already fully hard at the sight.

He softly slides them down your thighs and tosses them to the floor. His hands run up your thighs as he gets a good look at what you have to offer.

He slowly pushes your thighs apart, revealing your slick folds to him. He licks his lips subconsciously at the view. He slowly positions himself between your thighs. Keeping his dark eyes locked on yours. keeping your thighs spread open with his broad shoulders.

“I want to hear you make sounds that I can’t recreate with a keyboard,” Jay says as his lips kiss your inner thighs. Savoring the feeling of the softness on his lips, the scent of your arousal already made him dizzy.

“God, look at how pretty this is..” Jay whispers as his fingertips lightly slide between your delicate, wet folds. He can hardly breathe as he watches, eyes committing every detail to memory.

Jay finally leans in. Gently licking a stripe up your folds with a deep groan from his chest. His large hands keep your thighs spread apart for him.

“Fuck, I knew you’d taste incredible..” Jay moans as he pulls away before he dives in for more. You’re fingertips lace into his dark hair as he keeps tasting you. His tongue slid to your entrance to taste some of the wetness gathered there.

He slides his tongue back up your pussy, swiftly finding your clit. His grip around your legs tightens as he gently flicks at it, already sensitive. The sensations send sparks of pleasure through your body, and you can’t help but cry out. Your hips shaking as he holds them down.

“Fuck yes..let me hear you..” Jay mumbles into your heat. The vibrations drive you wild as he devours you slowly, drawing out your pleasure.

You look down to watch him working magic between your thighs. Your hands pull and twist strands of his long dark hair as his lips suckle around your clit, drawing more breathless moans from your lips.

It’s like Jay is in another world between your thighs, his eyes are closed as he gets lost in exploring every crevice and fold with his tongue. He’s focused on exploring your body like an instrument he’s learning to play for the first time.

You’re wet, so wet. Your arousal drips down Jay's lips and chin shamelessly. He doesn’t even seem to notice the mess he’s got you making on the sheets below.

Jay hums shamelessly into your pussy as he makes out with it like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s pulling any sound he can from you to harmonize with his own.

You’re eyes roll back as you get lost in it all. The wet sounds of his tongue fucking in and out of your entrance only build the warmth in your core.

Your grip on his hair is weak as your thighs start to shake around his head. He lets out a satisfied groan, pleasuring you with the same rhythm.

“Fuck I’m obsessed with how you taste..” He says voice muffled as he continues to eat you out. His hand slipped from your thigh to slide a finger inside of your wetness.

He starts slow, gently pumping his middle finger in and out. His vision blurs as you clench around him.

“Shit..” He mumbles at the feeling of his finger inside you. His tongue finds your clit again as he easily slips his index finger into your heat.

You start to fall apart from the stimulation. Your chest rises and falls as you struggle to catch your breath, your moans only grow louder, needier. Like your body is begging Jay to give you release without even having to say a word.

Letting up slightly, Jay pulls your hips further down the edge of the bed. Your legs rest on his shoulders as he kneels, tilting your body slightly to the right. His grip is firm as his mouth finds your pussy again.

He groans with satisfaction like the seconds away from you’re taste was enough to have him starving again.

You turn to the side as Jay changes angles. Your brows furrowed with confusion. “Jay, what are you—“ you start to ask before you see it.

The mirror. Your goddamn mirror.

The floor-length mirror is mounted across from the right side of your bed. Your breath catches at the sight. Jay smirks as he sees your reaction. Still lapping at your pussy with a steady rhythm.

“Look at you... Look at how pretty you are,” Jay whispers into your soaking wet heat. You have a clear view of everything in the dim lighting of your room. The arch of your back, the curve of your breasts moving as you struggle to breathe. The way Jay kneels between you like he’s worshiping your everything.

His fingers are back inside you without warning. You moan deep and loud at the impact, propping yourself up on your forearms to watch in the mirror.

“Eyes on the mirror...Want you to see what I see when you fall apart,” Jay commands with a deep whisper. He grips your thighs with bruising intensity as he doubles his efforts.

You can’t hold back the sounds that fall from your lips as he alternates between sucking and flicking your clit with his tongue. The rhythm pushes you to the edge, fast.

You grip the sheets, and Jay chuckles. He doesn’t stop. You keep your eyes locked on the reflection of the two of you. You feel your core twisting with pleasure, and you gasp out, not holding back.

“Fuck..Jay I’m gonna come-“ you say as you keep your eyes locked on the mirror. Watching how your own body reacts to every flick and caress of his tongue.

“Fucking soak me..” Jay growls into your heat. He keeps pushing you with touch and tongue until you're thrown over the edge.

You cry his name as you come. Watching how your back arches off the mattress and your toes curl. You feel the waves of arousal spilling from you, and you can’t stop it. You watch your reflection shamelessly as your hot arousal coats his face and the sheets below.

“That’s is..fuck..keep coming for me-“ Jay mumbles his voice getting drowned out by the wet sounds of his mouth trying to lap up your release.

Jay watches the whole thing completely in awe. His heart rattles in his chest as he coaxes you tenderly through your orgasm. Sweat was running down his brow and mixing with the splashes of your release on his face.

“Holy...fuck” Jay whispers as he gently laps at you one more time before pulling away. His lips are slick with your arousal as it runs down his chin and neck, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

“You’re voice sounds even better when you come.”

He pulls away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as he helps pull you back fully into the bed. His hands are on either side of your face as he cages your naked body in.

For a moment he just looks at you, his eyes scanning over your face reveling in the afterglow of your orgasm. He can’t help but smile down at you, chuckling softly with disbelief, hardly even being able to comprehend what just happened.

The image of you coming is already stuck on a loop inside his mind. “Your body is more addictive than any instrument I’ve ever played...” he whispers as his forehead comes to rest on yours. You can still smell yourself on his lips as he leans in. Breathless.

He rolls his hips back into yours, and your eyes roll back from the pleasure. “Jay..” You whisper your voice cracking with how overwhelmed you feel from his tender touch.

“See what you do to me? God, I was so hard when I left the studio last night.” Jay says, his voice husky with want as he kisses you again. Letting you taste what's left of yourself on his lips.

Your hands find the edge of his shirt, and he hums into your mouth with satisfaction before tearing away from your lips to help you pull the shirt over his head.

Your heart skips a beat as you look over his chest. Your gaze catches on the sweat that clings to his honey-toned skin, and you gasp at the definition of his muscles in the dim bedroom light.

“I think we should probably do something about that. You’ve been waiting long enough..” You murmur playfully with a smirk as you reach the waistband of his sweats. Your fingertips brushed under the waistband of his underwear feeling the soft honey skin of his hipbones.

“You want to ruin me for real? Want to hear more of me?” You tease playfully as you slowly tug at the waistband of his underwear. Jay’s eyes are wide with shock as you tease him confidently. Chest aching as he realizes that you're confident like this because of him. He lets out a shaky chuckle, smirking in response.

“Fuck, let me grab a condom..” Jay says his voice husky with want. He sits back on his ankles, ready to go fetch his wallet. He's caught off guard by your hand gently catching his wrist stopping him before he can get up. He looks down at your hand at how gently you're holding him.

“No need, I—well, I have some in the nightstand...” You say, cheeks burning with embarrassment as you admit it. You release Jay’s wrist, and he immediately climbs back into your body, causing the mattress to dip more from the weight.

He leans in, interrupting you with a rough, needy kiss. His hand slides down your arm with a featherlight touch to take the condom from between your fingertips.

His lips devour yours before he pulls away completely breathless. His eyes locked on yours as he pulled down his sweatpants and tossed the rest onto the floor.

His cock springs free, leaking against the warm skin of his stomach. You watch with parted lips as he tears the packet open discarding it onto the floor before reaching between your bodies and rolling the condom over his aching length.

His hands shake as he positions himself at your entrance, one hand resting on your shoulder and the other guiding his dick. “Tell me if it's too much okay? I want this to feel good for you..” Jay whispers before he gently leans forward. Letting his tip catch on your already soaking-wet entrance before he slips a few inches in.

You throw your head back, lips gasping with a loss for words at the feeling. He is so warm, so big, so filling. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before.

Jay stills his movements, letting you relax your hips a little as you adjust to size. Jay slowly pulls out until just the tip remains, before pushing back into your tight walls even further. His head falls to your shoulder, his hands sliding down your body rhythmically to rest on the bare skin of your hips.

“Fuck..” He curses under his breath as your body envelops him in your heat, stretching and gripping him in all the right ways. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, sweat running down his chest and back as he thrusts into you slowly and deeply.

He gently brushes some of your hair from your face, softly tucking it behind your ear. “I’m not going to last long, fuck it feels like you were crafted for me, in every way.” He whispers, his voice rough and deep as he gently places a kiss on the side of your face.

Jay catches a glimpse of you in the mirror, like before when he was on his knees. He gently thrusts into you, pulling out tantalizingly slow before pushing past every barrier to bury himself to the hilt. The words are taken out of his throat as he watches himself fuck you in the reflection.

He watches how your tits bounce with every stroke of his cock inside you, your skin shimmering with a thin layer of sweat, and the way your delicate hands rest on his large shoulders. The way his large cock disappears inside of you he can't help but whimper at the sight.

“Look at you. Look at us…fucking incredible..” He whispers as you turn your head to look in the mirror. Eyes widen as you watch the erotic sight. You watch as he fucks you slowly like he wants to draw out every whimper and moan and add it to his own personal soundboard.

You feel full, so full, but your body is aching for more. You don't even realize your hand is reaching between your bodies until Jay catches your wrist.

“Hey..” Jay whispers, his hips jerking as he tries to keep himself from coming too soon. “Just let me take care of you…lie back for me.”

You comply, lying back against the sheets, damp from your sweat and arousal. Jay’s hand reaches between your bodies, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. You watch in the mirror, vision going blurry as you feel him twitching inside of you, like he is holding back his collapse.

You let go. Every sound falling from your lips is raw, unfiltered, and purely you. Your body only grows wetter as Jay tactically rubs your swollen clit. You cry out, gasping curses and his name as you completely lose yourself in everything.

Jay watches in awe, the sight making his spine feel tight, his body aching for release, but he holds out for you. Each tantalizingly tight thrust takes the very breath from his lungs. His hand on your hip, gripping your damp skin even tighter as he fights to hold on.

“Oh my God, you're making me fall apart..” Jay whispers under his breath as he watches you squirm and writhe underneath him in the reflection of the mirror.

“Taking me so fucking well,” Jay whimpers as he feels himself right on the edge of release. You're so close, we can feel it in the way you clench around his invading length.

You try to gasp his name, but your voice is caught in your chest. You pull him closer, fingertips digging into his biceps as he thrusts deeper. You sob, unable to hold anything else back. You can't even warn him with words. You just hold him closer, burning your face in his neck as you come.

It feels like everything is releasing from your body. All the stress, the pressure, the grief from everything all falls away. You sob into his shoulder as you clench around him, coating him with your wetness. You dont even notice it soaking the sheets beneath you as you let go of everything in that moment.

Jay curses under his breath, your release throws him over the edge. He buries himself into you, shamelessly spilling all his release into the condom. He groans deeply as he holds your body close, slowing his thrusts to milk out every ounce of pleasure he can until the two of you are completely and utterly spent.

The two of you just lie there in silence, and the faint sound of music playing from the living room can be heard from the hall. Your mind is a hazy mess, you can't believe you really just had sex with Jay, and you actually enjoyed it.

You wince as you rethink all the sounds you shamelessly made in the heat of the moment. And the two of you are very aware of the wet mess between your bodies as evidence.

Jay just holds you, his fingertips tracing small shapes into your warm slick skin as you both come down form the high. Reality starting to settle back in.

“How are you feeling?’’ Jay whispers, breaking the silence. He gently brushes some hair from your face as he smiles at you softly, committing to memory how you look in your post orgasm afterglow.

“A little shocked, a little overwhelmed, but mostly satisfied. Don’t think I’ve ever come that hard before Mr. Jay Park..” You say with a soft chuckle as you let your hand ruffle his slightly sweaty dark hair.

“Good. I’m honored to have that title bestowed upon me.” Jay says with a soft chuckle. He gives you a quick kiss to the cheek before she slides out of you. Discretely discarding all the evidence.

You groan at the cold empty feeling, tossing in the wet sheets as Jay stands up from the bed.

“I’ll be right back, don’t move..” Jay says softly.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” You mumble your voice muffled by the pillows as you hear the door shut behind Jay.

After a few moments he returns, kicking the door open with his foot. He steps into the room a clean towel over his shoulder and two cups of water in hand.

“Here I got you some water,” Jay says as he sits upright on the edge of the bed, offering the lukewarm water to you.

You sit up letting the messy sheets pool at your waist as you accept. Taking a few sips of water from the cup.

“You keep doing shit like this and im going to think you want to stay the night.” You say casually, almost too casually. You watch as his brows furrow over your cup.

“Trust me, after what we just did, I'm not going anywhere,” Jay says as he puts the empty water cup on the nightstand and reaches for the clean towel.

He gently moves the sheets away as he starts to clean up the mess between your thighs. You're stunned at the intimate nature of the moment. No man has ever done this for you; the feeling is foreign, but somehow so right.

“Do you want to shower? I can help you clean up and change the sheets too.” Jay offers as he continues to wipe your inner thighs clean.

“A warm shower would be nice, and I'd appreciate the help changing the sheets.” You say with a nervous chuckle of disbelief as you accept his offer.

“This is really special to me, Jay..” You confess, your voice slightly raspy.

“This is really special for me, too. Can’t believe we finally rewrote the ending to that song.” Jay says with a soft chuckle at how corny he sounds, completely wrapped up in the moment with you.

“I really hope Luke likes it, Im just praying I didn’t fuck up big time with that demo.” You say your voice slightly frantic. Jays heart sinks into his chest as he sees your shoulders tighten with tension.

“Shhh, no more work talk ok? We can figure out the rest tomorrow, right now we need to get you cleaned up.” He says softly biting his lip before he scoops you up from the bed, carrying you into the bathroom in his arms.

“Let me give you a ride before you’re gone for the night, Only to wake up in the morning, not by your side.”

Jay Park proves himself a man of his word and full of fulfilled promises. Because of him, the script is rewritten, and for the first time, you don't wake up to an empty bed after giving your everything.

…

You both jerk awake to the sudden noise of your alarm cutting through the quiet morning air. You groan, stretching your arms with a yawn as you feel Jay’s soft skin still intimately pressed up against yours.

“Morning,” Jay whispers, his voice hoarse from sleep and from everything the two of you did last night.

“Morning..” you reply with another yawn. The soft rays of the morning light creep through the blinds, and you turn to look at Jay, still lying naked in the sheets. He smiles up at you softly, his eyes glancing over all of your features in the morning sunlight.

You take in the foreign feeling of it all. The comforting smell of dark amber and faint vanilla mixed with the lingering smell of sex.

“You like coffee?” You ask with a playful tone as you let your fingertips playfully twist strands of his long, dark hair.

“I'm gonna need it after the night we just had, you completely wrecked me,” Jay admits shamelessly.

You rub your tired eyes as you sit up in bed. Slipping into an oversized shirt and making your way to the kitchen. With your vision still groggy from sleep, like start to make your morning coffee like it's muscle memory.

It's not long before Jay comes up behind you, his large hands wrapping around your waist, his lips finding the side of your neck.

“I could get used to this..” He mumbles between soft, lazy kisses.

“Likewise,” You reply softly as you lean into him. You finish the coffee, pouring two mismatched mugs full and adding a few pumps of sugar and cream just how you like it.

You lean against the kitchen counter, reminiscing on the intensity of last night as you take small sips of your beverage. The soreness between your thighs is a physical reminder of everything that unfolded.

Jay does the same as he leans against the counter across from you, his eyes scanning your figure over the rim of his mug.

“I’m going to have to run to my place before heading over to the studio. Can’t be showing up to my third day on the job with my coworkers cum on my shirt.” He says bluntly.

You laugh, nearly spitting out your coffee at his remark. Jay chuckles at your response. “Jay you really are something else.” You say with another low chuckle.

“Just telling the truth..” Jay says matter-of-factly.

You smile back at him, your heart fluttering as you start thinking about when you can have him again.

Luke(manager) [9:45 am] Studio now. We need to talk.

The text message comes through as you’re sitting in the backseat of an Uber. You peer out the window to see gridlocked morning traffic that doesn't seem to be letting up anytime soon. You feel a spike of adrenaline as you watch the clock tick. You try to glance out the window to see what the holdup is, the ETA on the driver's GPS only getting later and later.

“You can just let me out here, I can walk the rest.” You say to the driver. He nods, unlocking the door for you to grab your things and tumble out of the backseat onto the sidewalk. You speed walk a few more blocks until you reach the Dreamscape Records building.

You slide your keycard as you get out of the elevator, following your tracks back to the studio like your usual routine. You punch the PIN into the door and open it. Your heart drops into your stomach.

You walk into a very visibly frustrated Luke. You scan the room, catching a very red-faced Jay sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap. Luke looks at you, eyes narrowed, before singling out onJay.

“What the actual fuck was that demo?”

note: Chapter One is finished! I hope it was enjoyable thus far. I don't have anyone to proofread for me currently, so I'll probably go back in a few days to catch any mistakes I missed. Chapter Two will be out soon! If you like the story so far, just leave a comment or an ask, and I'll add you to the taglist(18+ only!) My requests are always open, and I don't bite :) Take care until next time!

xoxo kate <3

taglist: @nithxhoon @sumzysworld @jiyeons-closet @heekirei

#enhypen au #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen angst #enhypen x female reader #enhypen x reader #park jay x reader #enhypen smut #enhypen scenarios #park jongseong x reader #park jongseong smut #jay park hard hours #enhypen hard hours #enhypen fic

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dj-of-the-coven · 5 months ago

Text

To the leftist and anarchist Jews of Tumblr -- shalom!

My name is Rivkah (aka DJ) and I work at an anarchist bookstore collective. Since the beginning of the Israel-Hamas war in '23, I've watched as the welcoming center for humanist resources that I worked so hard to maintain became more and more infested with antisemitism--because of and in spite of people's honest attempts to be good allies to the populations of the Gaza strip and West Bank. There's been antisemitism mixed in with everyone's humanitarian rhetoric since the beginning. I knew this, as every Jew did, and it wasn't easy remaining silent about it. I was doing so in order to let the voices of the most affected people speak first, expecting that once the shock wore off, we'd have more of a national discussion about how to care for Palestinians and Israelis as well as Jews in the diaspora, shifting the conversation towards a 2-state solution, more conscious efforts to de-radicalize antisemitic and islamophobic extremists, and peace between the multiple indigenous populations of the Levant. Well. Needless to say, this was rather optimistic thinking.

A few months ago, someone in the collective crossed a line. A book appeared on our sale table entitled "The Invention of the Jewish People" by Shlomo Sand. I doubt that I need to elaborate what this is to the population of Jumblr.

After this happened, I confronted the collective about this spike in antisemitic sentiment--the deliberate spreading of Khazar theory was simply too much for me to bear--and to my horror it was also revealed that we had no literature on contemporary Jewish issues aside from books on Palestine. I snapped. In the wake of this incident, I began a project of intensive research on the history of antisemitism and the ways it infiltrates leftist rhetoric and breaks up social justice movements. What I found left me surer than ever that something needs to be done about antisemitism in leftism and anarchy before it's too late; before more innocent people are killed by ignorance and misguided justice.

I'm taking a great risk by making this request on my main blog, but I'm doing this anyway, because I want to make it clear to people that wanting peace is not a "centrist" opinion. I am an anarchist. I am a punk. And I am a Jew who believes that a 2-state solution where everyone is safe is possible. We're not going to get a perfect socialist utopia out of the region any time soon, but two democracies are better than none.

Why should any of this matter to you? Well, I have something to ask of any parties that are interested.

I'm planning to give a presentation to the collective about antisemitism and how to recognize it within themselves and their activism, and to this end I've already done a massive amount of research, but nothing is complete without qualitative data. If you have anything to say to goyische leftists about what to change rhetorically in order to reach a more egalitarian future, I want to hear about it. Feel free to add your comments in the notes or in my asks. I will be accepting stories of antisemitism that have happened to you as well, if you're willing to share.

Thank you all for reading and I hope to hear from you soon!

Antisemites will be blocked on sight. Islamophobes will be blocked on sight.

#jumblr #jewish #antisemitism #anarchy

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newyorkthegoldenage · 30 days ago

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Rian James, Dining in New York, 1929. Dust jacket artist unknown.

This is a New York booklet written for New Yorkers. James offered a unique slice of the New York dining scene just before the October 1929 stock market crash and the onset of the Great Depression. The good times were to end soon after.

While there were a ton of contemporary guidebooks published about New York City, very few delved into the restaurant scene. James’s punchy one-line descriptions tell you a lot more than many a detailed review. The writing has some jazz age jargon such as “Beeway” for Broadway and “black and tan” for an establishment that has race mingling between Blacks and Caucasians.

Some excerpts:

MAXL’S – 86th St. near 3rd Ave. Tyrolean Sausage and Sauer Kraut and Tyrolean high jinks after theatre.

THE BLUE RIBBON-145 W. 44th St. German. German cuisine, and plenty of German celebs.

HENRY’S – 69 W. 36th St. Swedish. Roll your own hors d’oeuvres, from a huge center table.

CEYLON INDIA – 148 W. 49th St. East Indian. Curried dishes that are hotter than a Sophie Tucker finale.

DINTY MOORE’S-46th St. west of Beeway. Irish Corned beef and marv lemon pies and giant baked potatoes. Favorite of Ziegfeld, Berlin, Will Rogers, et al.

HOTEL ALGONQUIN – 44th St. bet. 5th and 6th Aves. The snootier of the literati lunch here. The pastry is grand.

GYPSY TEA SHOP – 435 Fifth Ave. Your fortune, from tea leaves, gratis, and all you want to eat, for 75¢.

GREENWICH VILLAGE INN – 6 Sheridan Sq. What customers from Hoosick Falls would he disappointed at not finding.

THE EVERGLADES – Beeway at 48th St. An extravagant floor show with considerable costume economy, and ex-Vanities girls to sit it out with you.

THE MADHOUSE – 169 W. 133rd St. All the name implies. For colored whoopsters chiefly, but whites admitted. Come here after all the others have closed, and SEE things!

For more excerpts and more about the author, see Stuff Nobody Cares About.

Photo: The Cary Collection Text: Stuff Nobody Cares About

#vintage New York #1920s #Rian James #NYC restaurants #restaurants #restaurant guide #1920s New York #restaurant reviews #old NYC

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cherryl4na · 1 year ago

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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ `"lamborghini miura and date nights pt. 1"

abstract || you and lando enjoy life outside of all the chaos that comes with him being 'The Ace'

fem!reader || fluff. steamy. mafia au. lamborghini miura. will be a pt. 2. heavily inspired by the suit at a mclaren event and the outfit at cannes. 3.6k words

Lando Norris’ penthouse is the epitome of luxury and power, a sanctuary high above the city’s restless heartbeat. The expansive living space is a testament to modern elegance, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the skyline, the city lights twinkling like distant stars.

When stepping out of the private elevator, you’re greeted by a foyer with polished marble floors, leading into an open-concept living area. The décor is a blend of classic and contemporary, with rich, dark wood paneling and sleek, minimalist furniture. A grand piano sits in one corner, its black lacquer finish reflecting the soft glow of the overhead designer lighting.

The lounge area is dominated by a large, plush sofa that faces a state-of-the-art entertainment system, and a glass coffee table holds an array of high-end spirits and crystal decanters. Original artworks adorn the walls, and a collection of rare books fills the built-in shelves, revealing Lando’s taste for the finer things in life.

The dining area features a long, ebony dining table surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs, perfect for hosting intimate gatherings or conducting discreet business meetings. Adjacent to it is a gourmet kitchen, fitted with professional-grade appliances and a sleek breakfast bar.

The penthouse also boasts a private gym, a spa-like bathroom with a Jacuzzi and a rain shower, and a walk-in wardrobe that houses an impressive collection of designer suits and racing memorabilia.

Lando’s personal quarters are a sanctuary within a sanctuary. The master bedroom is spacious, with a king-sized bed taking center stage, draped in the finest silk linens. A private balcony extends from the bedroom, offering a secluded spot to take in the breathtaking views or simply enjoy a moment of solitude.

Every detail in Lando’s penthouse speaks of a man who commands respect and enjoys his success, yet values privacy and comfort above all else. It’s a space that’s both a showpiece and a retreat, reflecting the complex character of ‘The Ace’ himself.

As of now, the evening had settled over the city like a velvet shroud, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the twilight sky. Inside the luxurious penthouse, Lando Norris watched you with an intensity that belied his calm exterior.

You stood before the full-length mirror, the soft fabric of your Versace dress cascading down in waves of midnight blue, a stark contrast to the elegance of your skin. The room was filled with the quiet rustle of silk and the subtle scent of vanilla from your perfume. It was a rare occasion, this dance of preparation, and Lando found himself captivated by the ritual.

He leaned casually against the mahogany door frame, arms crossed over his chest covered with a white Nordstrom silk shirt that has been left unbuttoned just slightly to exude enough sensuality but keeping it decent, his two usual gold chains around his thick, tan neck as his eyes followed your every move. There was something about the way you moved, the confidence in your gestures, that drew him in. It was a dance he had seen many perform but none with such genuine disregard for the world’s expectations.

“You don’t have to impress anyone,” Lando finally spoke, his voice a low rumble in the opulent room.

You met his gaze in the mirror, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m not trying to impress,” you replied, your voice steady. “I’m trying to remember who I am beyond all this,” you gestured vaguely, encompassing the grandeur of the room and, by extension, the life you had found yourself entwined in.

Lando pushed off from the doorframe, his steps silent on the plush carpet as he approached. “And who are you exactly, in this world?” he asked, stopping just a breath away from you.

You turned to face him, the intensity of his gaze compelling you to answer with truth. “Someone who still believes in a bit of normality, even in a world as cynical as ours.”

His chuckle was soft, a sound that warmed you more than any embrace. “Then perhaps this will serve as a reminder,” Lando said, producing a small, black velvet box from his pocket.

He opened it to reveal a delicate gold chain, from which hung a pendant crafted in the shape of a lotus, its petals open as if reaching for the last rays of the sun. “The lotus blooms in the mud,” he murmured, his fingers deft as he clasped the necklace around your neck.

The lotus flower, revered across cultures and spiritual traditions, embodies profound symbolism and meaning. Emerging from muddy waters yet remaining unstained, it symbolizes purity of heart, mind, and spirit. Its ability to bloom immaculately amidst adversity speaks to resilience and strength, teaching us to persevere and flourish despite life's challenges.

It serves as a timeless metaphor for the human experience — a reminder that through adversity, purity, and spiritual growth, we can rise above the murky waters of life and blossom into our fullest potential.

You reached up to touch the pendant, its cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of his fingers still lingering on your skin. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered, gratitude lacing your words. Lando stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. “As are you,” he said, not as a compliment, but as a simple statement of fact.

With a smile that matched the warmth of his words, you followed Lando out of his luxurious penthouse. The evening air greeted you with a gentle breeze as you made your way towards the private garage, where a sleek, vintage Lamborghini Miura awaited. Its navy paint gleamed under the soft glow of the penthouse's exterior lights, exuding elegance and power in equal measure.

"You're driving this?" you asked, your voice a mixture of surprise and excitement, a smile slowly inching its way on your face.

Lando nodded, a playful glint in his eyes as he held open the passenger door for you. "Well, how else did you think we’d travel? I figured we could take a little drive before our reservation. Trust me, it'll be an experience you won't forget."

As you move to settle into the plush leather seat, Lando places a hand on your head to make sure it’s protected from the roof of the car. Heading around the car, Lando enters the driver side, and effortlessly starts the engine, causing the powerful rumble to fill the air around you. The car eased out of the garage with grace, navigating the city streets with the familiarity of a seasoned driver. The night enveloped you both, the city lights painting a canvas of twinkling stars overhead.

With each turn and straight away, the Lamborghini carried you through the cityscape, the wind whispering secrets as it tousled your hair. In the midst of this exhilarating journey, Lando's presence beside you remained a constant source of comfort and excitement, his occasional glance your way a silent promise of more adventures to come.

As you ventured further into the night, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the hum of the engine and the shared moments between you and Lando. In the soft glow of passing street lamps, you realized that this impromptu drive wasn't just about the destination—it was about the connection forged in the quiet moments between heartbeats, where each glance and smile spoke volumes about the budding romance in the air.

And as the Lamborghini carried you both towards an unknown horizon, you couldn't help but feel that this night was just the beginning of a journey filled with endless possibilities, where every twist of fate was waiting to be explored together.

With each mile that passed beneath the Lamborghini's wheels, the cityscape transformed into a mesmerizing blur of lights and shadows. Lando navigated the streets with effortless precision, occasionally stealing glances at you, his expression a mix of anticipation and contentment.

As the vibrant pulse of the city gradually gave way to quieter, tree-lined avenues, the Lamborghini slowed to a stop in front of a stately building adorned with ivy-covered walls and softly glowing lanterns. You looked up, realizing you had arrived at a charming and exclusive restaurant known for its exquisite cuisine and intimate ambiance.

Lando turned off the engine, and the sudden silence enveloped you like a comforting embrace. He stepped out of the car, swiftly coming around to open your door with a gentlemanly flourish. As you emerged, the cool evening air wrapped around you, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of fine dining and the promise of a memorable evening ahead.

The entrance of the restaurant welcomed you with a warm glow from within, casting a soft halo around Lando as he extended his hand, inviting you to walk with him towards the door. You accepted graciously, feeling a flutter of excitement mingled with a touch of nervousness. This evening had already surpassed any expectations you might have had, and yet, you couldn't help but wonder what surprises lay in store.

Inside, the ambiance was elegant yet inviting, with soft music playing in the background and flickering candlelight casting a soft glow over linen-covered tables. The maître d' greeted you warmly, confirming your reservation and guiding you both to a secluded corner table with a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

As you settled into your seats, Lando's gaze met yours across the table, his eyes sparkling with a quiet intensity that mirrored your own emotions. The evening stretched out before you like an uncharted path, each moment unfolding with a delicate grace that seemed to deepen the connection between you.

Conversation flowed effortlessly between bites of exquisitely prepared dishes and sips of fine wine, punctuated by shared laughter and stolen glances that spoke volumes. In the intimate setting of the restaurant, surrounded by the soft murmur of other diners and the gentle hum of city life beyond the windows, it felt as though time had slowed to a perfect cadence, allowing you both to savor every fleeting second together.

And as the night progressed, you found yourself caught in a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, attraction, and a growing sense of intimacy that seemed to bloom with each passing moment. Across the table, Lando's smile was a beacon of warmth, his presence a reassuring anchor in the sea of possibility that stretched out before you.

As dessert arrived, accompanied by a flourish of culinary artistry that mirrored the magic of the evening itself, you couldn't help but marvel at how a spontaneous drive in a Lamborghini had led to this moment of shared connection and undeniable chemistry between you and Lando.

The restaurant hummed with a subtle buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses, yet your attention was solely on the man sitting across from you. Lando, with his easy charm and magnetic presence, had swept you off your feet from the moment you met. His laughter was infectious, his stories captivating, and as the evening progressed, you found yourself drawn deeper into his orbit.

The evening had been filled with unexpected turns—a scenic drive through desert landscapes that stretched endlessly under a starlit sky, conversations that ranged from lighthearted banter to deeper musings about life and dreams. Each moment seemed to unfold effortlessly, as if fate had orchestrated this encounter.

And now, as dessert was served—a masterpiece of flavors and presentation—you felt a surge of anticipation mingled with a hint of nervous excitement. Lando caught your gaze, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of mischief and admiration. Without a word, he reached across the table, his hand finding yours with a gentle yet confident touch.

"Care to dance?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with a magnetic charm that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't resist the invitation, nor did you want to. With a smile that matched his own, you nodded, allowing him to lead you onto the small, cleared space between tables where other diners watched with subtle curiosity.

As "Hola Senorita" by GIMS and Maluma began to play softly in the background, Lando pulled you close, his hand firm on your waist as he guided you in a slow, sensual sway to the seductive rhythm of the music. The heat of his body pressed against yours, sending a wave of electricity through every nerve ending.

In that intimate embrace, the world around you faded into a blur, leaving only the two of you moving together in perfect synchronization. His touch was both gentle and possessive, his gaze never leaving yours as if trying to convey a thousand unspoken words.

The sensual dance unfolded like a whispered promise of what could be—an unspoken acknowledgment of the undeniable chemistry that simmered beneath the surface. Each step, each turn spoke volumes of desire and connection, drawing you closer to Lando in ways words could never capture.

As the song neared its end, you found yourself breathless yet exhilarated, caught up in the intensity of the moment shared between you. Lando's lips curved into a tender smile as he guided you back to the table, where dessert awaited—a sweet ending to a night that had begun with a drive and culminated in a dance that resonated with the magic of newfound connection and possibility.

And deep down, beneath the surface of whispered promises and shared glances, you knew that this evening was only the beginning—a prelude to a story waiting to unfold, where each chapter would be written in the tender moments and stolen kisses that danced on the edge of tomorrow.

After settling the bill, not without a bit of banter over who pays, you both stepped out into the cool night air, the echoes of laughter and shared stories still resonating between you. The Lamborghini awaited, a sleek silhouette against the dimly lit street, its engine purring with restrained power.

"Where to now?" you asked, half in jest, half in earnest curiosity.

Lando grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, "Anywhere but here."

With that, you slipped into the passenger seat with his help of course, the leather embracing you with its luxurious warmth. The engine roared to life, the city lights streaking past in a blur as you navigated the winding roads together. The night was young, and so were you, in this ephemeral moment where time seemed to slow down just for the two of you.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through dreams and aspirations, fears and triumphs, each revelation knitting your souls closer together. It was as if the universe conspired to create this perfect interlude, where nothing existed beyond the confines of the Lamborghini and the burgeoning connection between you.

As the city lights began to fade into the rearview mirror, you found yourselves on a quieter stretch of road, surrounded by a tapestry of stars overhead. The car slowed to a stop, and you both stepped out onto an overlook, the city sprawling below like a sea of twinkling lights.

Lando's eyes held yours, their intensity magnified by the intimacy of the moment. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, echoing the rhythm of your own. The night draped around you like a velvet cloak, cocooning you in a world where only the two of you existed.

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining effortlessly as if they had always belonged together. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver of anticipation through you, a silent invitation to let go of any lingering doubts or hesitations.

Leaning closer, his breath mingled with yours, warm against your lips. The air crackled with unspoken words, each heartbeat resonating like a whispered promise of what could be. You could smell the subtle scent of his cologne, a comforting familiarity that grounded you in the present moment.

When his lips finally brushed against yours, it was like a symphony of emotions unfolding in slow motion. Soft yet insistent, his kiss spoke of desire tempered with tenderness, a delicate balance of passion and restraint. Time seemed to stretch and bend around you, the world narrowing down to the sensation of his lips moving against yours, tracing the contours of a connection that defied words.

His arms encircled you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The warmth of his embrace cocooned you in a sanctuary of shared vulnerability, where every touch and caress spoke volumes of unspoken longing and mutual understanding.

Under the canopy of stars, the Lamborghini Miura stood sentinel, bearing witness to a moment that transcended the mundane. The engine's purr became a backdrop to the symphony of your shared breaths, the quiet rustle of fabric as you leaned into each other, seeking solace and passion in equal measure.

As the kiss deepened, the world around you faded into insignificance. There was only the taste of him on your lips, the press of his body against yours, and the electric current that surged between you, binding your souls in a dance as ancient as time itself.

In that timeless embrace, you felt a surge of emotion swell within you—love in its purest form, unguarded and unfiltered. It was a declaration whispered in the language of touch and sensation, a silent vow that this connection was worth cherishing, nurturing, and exploring with every fiber of your being.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and exhilarated, Lando's eyes held a glimmer of unspoken promises yet to be fulfilled. His thumb gently brushed against your cheek, a tender gesture that spoke of reverence and devotion.

In the quiet aftermath, as you stood entwined under the stars, you knew that this night had forever altered the course of your story together. Each heartbeat echoed the cadence of a new beginning, where the chapters ahead would be written in the shared moments of vulnerability, passion, and the unwavering bond forged in the embrace of that unforgettable night.

Feeling the cool metal of the Lamborghini Miura against your back, you smiled as Lando drew you close, his touch tender yet commanding. His fingers traced a delicate path along your jawline, sending a thrill through you that echoed in the warm summer night around you.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both soft and consuming, a perfect blend of longing and urgency. You leaned into him, feeling the strength of his embrace against the smooth, cool surface of the car's hood beneath you. The night seemed to hold its breath as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips moving against yours, the mingling of your breaths creating an intimate symphony.

His hands, strong yet gentle, explored your back with a reverence that made your heart race before finally reaching their destination. He grips the back of your plush thighs in a way that makes you feel weak all over. The hood of the car digs into you as he places you gently on it, moving to stand between your legs.

Making this moment as intimate as possible, his veiny hands move to grip your waist and pull you closer till there is absolutely no space between the two of you. Every touch, every caress deepened the connection between you, amplifying the heat that coursed through your veins. Time seemed to stand still as you savored each moment, each kiss a testament to the unspoken desire and passion that burned between you.

In that moment, surrounded by the soft night air and the distant murmur of the city, you were entwined in a dance of intimacy and yearning, where nothing else existed except the electricity of his soft lips against your own, his touch caressing you as if you’re made of glass.

As you both pull away from each other, the air between you thick with unspoken words and the promise of what the future might hold, Lando reaches out to gently stroke your cheek. His touch is warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine that have nothing to do with the cool night air.

"Let's head back," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with emotion, lips plumped up and red. You nod in agreement, feeling a sense of contentment settling over you like a soft blanket. Together, you gather yourselves and step back towards the waiting Lamborghini Miura.

The drive back to Lando's penthouse is quiet, the purr of the engine providing a soothing soundtrack to your thoughts. You steal glances at each other from time to time, exchanging small smiles that speak volumes about the bond you've forged this evening.

Arriving at the penthouse, Lando parks the car with practiced ease. He takes your hand as you both exit the vehicle, his touch reassuring and grounding. The night feels alive with possibilities as you step into the elevator, riding it up to his luxurious apartment high above the city.

Inside, the penthouse is a sanctuary of modern elegance and comfort. Lando leads you to a balcony overlooking the glittering skyline, where the city lights twinkle like stars in the night sky. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you close as you lean against the railing together.

"This night," he begins softly, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, "it feels like everything has changed, but at the same time, hasn’t."

You turn in his arms to face him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his eyes. "It has," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "In the best possible way."

Lando smiles, a smile that reaches his eyes and fills you with warmth. "I'm glad," he says, leaning in to kiss you gently for the third time that night, as if sealing a promise made by the night itself.

And as you stand there, in each other's arms, the Lamborghini Miura waits below like a silent witness to the beginning of your love story — a story that started with a car, a journey, and two hearts finding their way to each other.

an || hey guys! i've had this in the works since early june and finally got around to semi finishing it. this will have a pt 2 and i apologize if it takes a while to come out. hope you enjoyed this and there will be more to come!

#f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 drivers x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff

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