#also this is giving me vague fic ideas...

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  @griefabyss69! GriefAbyss has 97 fics posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and 92 of them are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by GriefAbyss:

Quiet Nights

Still Motion

Vulture

Concrete Lovers

All Is Fine

"If you're looking for quality Steddie smut, Grief's profile is where it's at. There's such variety to the fics they write, that I feel like there's something for all tastes. If there's a very specific spicy tag you're looking for, they probably have a fic for that.Their phillia series is particularly delightful." -- anonymous

Below the cut, GriefAbyss answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I write Steddie because we were given enough in canon to build a solid foundation of these characters—but not nearly enough to be satisfied. They’re also so easy to put into different situations, and in my case that usually means bondage! I think they’re both really interesting, well acted, and for me, they both ping that feeling you get when a character has a specific trait/experience/etc that you do. Also I really enjoy doing character explorations through sex and sex adjacent themes, especially BDSM/kink. What a character is or isn’t into can say a lot! More surface level; I like it when men are hot, especially with each other. :’ )

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Is there a trope name for when two people are just messing around—wrestling or whatever—and accidentally get turned on and it becomes this push and pull thing where you know the embarrassment isn’t going to win out but the tension is still so good that you’re still like cheering from the stands when they start making out? Probably. I don’t know it though. That kind of thing is fantastic, especially if they’re rivals/enemies/etc.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Getting together, 100%. It’s the majority of what I write over all of my work no matter what type of writing it is! I also love to subvert the classic romance / sex / friendship scripts, so there’s a lot of buddyfucking and first kisses after sex (sorry to my LARP AU readers lmao). I’d say that kink discovery ties in with that well, because it’s rare for me to write a getting together story without sex, and it’s rare for me to write sex without getting kink involved.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

Here are three that are my faves, and I think might become other people’s new favorites! All three are very different, but they’re so well written and give you something really good—or interesting—to chew on. dog at the door by cchapsticck is hands down my FAVORITE, in the way that it’ll gut you so beautifully. I read it during a time where it was very cathartic (life is sad, gross, and dumb sometimes, to be suuuper reductive lmao), and I’m waiting for a good time to revisit it. Take the tags seriously, this is 100% a horror story. your dog or your bullet but i'm always a/stray by andwhatyousaid is another gorgeous fic with dog in the title that will gut you, but in a much kinder way. I also read this at a time where it hit me in a very cathartic way—this is more about the survival and growth after a certain kind of horror. Leomund's Lamentable Belaborment Makes It Hard To Graduate High School by perceived_nobility is the first fic I read that really nailed Eddie’s internal voice in my opinion! If you’re a fan of depictions of Eddie with ADHD, this is absolutely for you. It has a lot of details in it that feel so real to life too.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

It’s more of a genre, but erotic horror. I’ve been trying to sink my teeth into it but it still comes out either too erotic with little horror, or too horror with little eroticism. I have the vague plot ideas, but I don’t have the balance yet! Related (or not, who knows), I haven’t written sex pollen yet, which I think is strange because I love complicated sexual tension! I do have notes written down on how I want to go about it though, so it’ll be a part of my WIP city at some point.

What is your writing process like?

Sometimes I get a flash of something that would be hot or beautiful or interesting, and open a doc and start writing before it disappears. If I’m not at home I have to make do with writing down the gist of the idea on my phone which is... fine. I think I’ve lost some good ideas to just being at work and unable to do much with them when they’re right there in my fingers instead of gathering dust lost in the back of my mind. I do have an ideas document that is miles long at this point, though! And approx 65 WIPs. So I have plenty to work with. Other times I spend months and months daydreaming about something, examining the plot/themes/etc over and over from different POVs, until it eventually just comes out of me with little input. I have a WIP that comes to mind, where I got up one day and started writing and like three days later—I ate and slept I promise—I had 50K. That was in October, and now it’s a respectable 70K+, because life got in the way of my momentum, and I had other WIPs to finish sooner. When this happens it’s like I’m possessed by writing ghosts.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Mostly just an extreme pickiness about my writing environment! I need to be alone, have a specific word processor (if anybody knows of a Linux equivalent for microsoft WordPad, win7 edition, hit me up), headphones—usually with white noise AND music playing, and sweatpants on. Some of my friends get fully dressed to write at a desk, and I wear what’s basically pajamas to write while sitting on my couch :’ )

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule? Oh my god I’ve learned my lesson with this one. For every fic I’ve written except for two of them, I fully finished writing and editing before posting them. I didn’t do that for one chaptered fic, and managed a decent update schedule, but with the second one… well, to the people who are waiting on a Vulture update, it’s coming soon! Thanks for your patience! It’s much easier for me to have a full fic to work off of, to change as I like, especially when it’s been a month since I’ve had the chance to even look at it. I think once Vulture’s done, I’m going back to strictly finishing before posting, though people have been very encouraging on it even though it’s not finished <3

Which fic are you most proud of?

I’m giving you two answers because I’m breaking the rules lmao 1. The first fic I ever finished and posted: Hell Patrol - It was kind of terrifying to share a piece of myself like that, especially in a fandom with so many people. I used to have a blog back in the day where I posted original art that got like no attention, which suited me well enough because attention seemed like a double edged sword at best—until this! So far 99.9999% of people have been nice. I’ve posted a lot, so I don’t really get nervous anymore, and I’ve gotten more comfortable writing what I want to. Mostly I get nervous about finding time to write everything I want to! 2. Silence Awakened - This was written for @steddiesmuttyseptember, and I really pushed both my ability to write under a tight deadline and my ability to turn something I thought was a very rough first draft into something I ended up liking a lot. I also had the idea for the gag sitting for a while, and was really happy to finally have a use for it! I’m not sure that I feel strongly proud of any of them over others, I think I’m just proud that I’ve finished things after a lifetime of struggling to finish any creative projects I started, and proud that my writing is—hopefully—getting better!

How did you get the idea for Quiet Nights?

This was another @steddiesmuttyseptember story! There were prompts: Soft and Slow, Backseat, Clothes On. Those really helped me get started, and I find it fun to write about public sex and also the idea of getting stuck on the side of the road with your hot best friend, so this was fairly easy to write. It was definitely one of those “I daydreamed about this for months and it fell out of me” fics. I also really like Steve’s car and need to write more about it :’ )

When writing Still Motion, what was something you didn’t expect?

This is the first fic I wrote where I felt like I was finally getting a handle on Steve’s voice, which was a nice surprise! I also had such a strong idea for the premise, but not for the ending, so figuring out how to carry that through but still having a satisfying end to the story was harder than I expected. I’m really glad I figured it out, though.

What inspired Vulture?

For anyone who’s read Vulture, this might sound weird, but trauma. It’s absolutely not 1:1 in the fic (and the story isn’t even really about trauma at all, despite the traumatized characters), but sometimes you gotta write about something through 100 filters and let that writing be a comfortable place to live in. Maybe some of the adjacent themes crept in, but it’s not really a puzzle or a mystery to solve—ultimately the story changed so much after the first few chapters that it isn’t really about that anymore. This is one of those WIPs that I come back to when I need some place where I can solve the problems that come up and it doesn’t even take anything away from me to do it. Also I wanted to explore a way more fun part of life, which is hearing an album so good you would eat it if it was possible, and then add in the sexual tension between Steve and Eddie, plus the vulnerable tension of their feelings.

What was your favorite part to write from Vulture?

I have a lot of favorite parts from this! It’s a pleasure to write, when I have the time to actually sit down and get to it. (Though I did write myself into a corner and had trouble fixing that, which halted progress on it, but I should be able to update it this month unless my life Gets In The Way <3) A few favorites are: 1. When Steve found out Eddie gave nobody else a copy of the tape. 2. The scene where Eddie’s sitting behind the counter at Family Video with Steve, severely sleep deprived, and the follow up scene where Eddie visits Steve at Family Video and brings him something. 3. The callback to the play wrestling scene in Chapter 1 in Chapter 8. That was a long time coming! Especially since I wrote Chapter 8 after a long break from working on this.

How do/did you feel writing Concrete Lovers?

This was a WIP I started almost a full year ago, because so many people were so nice about Acceptance and Negation, which is the first forniphilia/human furniture story I wrote. I wasn’t going to write more of A&N, so I started this one because not only did I want to revisit this kink very badly, but many people have said A&N opened them up to it. So this was written for the human furniture enjoyers, old and new! Including me. I felt great writing it, even though it sat at a dead end for months and months in my WIP folder. The fic I was writing for Dom Eddie week had turned into oh no they’re both switches, and so I decided this was a great chance to work on Concrete Lovers. I love this style of domming, especially from Eddie, who’s always so dramatic that writing him being so casual and playful about domming someone—even if he doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing—is really, really fun. And Steve, man. In A&N I was able to articulate something so fundamental to what I enjoy about enemies to lovers, and the beginnings of getting into a kink you had no idea you had, but I needed to get back inside of his head and go onto the next step. How does he feel when he trusts Eddie so much that he’ll just shrug and go with the flow, until he’s so at peace and horny that he realizes he’s breaking social rules—and Eddie is letting him? How will he feel afterwards as he struggles to get back to normal? They’re both not knowledgeable about BDSM in this fic on purpose, and so navigating the aftercare was a good exercise in not being too “by the book” about it. So all of that to say I had a lot of fun, especially once I got back into it. Even the idea of it—Steve standing there holding up the incense sticks—is so beautiful in my head, it’s very gorgeous and quiet. I’ve never seen incense holder done in any of my research—or “research”—for this kink, so it was satisfying to take it from my head and make it into something concrete. I’m very happy with this one!

What was the most difficult part of writing All Is Fine?

God. Finishing it. This one was so fun to write—right up until it was the most difficult thing to get through, and not for any particular reason! I’m glad I did it though. I think if I had been more committed to fleshing out the first parts before the sex, the rest of it would’ve been more satisfying to write to be honest.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

The scene in Transcending Dualities where Eddie and Steve both dump their tapes out onto the floor to share music is one I love. I think Steve is a “I listen to everything including Rap and Country” kind of guy, so he had a few of the same tapes as Eddie, and the way Eddie figured that out was really funny :’ ) And the scene in Waves where Steve forces Eddie to keep his mouth open by holding his teeth apart with his fingers. It’s just hot, strange, and vulnerable! It’s one of those ideas that hit me in a flash that I had to write immediately.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

Like I said earlier, I hope to update Vulture this month! Other than that, I should have a steddiemicrofic this month, and I’m working on a sequel to Lingual Frenemies for Sub Eddie week in April. And a few other things that I might get done on time for the deadlines for corrodedcoffinfest’s May Mayhem and some steddiesportsau prompts! Also random WIPs I’m tapping away at that might get finished this month. No promises on an update to LARP AU before April but it’s been a while and I did some work on the next installment today. I have a lot of ambitions and very little writing time these days :' )

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thank you to everyone who runs this blog, it’s made my To Be Read list a million miles longer, and I’ve found some fics here that I really loved! Thank you to whoever nominated me, this made my week! It was such a pleasant surprise <3 Also, thank you to anyone who’s given me any encouragement, or feedback. It’s easy to feel like an outsider in a fandom (especially after not participating in one for many years), but I’ve met a lot of friendly people here <3  Lastly; get weirder with it!!!

Thank you to our author, @griefabyss69, and our nominator! See more of GriefAbyss's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[crossdressingdeath]

Alistair: You're... you're taking advantage of the Templars! Encouraging them! And for money! You... despicable, profiteering crook!

It is very interesting seeing this line and then remembering that the context is Alistair being very upset that a Circle mage is... selling (smuggled) lyrium to the Templars. Alistair. Honey. If anyone in this arrangement is taking advantage of anyone it's not Godwin. Also given Godwin can't leave (meaning he can't really do a lot of shopping) I doubt it's just about the money? Like, it would make a lot of sense for part of the reasoning to be "If I'm supplying them with lyrium they'll probably be nice to me". I would love the option for a mage Warden to actually comment on the fact that... yeah, a lot of mages probably have arrangements of some variation or other with the Templars to keep them more or less friendly! Smuggling lyrium for them is probably one of the less upsetting options! The moments where Alistair's Templar training and lack of experience with mages and the Circles come to the surface are so fascinating to me, I'd love to actually discuss it with him.

[necrotic-nephilim]

i recently remembered DickTim Week 2024 is happening very soon and i looked at the prompts again to see if i could get anything out for it and. the Hades & Persephone AU prompt for day 1 has got me really thinking so here's a vague concept i plan to write.

i've been pretty burnt out on modern Hades & Persephone retellings because of how they always seem to fall into the same generic "innocent wide-eyed girl runs from her evil mean mother into the arms of a dark mysterious man because actually she went willingly and chose to marry him" which has gotten repetitive for my tastes. (for clarity i don't care if this retelling is your cup of tea personally, so long as you're not actively trying to rewrite the original myth and claim untrue things about it, if this is your favorite flavor i sincerely hope you enjoy the buffet i just have little interest in it since it feels overdone for me and exhausted of it's supposed commentary atp)

but? but. biblically accurate Hades & Persephone AU has me all kinds of interested. because wait listen so hear me out right. Hades!Dick and Persephone!Tim, obviously. i feel it'd be more loosely inspired by with themes and imagery (though playing with death and nature powers could be interesting, i haven't decided) rather than explicitly making them gods and all. but. something dark and fucked up where Dick and Bruce are especially estranged. maybe to do with Jason's return, maybe to do with them just clashing and having their usual explosive arguments. and Bruce knows the peace needs to be kept, if he and Dick are at odds then everyone starts to pick sides and things just fracture so he needs a peace offering.

and the peace offering is Tim.

Bruce (the stand-in for Zeus) offers up Tim. agrees to have Tim move to Bludhaven and be Dick's... whatever Dick wants him to be. knowing that with the implication comes the likelihood of Dick grooming Tim. and Tim has no real say and is hesitant to put up a real fight. he doesn't want this, he knows what this is going to imply Dick will do to him, but he also knows if he says no things have the possibility to just... fall apart. so he's the unwilling bride, dragged off to the metaphorical underworld (Bludhaven) with Dick, away from his family, his friends, the life he built.

and on the flip side, i think weirdly enough, your best pick for the Demeter stand-in is *Jason*. just, hear me out on that. not necessarily on the side of it being motherly, but on Jason being just estranged enough from the Batfamily to be the one willing to call it out for being bad and wrong and raising bloody hell to get Tim back. maybe it's because Jason wants Tim for himself, maybe it's truly out of a concern for Tim to have autonomy, i'm toying with the idea of it primarily being Tim's POV and him genuinely not knowing which of these is true. (and the truth possibly ends up being a complicated middle ground) and because i like Helena, i think you can use her as the Hekate stand in, the one who strikes a tentative alliance with Jason and tries to go find Tim and bring him back. Tim stuck with Dick, getting groomed and hyperaware of it, possibly even getting fucked the whole time as well, knowing he can't go back without causing massive issues for Dick and Bruce because well, Bruce did promise him to Dick. so he has to adjust his whole life, try to figure out being a vigilante in this new city with Dick breathing down his neck the whole time.

and then much like the ending of the myth, a sort of compromise is struck that's a shaky deal for everyone involved. Tim is put on an essential timeshare, going back and forth between Gotham, where he has friends and family and a support system, then getting dragged right back to Bludhaven with Dick in this brutal cycle that he slowly gets used to and stockholm'd into even liking it. Dick isn't so bad, once he gets used to the quirks of their unbalanced 'relationship'. the sex is even something he can adjust to as well. not quite a happy ending but one that sits in this realistic grey area that becomes Tim's life.

i will write this, eventually, but i don't know if i'll get to it before DickTim Week ends so by posting the idea i'm essentially putting it out into the world so the peer pressure holds me accountable. i just. really like the potential of making Hades/Persephone AUs as fucked up as they can be simply by adhering to the source material and making it a raw story of being stolen away and forced to like this new home you didn't ask for.

also a less fleshed-out aspect of this idea i have ties into Persephone becoming the Queen of the Underworld when she's taken and how the transition from Kore to Persephone could be reflected in Tim. how he makes the best of the worst situation and becomes something far more dangerous and dark when he's in Bludhaven, possibly takes on a new vigilante name/identity and leans into the worst quirks of his personality he tries to tamper because there's no point in not going full tilt Obsessively Weird if he has no choice anyway and it being one small way he takes back his autonomy, and that inevitably making Dick *more* into him, because he gets to see Tim finally just. let loose.

[smile-files]

pros of being introspective:

you know exactly what your problems are and what caused them

cons of being introspective:

you have no idea what to do about them

[tethered-heartstrings]

how do you get story ideas? i love creative writing but i can never find ideas for what to write about. do the ideas just come to you? do you do anything to inspire you?

it is a bit of both. sometimes ideas just come to me, especially pwps. a scene pops into my head and then i build a bigger scene/story around it. usually like "wow that wound be hot if xyz..." and then figuring out how to make that happen. sometimes it is something vague that inspires me like "werewolves" and then my brain goes 100mph and thinks of things that could fit into that kind of story/idea. for my first long fic, i had an idea but nothing super specific, and as the story progressed, a big monumental scene would come to me and i would build up to and taper down from that moment, versus me thinking of all the steps in between first. a good chunk of that story was me writing as i go (not ideal for me personally)

the most specific thing that inspired me to write, which was the first time it has really happened, was seeing @hannibalhadalittlelamb's art from an ask prompt. and the best way i can describe it is i saw it and the story started to unravel in my head. i didn't have to "think" about it, my brain made pieced something together

what's helped me is anytime i get an idea, even if it is vague or silly, i write it down and add any details or scenes or ideas that could fit. they may not all make the final cut, but it helps my brain formulate an idea. once i have disjointed ideas, i "sketch" out a plot and make the ideas in a linear timeline.

i also have some mutuals i bounce an idea off of and see if it works, and then in explaining it to them the plot starts to "write itself" if that makes sense. the big idea organically branches itself out to smaller, more specific details

i struggle with creative writing, but writing for a fandom and having pre-established characters that i understand helps a lot. i just take those personalities and sometimes canon events and reshape them to fit a new situation. i never force an idea. if it comes to me, and the vague plot "writes itself", then that's awesome. but if i stare at a prompt and nothing comes to me, i just scratch that and move on. i chase the lightbulbs that turn on, but i won't bother with making the ones that are burned out work.

[alwaysbethewest]

Dave York is an older, edgier (read: murdery) Marcus Pike 🤷‍♀️ It’s totally possible to remain on the edge of the pit as an observer. I’ve watched Equalizer 2 an embarrassing number of times and haven’t fallen in.

No chance against Joel and a knife, the “you’re next” smirk, and “WHAT TOWN.” I’ll dig the holes for that man’s dead bodies 🥲

Received this yesterday and honestly couldn't reply to it because every time I read that second paragraph and remembered that scene I felt tingly all over and could no longer function 🥴

I do find Dave an interesting character but I don't find myself drawn to interpretations of him that are, I guess, redemptive? I prefer ones that embrace his dark side.

[stellarspecter]

okay yall I kinda wanna write a fic transing steve harrington's gender there are some good ones out there but I want to also lmao

[itsabird-itsaplane-nopejustabird]

DPxDC Prompt

I've had this idea for a while (since seeing that art of Johnny and Kitty robbing a bank so Danny can get Top Surgery lol) but I haven't even had the brain to work on my own fic recently (sorry about that btw) so I'm writing this instead

So the concept:

T4T Johnny and Kitty, who died in the 80s after running away together.

Johnny was the kid of some rich asshole automobile mogul from Bristol, and Kitty was one of the workers' kids from the Narrows. They become friends, fall in love, both realize they're trans around the same time and then decide to run. They know that being trans on top of tax bracket difference gives them almost no chance of making it. Johnny steals a bike and a fuck-ton of money from his parents, and Kitty's parent(s) helps them leave.

They're still toxic and spiteful as hell, but nothing the other does can change the fact that they know and understand each other better than anyone else could.

They travel around the country being menaces together for a while until they decide to settle down in a strange city called Amity Park. They figured it could handle a couple more anomalies. But before they can get there, they get into a bike wreck with their final thoughts being of each other and Johnny specifically cursing his bad luck in life.

The next thing they know, they're in the infinite realms being given the chance to stay together and the freedom to simply exist with no strings attached. (Other than each other cause I firmly believe that they're mutually the others' obsession)

About 20 years have passed, a portal to their old world is permanently open and this scrawny little ass kid ghost that they've never even heard of keeps stopping them from going through it.

It isn't until Johnny actually starts paying attention a few months into it that he notices that first, the little shit can actually fight, and second, HE WAS FIGHTING THEM WITH A BINDER ON. (Johnny also vaguely wonders why Danny looks so much like his old neighbor Brucie, but that's less important than the binder thing). Johnny lets out the universal ghost fight timeout signal and vaguely explains the situation to Danny, who seems confused about the noise he made and why it made him stop.

Johnny gets Kitty to spread the word that if the timeout isn't called off by the next morning, stay TF away until they get an all-clear.

That night, *after yelling at him a bit*, he starts teaching Danny how to reshape his ghost form to his preference and even his vocal cords.

From there, Johnny and Kitty sorta ghost adopt him as a sibling and then take him to Frostbite to make sure his T-shots are ecto compatible.

(I hope this was coherent it's 4am for me and I haven't slept lol)

[cyripticchronicler]

How Could I Hate You?

Paring: James Potter x Fem!reader

Summary: You’ve hated James Potter for as long as you could remember. However, entering your last year as Head Girl and James as Head Boy, you’re forced to interact with the man you want nothing to do with. What are you supposed to do when you realise he’s not the egotistical jerk you made him out to be?

T/W: None

A/N: It's been way too long!! I've been more into writing poems lately, so I haven't had time for my lovely fan fictions. However, I sat in a forest and listened to the birds sing for a while today and finally gained enough inspiration to finish writing this fic I started a little while ago (this is also my longest fic yet, so go me). I hope everyone's doing well!!

Masterlist James Potter Masterlist

You absolutely hated James Potter. His egotistical smile grated at your nerves like no other, an unhappy frown pulling at your lips every time he was around. Paired with his unserious personality and sickly handsome face, you wanted nothing to do with the man. 

However, fate - or Hogwarts for that matter- had other ideas, and both you and James Potter became Head Boy and Head girl during your last year. 

James Potter barely knew anything about you. He vaguely remembers you during third year, the meek, quiet girl that accidentally fell victim to one of the Maruader’s prank’s, leaving you with half of your hair coloured pink. The half-assed apology you received was nothing compared to the judgmental and amused looks you received in the month it took for your hair to return to normal. 

The ever-loved James had planned to mention this story to break the ice between you both. He was so used to being loved by everyone that he couldn’t hide the disappointment on his face when you merely smiled at his story and kept walking. 

He was not one to give up. “You really did suit the pink,” He jokes, bright, eager eyes looking at you in hopes of seeing just a smidge of a smile. All he got was a fake laugh in return. 

You didn’t hold a grudge against him for the prank he did years ago, but still couldn’t get over the mere audacity this man possessed with each step he took and flirty comment he made. You look over at him from where he walks beside you, head down, hands in his robe pockets. Perhaps you were being too hard on the boy. He’s Head Boy, so he can’t be that bad- “You always take things so seriously, don’t you? It’s no surprise that you’re only friends with boring nerds.” He laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully. 

Ouch. Hurt stings your heart, and you attempt to shake it off. Your steps falter for a short moment, but long enough for James to notice. He frowns, worried that he’s hurt you. Before he can backtrack or apologise, you’re already ahead, speaking your first words of the night to a third-year roaming the corridors and ordering them to go back to their dorm. They roll their eyes but comply, and James feels it too late to apologise. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

“Don’t make me go,” You plead like a four-year-old, wrapping your arms around Dorcas’ right arm. She looks up from the book in her hands and attempts to shake you off, her voice laced with amusement. “You’re the one who wanted to be Head Girl. So go and fulfill your duties and patrol with the infamous James Potter.”

“He’s horrible, Dorcas,” You whine, falling down to the floor when she manages to shake you off, a low groan escaping your lips when you hit your head particularly hard. You know you’re being pathetic, but you’re allowed to be when you’re stuck walking with an egotistical teenage boy three nights a week.

“He’s the golden boy with a six-pack and a cute smile. Stop complaining and flirt!” A pillow is thrown at you to emphasise her words, and you groan once again. With a glare sent her way and a huff, you stand up from your spot on the carpeted floor, still staring at her as you dramatically open the door. 

“Don’t have too much fun!” You scoff, turning around to leave and running into the one person you really didn’t want to see. 

James Potter leans against the wall beside the door, a playful smirk playing on his stupidly handsome face. “Not too much fun, hey?” You resist the urge to pull his glasses off of his face and throw them to the floor. 

You hate that you can feel your cheeks start to heat, growing shy at the realisation that he heard what Dorcas said. Avoiding his eyes, you close the door behind you and rush down the steps, trying not to focus on the steps sounding behind you. 

It’s only when you exit the common room that he speaks again. “How are you?” He questions, ensuring his steps match with yours. “Fine.” You bluntly respond. At the awkward silence and the fact you can’t stand being impolite, you coldly ask, “How are you?”

He visibly perks up at your question, raising his head to look at you with his golden brown eyes and million-dollar smile. “I’m good! I’ve been practicing for the Quidditch match this weekend. Are you going to come?”

“No.” You state, folding your arms against your chest and looking ahead. Your shoes clatter against the stone steps, the cool night air hugging your skin. 

“You don’t have to feel bad about going alone. It will still be fun!” He smiles goofily, revealing more of his throat as he looks up at the stars. Your admiration is cut short when you process what he said. “Um…what?”

The way James’s eyes widened would have been almost comical if you weren’t so offended. “That sounds bad. You can bring people, obviously, but I just figured you’d go alone-“

“Do you think I have no friends or something?” You've stopped in the middle of the field, eyes narrowed in accusation. You dig your nails into your arm, focusing on the pain it creates instead of the pain his words inflict. 

“No! I mean - you're just always…y’know…by yourself.” He stumbles, hands raising in defence. Your tongue rolls against the inside of your cheek. “So now I’m a loner?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “No. No. Merlin, can you just listen to me?” At your silence, he continues, “I shouldn’t have assumed that you'd go alone, but can you blame me? You never go out, and I just figured that if you were to go out, you'd be by yourself.” 

The sound of crickets is the only thing that can be heard, an uncomfortable silence thick between you. You take a deep breath and turn your back to him, beginning to walk back to the castle. “I saw a movement in one of the potions classrooms, I’m going to check it out.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Don’t, James. Just don’t.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

James Potter’s eyes bore into yours from across the Great Hall, and you’ve never been so grateful for Miss McGonagall as she leads you around the room, pointing at areas in the room. “This year's theme for the yule ball is going to be Winter Wonderland. You and James have two months to decorate this entire hall. I want you two working together on making a wonderfully decorated ball…”

Her words are quickly drowned out by the discomfort bubbling in your stomach. James walks away from where he is, looking around to listen in to what Miss McGonagall is saying. It’s only when she walks away that you finally process your surroundings. “Looks like we’re going to have to spend a lot of time together.” He laughs uncomfortably. 

You guys haven’t spoken since that awkward night two days ago, and he’s unsure how to act around you. “I guess we will.” You lean against the wall behind you, sliding down and sitting on the cool floor with crossed legs. Taking out a pad of paper and some charcoal from your bag, you begin a quick sketch of the room. 

You’re surprised when James sits beside you, stomach fluttering with anxious butterflies. “What…are you doing?” 

He turns to look at you, dimples staring right at you. “You heard her, we’re doing this together.” He’s careful to keep a good distance, and you keep your head down, eyes on the paper in front of you. “I’m just doing a quick sketch.” 

He taps the paper gently. “It’s very good. Do you draw often?” You ignore his attempts at making conversation and instead begin a hopefully short conversation about the decorations. “I was thinking we could have white roses in the middle of each table and maybe this tree archway.” 

He sighs at the change of conversation. “Listen, about the other day-”

“James, we really don’t need to talk about it. I don’t like you, but I can remain professional, and that’s all that matters.” At the defeated, almost frustrated look in his eyes, you can’t help but scoff. “What? Can’t you handle the thought that someone doesn’t like you? As much as people say you are, you’re not all that.” You abruptly stand up and begin walking out the hall, poison lacing your voice, “I’ll send you the list of ideas I have for the ball, and you do the same. We can talk about it more next time you’re free.”

You’re already out of the room before he can utter a word. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

Despite the cruel words you uttered the last time you saw each other, James Potter shows up to your library get-together with a bright smile on his face. “Hello, love. I brought you a cupcake. Red velvet.” He places it on the table in front of you, and you shift your attention from your book to the small, delicious treat. 

“You’re late,” You mutter grumbly. Despite your angry mood, you still slowly grab the cupcake, immediately bringing it to your mouth, unable to resist taking a bite. “I’m sorry. I’m a busy man, y’know?” 

“I’m busy, too, James. We only have ten minutes to go over everything before I have to help this group of first-year students with Potions.” You scowl, rolling your eyes and continuing to eat the cupcake. 

He ignores your words and instead grabs the book you were reading in front of you. “This is a muggle book, is it not? I’ve seen my friend Remus reading this.” You yank the book back and carefully put it into your bag. “Yes, he’s the one who recommended it to me.”

In hopes of reducing personal conversation, you jump straight into talking about the ball. “Now, about the ball. I’ve given the list of things we need to Miss McGonagall. The stuff should arrive next week Monday. We need to figure out what days we’re free to decorate.” You fiddle with the cupcake wrapper, looking down at his ruffled robes rather than his eyes. 

“I’m busy on Saturdays for Quiddich practice, and I’m going to a party on Friday.” He smiles, unbothered by your quiet, grumpy mood. 

“Okay, we can do Sundays and Tuesdays after school. Now, because you showed up so damn late I have to go and we’re going to have to meet again so let me know when you’re free.” He follows you when you stand up, gently grabbing hold of your arm before you can leave. 

He forces you to stare into his eyes, and you’re surprised at the pure sincerity in them. “I’m sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.”

You take a deep breath, overwhelmed with confusion at the fact he apologised. “Okay. I forgive you. Don’t let it happen again, please.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t let go of your arm like you expected, instead, he holds it tighter. “Are you free Friday night? Come to the party with me.”

“I’m not free Friday. I have a date.” 

“A date?” His voice is deep, unfamiliar. You nod awkwardly and pull your arm from his grip. “Yeah, I’m not actually a loner, James.” You laugh awkwardly before walking away. 

You leave him standing there, gaping at your retreating figure.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

You can hear James before you can see him. His loud, heavy footsteps, matched with his obnoxious laugh, is enough to warn you about his presence.

You keep your focus on the task at hand, moving your wand up as you attach decor to the roof. He’s unfazed by your cool attitude, playfully nudging your shoulder. 

“So…” his voice grates at your nerves more than usual, “how’d  your date go?”

Right. The date. The reason for your extra pissy mood this morning. “It was fine.” You hoped he would get the hint that you didn’t want to talk about it, but James couldn’t take a sign if it smacked him in the face.

“Just fine? Tell me about it,” he pestered, gently poking your side, the hand holding your wand falters, the decoration almost falling to the floor. You give up on your task, glaring and beginning to walk away.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Cmonnnn,” his voice raises a pitch and you scowl, “tell me how it went.” He goes to grab your arm, and you move back. You scoff. “I don't want to talk about it.”

His brown, usually playful eyes turn serious in an instant. A crease formed between his brows, and a frown that didn’t suit his usually happy face painted his lips. “Did he do something?”

At the concern and genuine curiosity in his voice, you can’t help but let your shoulders fall, keeping your head down as you whisper, “he didn’t even show.” 

“Oh.” Pink tints your cheeks, and shame curls your spine. “Wel,l it’s his loss. I’m sure he would have had a blast if he went”

You clear your throat and begin sorting through boxes, trying to ignore the lump in your chest. “Yeah, I guess.” He moves to stand next to you, shoulders almost brushing while he sorts things next to you. 

“I mean it.” He turns his head to look at you, and you look back, captured by those swirling brown eyes. “Any guy would be lucky to go on a date with you.”

A shaky breath leaves your parted lips, and you're unsure why his words have such an impact on you. Maybe it’s the way his eyes never broke eye contact. Maybe it’s because he’s standing right under a lamp, and his hair looks golden brown. Or maybe it’s because his words only held sincerity- even longing, if you felt like being delusional. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

James Potter was pointing a wand at your face. 

He was all arrogance as he crept closer towards you, a stupid smirk on his stupid face, his stupid eyes alight with mischief. 

You raise your own wand, the wood cool and familiar in your hands, gripping it tightly. You watch his movements- the way his shoulders tense slightly and his eyes squint a smidge. “Expelliarmus.” His voice rings out, sure and loud. Expecting his attack, you're quick to block the spell. 

You address the crowd without taking your eyes off of the boy in front of you. “When sparring, you want to study the person. Learn their tells.” The group of students nod in acknowledgment, much more interested in seeing who will win instead of learning. 

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher wanted you and James to come in and give a visual demonstration of sparring for some of the younger students. You were happy to agree, having only dreamed of a moment like this. 

James was making it easy to spar with him: with his cocky comments about how he was going to win and the flirty winks he keeps shooting your way, you were more than happy to get him on his knees. 

“Stupefy,” you mutter, scowling when he shouts a defence spell. “You're doing well,” he smiles encouragingly, “I’m pretty good at sparring and most people would have been on their ass by now.” 

It’s the fact that he seems genuinely surprised at your doing well that sends annoyance travelling up your spine. His ego is bigger than Snapes, Merlin could he be anymore of an ass? 

“Do you want me to go easy on you-“

“-langlock.” He’s quiet in an instant, unable to speak with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Eyes widened in shock, the hand that holds his wand falters, and you don’t hesitate to yell, “Levicorpus.”

The forgotten crowd behind you laughs as an imaginary force holds James in the air by his ankle. “I saw you use this on someone just the other day. How does it feel to be on the receiving end?” Despite the obvious annoyance swirling in his eyes, a glint lightens the caramel brown. 

“It feels rather sickening, I’d admit,” he groans, his head getting redder by the second. You smile at his obvious discomfort. “Do you want me to go easy on you?” You mock, voice lowering in a feeble attempt to match his voice. 

Despite his complicated position, he smiles brightly at your teasing. “If you wouldn’t mind, love.” You point your wand and smile innocently. “Okay.” The loud thud of him falling to the ground is enough to make you smile.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

“She beat me at a duel. Me, James Potter.” His voice was especially loud as he walked around aisles in the library, an amusing look of shock on his face. Remus snorts from beside him, walking towards a particular genre of books. 

“Believe it or not, James, you’re not always going to win. And she’s one of the best students in the school.” Despite James’ whiny tone, his heart was filled with pride. He knew you were a good witch, and he was finally glad to witness first-hand what you were made of. 

“Now,” James catches himself before he completely stumbles into Remus, shooting the scarred man a sheepish smile. “This is the book you wanted, right?” Despite himself, James feels the apple of his cheeks turn red at the familiar book cover in Remus’s hands. 

Merlin, what he’s doing is so dorky and pathetic. But he didn’t like the idea that he knew nothing about your hobby of reading - a hobby you waste most of your days doing. So he forced Remus to come to the library with him, under the guise of wanting to pick up a new hobby. He managed to remember the name of the book you were reading and asked Remus to find it for him. 

Grabbing the book from Remus’s hands, he began walking towards the counter, hoping Remus would return to studying and leave it at that. His hopes were not answered. “I’m surprised you’re getting into reading. It’s never been your thing.”

Recognising the suspicion in his voice, James walks faster. “Just wanted to try something new.”

“Well, it’s funny you picked that book; you know this is a certain Head Girl’s favorite book?”

He doesn’t look back. “Really? I didn’t even know she could…read.” At his mix-up, he comes to a complete halt, shoulders slumping in defeat. He keeps his head down as he mutters, “Fine, I chose this book because she read it.”

“Really? I thought she couldn’t read.” At James’ glare, Remus’ amused expression turns into one of pity. “James Potter is reading for a girl. A girl that beat him in a duel, nonetheless. Do you have a crush?” James scowls despite his pinking cheeks, and Remus laughs gently in response. 

“I do not have a crush. I just think I should be getting to know her more since she’s Head Girl and she doesn’t like me much.” James finally reaches the counter, chucking the dastard book on the counter much too harshly for the librarian's liking, earning a scathing glare that he ignores. 

Remus doesn’t continue the conversation any longer, but the silence does nothing to calm the fast beating of his heart as his thoughts spiral and his breathing becomes uneven. James might just have a crush on you.  

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

It was becoming harder and harder to dislike James. In fact, you weren’t sure why you were ever angry at him. Sure, he’s arrogant and immature, but right now, all you can think about is the way he’s comforting a crying first-year in the hall, genuine worry coating his actions as he pulls the little boy in for a hug. 

You’re not sure what to do, standing there awkwardly in the hall and shuffling on your feet. You can’t look away; the kind look in James’ eyes is too sincere, his smile is too perfect, and his words are too warm. You’re scared you’re going to melt. 

“It’s okay, bud. They’re mean and cruel, but you’re strong. You stood up for yourself, and that’s pretty great.” You can’t take this side of James. His caring, nurturing side. 

So you turn around and smile awkwardly at one of the moving paintings. Behind you, you can faintly hear James mutter the words, “You’re going to be a great seeker one day,” then some shuffling before a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder. 

You jump and turn to meet James’s amused eyes. “What are you doing staring at the wall, love?” Your eyebrows raise, and your eyes widen, mind whirring to come up with an answer besides the truth. “I just realised I’ve never actually stopped to appreciate the stone walls.”

“You’re an interesting one,” He claims with no real malice. You just laugh awkwardly and keep walking. “Is that first year okay?”

His smile dims at the thought of the young boy. “He’s alright. I promised to take him to Quiddich training one day; he wants to be a seeker.”

“That’s awfully thoughtful of you.” You smile, raising your eyes to look into his for barely a minute before looking away. If you had looked long enough, you would have noticed the pink that travelled up his neck and painted his cheeks, mouth open like a blubbering fish. 

In hopes of looking calm and casual, he strugs off your compliment with an awkward,  “U-u,h it was nothing, really.” You’re not ready to let the conversation end. “No, it was really sweet-”

“I’m reading a book!” 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. James Potter was a stupid, awkward young man - or at least he thought so. You didn’t mind the abrupt change in topic, especially if it was about a book.

Your face visibly lit up, the warm spark in your eyes growing tenfold. “Yeah? What book?”

The casual name drop of your favorite book coming from James’ deep voice has a bright smile taking over your gleeful face. James was too happy to be blinded by such a light. 

“Really?” At his nod, you grip his arm and jump like a crazed woman. “I love that book!” You stop jumping and stare hopefully, wanting to know his every thought about the book you’ve read more times than you could count. 

“Really? I had no idea,” He laughs awkwardly. “The main character is probably my favorite.” It’s only when he starts walking do you remember that you’re still holding onto his arm, awkwardly dropping it at your side. 

“The main character?” He nods. You move your hand to fiddle with your hair. “I…She always reminded me of me. She’s always underestimated because she’s quiet, which I understand, and some of the things she’s gone through reminds me of my own memories- not that I’m saying you like her because she reminds you of me or anything.” 

At your anxious ramblings, James stops, a gentle smile pulling at his plush lips. He moves so his eyes meet yours, and you’re too captivated to look away. “No, that’s exactly why she’s my favorite. She reminds me of you.” 

Your stunned silence doesn’t bother him, and he moves closer, the soles of his shoes touching yours. A large hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and you’re sure that you’re dreaming things when he mutters, “And that guy she’s dating? The captain of the football team? He reminds me of me. Different sport and all, but desperate for the attention of the girl.” 

The whispers of his words graze your cheek, and you’re glad he had pulled away quickly before you did something stupid like kiss him. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

You stared at the hall like an artist would stare at their paintings. Everything had come out better than you expected, and you were in awe of the glowing lights that shimmered in the eyes of the happy students as they danced and laughed. 

Your eyes shimmered, but you were void of laughter and dance. No one had asked you to the Yule Ball, and you had no desire to ask anyone yourself. You didn’t mind being alone, you just didn’t like the pitying looks being thrown your way. Dorcas was already lost on the dance floor, and you didn’t want to ruin her night.

So you stood in the corner, smiling at the buzz of happiness that floated across the room. You weren’t alone for long. “Would you care for a dance?” James Potter was clad in a suit, standing in front of you with a playful smirk and outstretched hand. 

A laugh of absurdity broke free from your coloured lips. “Ginny has been looking at you ever since you entered the hall. Go dance with her.” Despite your words, you wanted him to stay. His presence was comforting.

“Ginny and I didn’t work hard for months decorating this hall. Now,” He shakes his outstretched hand impatiently, “let’s dance.” 

You wouldn’t be surprised if the punch was spiked because you lost your inhibitions too quickly for your liking, grasping his warm hand and letting him drag you onto the dance floor. 

With his hand on your waist and the other holding yours, you’re forced to distract yourself from his touch by the band that plays at the front, the slow, deep voice of the singer enough to make you want to fall asleep. 

You rest your cheek on his shoulder and close your eyes. 

“Tired?” The kiss he places on your neck is enough to make you wide awake again, but you still nod.

“I bet you are. You’ve been working so hard lately with the ball and with the test you had today. How did that go, by the way? I’m sure you did great-”

“What are you doing?” You tense under his touch, his words, his hands, all becoming too much. As if sensing your discomfort, he pulls away. “What do you mean?” 

You stare at him for a short moment before your gaze falls to your fiddling hands. “You’re being…kind. I don’t know what to do.”

“Be kind back, maybe?” He attempts to joke but falls short. “I don’t know why you have such a hard time being kind to me, but if I’ve done something wrong, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I really do like you.”

Your silence is enough to make him pull away; you grow cold without his touch. 

“I’m sorry.” He stops his quick actions of leaving. “I’m not…I’ve been cold, and I’m sorry. You’re just so…scary. Merlin, the only interaction we had before we became Head Boy and Head Girl was when you turned my hair pink.”

He takes a step closer, and you take a step back, guilt spilling out of you in the form of words. 

“It’s just…I judged you wrongly, and I’m sorry. I really am. You’re not an egotistical and mean person. You’re actually really sweet, and it’s playing with my heart. I’m torn between caring for you like I haven’t cared for anyone before and thinking of you the way I always thought of you. 

He reaches for your hands, cradling them gently. “I understand. I’ve only really shown you the arrogant side of myself, and it’s not wrong for you to assume I am otherwise. It’s just much easier to talk to a pretty lady when I feel like I can make her mine.”

“You could have any girl in the school, and you know that.” He shakes his head at your words, the sound of laughter fading behind you as he leads you away from the hall, down corridors and through doors until you’re both outside, the moonlit glow hugging you like a baby’s blanket.

He tightens his grip on your hands and utters with a small smile, “I couldn’t have the only one that really matters because I messed it up when I dyed half her hair pink.”

You scoff and avoid his eyes. “You could have me.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Just don’t break my heart.”

“To break your heart would be to break my own. Why would I want to break something that I care for so deeply? That is worth the gold of millions of men?” He falls to his knees in front of you, hands gently gripping the fabric of your dress, looking up at you with eyes filled with more passion than a writer writing a romance. 

You let yourself breathe in the cool night air, the cold spreading against your flushed skin. “I’m scared. You’re too good for me, James. Too good for me.” Despite yourself, your shaking hand moves to cup his cheek. He places a long kiss on your palm, never breaking contact with your misty eyes. 

“Why would you say that, my love? You have so much courage. So much power and kindness.” At your silence, he slowly raises, never wanting to be separated from your touch as his hands move to your hips and his head falls to the crook of your neck. 

Your hands fall to his head, playing with his soft curls. You look up at the ceiling and sniff as a lone tear falls down your cheek. “I’m sorry for being so rude when we first met.”

“And I’m sorry for turning your hair pink.” His breath tickles your neck. 

“You’re forgiven.” 

You can barely get the words out before his lips are against yours, gentle and warm and right where you want them to be. 

[seafoamsol]

The best years of my life...

... what I wouldn't give to have them back.

I had the great pleasure of working with @spiderscribe on a DeadCeptor work for the @tf-bigbang, which you can (and should!) read [ HERE ]!

Details and artist commentary under the cut!

Okay, first off, I just wanna say, thank you so much to @spiderscribe for picking up my very loose scribble and taking the jump. She's an absolute champ, and I IMPLORE you to read her writing. She did a knockout job on the fic, and guaranteed, these two pieces wouldn't have been so elaborate without her. If you're a fan of deadceptor, parallels, lovers to enemies to apocalyptic teammates to ???s, I'm sure you'll find that and more in there.

[ HERE ] is the link to that, if you missed it the first time around.

The background for the supermarket was a MASSIVE undertaking. I ended up blurring it in the final to keep the dream-like quality, but there is a lot happening there! Most of the time I spent on the background was (jokingly) complaining though.

Anyone who works retail will know the agony of customer-misplaced stock. The little canisters of energon additives seem like prime candidates to be placed willy-nilly.

The little warning sign... My favorite soda, apple sidra, has a carcinogen warning, so I'm familiar with it. It was slightly surprising to me that those warnings are not countrywide, despite the fact that they very clearly say "California Proposition 65", and well. Not something else, like "Federal" or whatever.

The bags of nuts and bolts below, I asked several people what flavor they would be, and I suppose I failed in my job, because I wanted the purple to be the "regular" flavor, and the green to be the "sour". But grape and lemon-lime work as well!

The tub is full of rust-sticks. I have no idea if that came across. My friends kept calling the individually wrapped ones slim jims, which I mean, I guess!

The car batteries... My idea was that they were similar to shots, in a way? So that's how I ended up with a battery with enough terminals to rival an international airport. It's also sunset-coloured, because, I don't know, that's what Party Flavor is to me.

Okay. The second illustration. This one was a headache, mostly due to my own lack of planning, and the fact that I lost the file for... basically everything I did, including the above illustration. So it was a bit of a rush job.

The background bots started off as these very vague silhouettes, which I'm a little proud of. Look at how nice and somewhat readable they are! Okay, now what if I ruined it? What? You don't like that? That's rather unfortunate, because that's what I proceeded to do. In fact, if I take off all.. 10 or something adjustment layers, they look like this:

My process went: Shadow block> Fill rest of form> Color randomiser> Copy and skew (to populate background)> Hue adjustment> Gradient map> Fill Light> Chromatic aberration> Vignette> Levels> Curves.

The.... Magenta cube is there because due to the nature of the color randomiser, the foot had a high value, and stuck out like nobody's business in the end.

Here's what it would look like without the cube. Begone, distracting white blob! (I didn't have to worry about the lava arm because Percy happened to cover it up. What a save! But if he didn't then... there would have been a second cube.)

Basically, it was a mess. But... at least it came out fine in the end! I hope!

I'd love to have speedpaints on hand, but I was switching between CSP and PS for a good majority of the work.

I'd say that's it for these two pieces! I actually have more, but those demand more time. I'm much slower at doing inks than I am at painting, but I hope you'll get to see them soon.

[sanguinesmi1e]

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 (you're here)

Full fic on Ao3

Art of LBM

Pt. 4: An Unexp-ectoed Party (not on Ao3 yet)

Constantine was quietly freaking out. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that the ghost who had turned itself into a cute little tatzelwurm to avoid answering questions might be something far beyond his capabilities to deal with. Everything it said and did suggested it was way outside his scope of experience. While Tim used a shoelace to play with it like a rambunctious kitten, John mentally catalogued the things that threatened to give him a panic attack:

Before the ghost even arrived, the blinding power flowing through his spell array nearly knocked him flat. It had felt like being swatted in the eyeballs by an eldritch god.

The ghost appeared in human form, fully alive, before being transformed by the summoning magic. John had only ever heard whispers of legends about a being who could do such a thing. The legends were vague and grandiose, but some epithets included The One Who Walks Between, He Who Straddles Life and Death, Twilight Walker, Shroud Danger Child, and The Halver. 

The ghost could not only see his soul at a glance, it could perceive all the damage he had done making deals with demons.

The ghost implied it was on casual, friendly terms with the Ancient of Time aka Chronos, Kala, Father Time, etc. And that it had altered the timeline at least once already.

It could age. Despite what the ghost said, only Neverborn should be able to age. The dead were static, and given the death that he could feel sustaining the portal, this ghost had definitely died.

It was brilliant enough to pinpoint a weakness and successfully distract Tim by transforming into a shape that could manipulate his protective instincts. John did not want to admit that he also felt protective of the cute little blighter.

It had hopped out of the summoning circle as if it were just chalk scribbles, despite John working in some of his most powerful containment spells as a matter of what he had thought was excessive precaution.

Shite, the list had already reached seven items. The tatzelwurm (had Drake really just named the thing Little Baby Man?) glared at him and called him “Gross!” 

“Seriously!? This cloaking spell should be more than sufficient.” John grumbled. “Did it really have no effect?” If so, that was gonna be item number eight.

Little Baby Man tilted his head. “It worked.” Then he huffed with amusement. 

Thank fuck for small blessings. 

A quickly muttered spell turned his burning cigarette into a makeshift sort of laser pointer, and Constantine distracted Little Baby Man while he tried to think of what to do next.

“Hey kid, this is a problem.” He kept his voice low, and watched to see if the tatzelwurm appeared to pay any attention to him. It dedicated all its attention to the glowing dot, and ignored the two men.

“I assume this isn’t the normal direction your interrogations go.” Drake wound his shoelace around his hand and pocketed it. “It’s certainly a first for me.”

“Ditto, in so many ways.”

“Any idea what to do now?”

“We should probably return him where he came from, and wait for Zatanna to get back from wherever she’s disappeared to now.” John would really like a second opinion. He would also like to dump this mess in someone else’s lap and be on his way. 

Although to be fair, watching the tatzelwurm careen around after his lazer dot was actually pretty fun. Not that he’d ever admit it. Still, the creature was done answering questions and John wasn’t prepared to bind the thing because he didn’t think he’d need to pack the tools to bind an eldritch god when Batman called him to do a “quick consult.”

Danny couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. The CEO person played with him! He did feel a bit bad for hurting his foot, but it was difficult to dwell on regrets or worries when he could attack the string instead. And now there was a red dot to chase! It was very fast and sneaky, but he was faster and sneakier.

Is this what Paulina felt like when she wished herself to be a giant chibi version of herself to be loved and worshipped by everyone? Because he felt adorable. And fierce. He was going to kill that red dot so hard when he finally sunk his claws in it!

Frustratingly, it seemed to also have intangibility powers. Well, Danny knew what to do about that! He concentrated ectoplasm into his paw and bapped it down hard on the dot. This scorched the floor a bit, but when he lifted his paw, the red dot was skewered on one of his claws. It tried to tug away, but he clung tight. Apparently its size belied its strength, because it started to drag him across the floor. 

Danny tried to release the dot, but his claw was firmly snagged, so he resigned himself to being dragged back into the chalk circle. He tingled a bit as he crossed the perimeter, but it wasn’t a bad sensation, just a little odd. Then a portal opened up and pulled him through the water filled tube snake toy sensation in reverse and ugh! Just as bad the second time, if not worse.

The spell spat him out in human form under the Specter Speeder. Or rather, it ejected him at speed so he smacked into the bottom of the Speeder before falling back to the ground with a heavy thud. Thankfully he didn’t crack his head against the concrete, but he still couldn’t stifle a pained groan.

A firm hand wrapped around Danny’s ankle and dragged him out, and he found himself staring up at Drake and Constantine for the third time that day.

“Uh, hi,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I have some explaining to do.”

Being able to create ghost portals would come in real handy right about now. Maybe he should just commit some arson and let these two deal with escaping the basement on their own.

[ghsface]

Hi k have a kinda specific request that I thought would make a good fic! I was thinking that maybe we see the BAU and y/n and Spencer the morning after Yk… the girls figure out that y/n just got layes and they do the whole bonding girl gossip thing. Derek sees Spencer wearing a scarf and makes a joke about it, only to realize that he was right. Penelope tells Derek and then without y/n or Spencer realizing like everyone knows. They also figure out why Reid is the only one with hikeys 🫢 and yeah…. Thanks queen! I hope this makes sense

New Message ✮⋆˙

Hey gorgeous, I love this idea so much, it was very fun to write I hope you like 🎀 🩷

our secret, not so secret - Spencer Reid

Sumary: You and Spencer try to hide your relationship, but it's hard when you have hickeys on your neck.

Warnings: fluff, jokes, hickeys, the bau being chaotic, I think that's all, this is pure fluff,

A/n: I'm sorry if there is something wrong or not understood, my first language is not English.

⛧°。 ⋆༺ ✮ ༻⋆。 °⛧

It was a chaotic morning for you. You woke up a little late and the mess was evident in Spencer's bathroom mirror, with those little reminders on your neck that not even the concealer could completely hide. You were aware that you were trying a desperate maneuver, but well, Spencer had already warned you that the makeup would not last the entire day. Still, you were determined not to leave any evidence, you applied the last layer of foundation before leaving his apartment, determined not to give any clues about what happened the night before.

For Spencer, the situation was not much different. She decided to cover the marks with a scarf, trying to act normal as they prepared to face another day of work at the BAU, as if everything was perfectly under control. The two of you looked at each other knowingly before leaving, in an attempt to keep your relationship a secret... again.

Arriving at the office, you said good morning as if nothing had happened. But it wasn’t long before Emily and JJ, who seemed to have a radar for these matters, caught you in their line of sight. They looked you up and down with a mischievous grin, and without missing a beat, JJ raised an eyebrow and fired the first bullet: “And that face, Y/N? Long night?”

You tried to shake your head with a nervous laugh, avoiding looking at the two too much, but Emily stepped closer, lowering her tone so as not to draw too much attention. “Oh, come on, babe. There’s a sparkle in your eyes… and, from what I see, on your neck too.”

With your heart in your throat, you quickly glanced at your reflection in a nearby frame and noticed that the base had already begun to fade, leaving a faint purple mark showing. Emily and JJ glanced at each other, and then Penelope, who appeared out of nowhere as if she had smelled the drama, also joined the small circle. “Please let me guess… was anyone busy last night?”

Between laughs and accusations, you tried to defend yourself without much success. You knew they were trying to provoke you and that, at this rate, the secret wasn't going to last long. Emily and JJ's laughter soon attracted Derek, who approached with a mocking smile. “What's up, girls? Something I'm missing?”

Emily gave him a knowing look and pointed towards the entrance, where Spencer had just appeared with a very inconspicuous scarf. Derek narrowed his eyes and laughed. “Since when does Spencer wear scarves? It's spring, for God's sake.”

They all looked at each other, hiding their laughter, as Derek approached Spencer. With an attitude that only Derek could adopt, he patted him on the back and gave him a knowing smile. “Pretty boy… do you need some advice on how to handle the weather?”

Spencer froze for a second, trying not to lose his cool. He knew he had been caught. He tried to respond with a vague excuse about “changing his style” and “protecting his throat,” but Derek simply held up his hands in an innocent gesture. “Sure, sure, I imagine the weather was intense last night, right?”

Meanwhile, you were trying not to burst out laughing at Spencer's obvious blush and despair. But Derek, who had caught on to the whole situation, turned around to join Emily, JJ, and Penelope again, winking at the girls. “See what I'm saying? Our genius boy is growing up.”

Before Spencer could respond, Hotch walked past the group, observing the laughter and commotion with his usual seriousness. But something in his expression betrayed that he fully understood what the conversation was about.

“Anything you want to share?” he asked, without losing his composure.

Derek shook his head with a smile, but took the opportunity to continue provoking. “Nothing, Hotch. It just seems that some of your colleagues have… interesting extracurricular activities.”

Hotch cast a quick glance at you, who were trying to make yourself small at your desk, and then at Spencer, with her suspicious scarf. For the first time, a barely perceptible smile crossed his face.

“I guess ‘activities’ require a little more discretion next time, too, huh?” Hotch said, before continuing on his way.

As the team laughed and threw around comments, Rossi walked over with a cup of coffee, assessing the scene like the veteran he was. “Ah, youth… that energy and lack of subtlety. There’s nothing like first love at work.”

By then, the rumor had already spread throughout the office.

Hours later, as you tried to continue with your work, Penelope approached with a whisper. “Honey, we all know. You two don’t have to hide anything.” Your surprised expression was enough to make her laugh. “Did you really think you could keep it a secret? Come on, we’re profilers. Wait not me but thay do. Plus… you’ve never come to the office so… happy.”

You decided to give in and accept it, and just as you were about to approach Spencer to tell him, he appeared at your side, still wearing the scarf. When you turned to look at him, he already had that resigned expression on his face that made you laugh. “How much did you hear?” he asked with a sigh, looking around and catching everyone’s smiles.

“Everything?” you said with a mocking smile.

Finally, Derek, with an air of triumph, approached the two of you and announced loudly, “And that’s how it’s done, ladies and gentlemen! Our boy has become quite the man.” The office was filled with laughter and jokes as you and Spencer exchanged glances that were somewhere between nervous and amused.

Emily approached you and, not missing the opportunity, added, “So… how long did you think you were going to last without us finding out? A day, maybe two?”

You bit your lip, embarrassed, and looked at Spencer, who didn’t know whether to laugh or faint. In the end, there wasn’t much else to say.

JJ laughed, giving you a gentle shove. “Relax, Y/N. We knew before you guys realized it. We were just waiting to see how long it would take you to admit it.”

You and Spencer exchanged a resigned look. Maybe their “secret” hadn’t been so secret after all.

⛧°。 ⋆༺ ✮ ༻⋆。 °⛧

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly, and feel free to leave a request ✮

[vitentia]

DEAR DIARY, DAY TWO OF HAVING A GIRLFRIEND….MIGHT DIE.

pairings ━━ jackson!ellie williams x reader

warnings ━━ tooth rotting fluff I fear

synopsis ━━ you like Ellie, ellie likes you, she grows enough tit to ask you out and surprise! you said yes! yet somehow you’re more nervous around your girlfriend than when she was your crush…AGH!

authors note ━━ did I go ghost for a year? yes. did I hear someone ask for more fluff/angst amidst freaktober on tumblr? also yes. I have come to provide🫡

IMPORTANT note — if you wanna request an Ellie or Abby fic, just pm me! I think coming up with all the fics on my own is the reason I burnt out but send me any ideas you have that aren’t smut bc I SUCK at writing that. Im also considering writing for arcane?? So yeah!

Cleaning horse shit isn’t the sexiest job in the world, which is why you were eternally grateful your girlfriend had been assigned to go on patrol with Tommy this morning. Even the thought of “your girlfriend” sent shivers down your spine and a red hot blush on your cheeks. You sniffled and wiped your cheek against your shoulder, conveniently the jacket your girlfriend, Ellie, had given you last night.

Again, you fought back a smile as the words “my girlfriend, ellie” popped into your head. Just 48 hours ago you were accepting the fact that you might have to yearn for the brunette from afar for the rest of your lives, and today you were biting your lips trying not to look too happy shoveling actual shit.

“Hey girlie!” Called out the man in charge, his big gut making it’s way into the shed before his head did as he leaned against his favorite horses stead. “You’ve been relieved. Tommy and Ellie are on their way back, just put the girls back where they belong and I’ll feed them, get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” He replied quickly before raising the pitch of his voice and cooing down at the large horse between his palms like a baby.

You snickered at his actions but couldn’t resist the speedy pace you walked at as you grabbed your hanging bag and ran towards the shed bathroom. As soon as you locked the door behind you, you immediately shoved off your almost knee length rubber boots and changed into your cutest (aka least creased) boots. Despite not having any perfume like they did back then, you did make sure to grab a special bar of soap before you left your house and scrubbed the lavender scent into your arms like your life depended on it. Looking in the dirty mirror, you tried to vaguely make out whether or not you looked presentable. You tried lowering the v-cut shirt you were wearing but immediately shook your head and decided against it.

Just as you were in between hyping yourself up and finding an escape route, the guards on top shouted out, stating that the doors were opening.

You were a nervous wreck. Constantly pushing your hair in front of your forehead and then behind your ear while simultaneously walking towards the front of Jackson where your girlfriend would be making an entrance.

With the sun beaming behind her head and shining her brown locks into a beautiful golden color, you had to raise your hand above your eyes to protect yourself. Has she always been this beautiful or are the God’s reminding me how perfect my girlfriend is?

“Millers! You’re back early.” A nearby card player called out, kicking his feet back against a wooden barrel with a cigarette hanging half out of his mouth.

“Yeah well, Ellie was killin’ them things left and right. Would’ve thought she had somewhere to be.” Tommy joked, sliding off his horse and giving you the reigns with a smile. For a second, your heart skipped a beat, believing she might’ve told him on their journey.

“Hey, if you’re a lousy shot, just say that.” Ellie teased him back with a shrug, remaining on her horse with no movement towards getting down. You looked up at her in confusion but as soon as your eyes connected, you immediately looked away, feeling your face burn.

“Yeah, next time I go out on patrol I know who to call.” The man chuckled

“Thank you, man.” Tommy beamed

“Not you, dipshit.”

You and Ellie let out a surprised cackle, and while you tried covering yours up with a cough as Tommy glared in your direction, Ellie couldn’t hold back her hearty laugh. She slapped her thigh and wiped an invisible tear from her eye as Tommy rambled on. While her uncle turned his anger to the card player, she caught your eye and motioned her head towards the stables.

“Lead the way.”

You nodded and lowered your gaze again, mentally freaking out as you guided Tommy’s horse back into her stable with Ellie following close behind on her own. Whilst you removed her gear gently, you could hear the clanging of Ellie following suit behind you. And when she finished, she simply watched you.

“You’re so gentle with them.” You jumped at her words, not expecting her to be so close as she leaned against the entrance of the stable. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” She chuckled lightly.

“No, you’re good I, uh, I have this…idea that they’re so on edge from being outside that they can’t really tell when it’s time to relax and when it’s time to work. So I just try to make the transition easier, you know? No loud noises, extra treats, stuff like that..” You answered, giving the ol’ girl a nice rub on her sides.

Ellie hummed and leaned her body backwards, looking both ways to see if anyone was around before stepping into the stable you were in. Her steps were slow as she approached you and you resisted the urge to step away, not for any reason besides you literally thought you might combust being this close to her.

She stood in front of you, eyes staring deeply into yours while her hands remained at her sides. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning.” She said in a low voice.

“Really?”

“Of course.” Her head lowered to find your hands, she clasped both of your hands in both of hers as she admired you. “How could I not?”

Your mind was screaming, blaring alarms, and throwing burning papers in the air as the people in your head attempted to regulate…well everything.

You let out an airy chuckle and looked down bashfully. “Well, you’re lucky you didn’t see me an hour before.” She gave you a confused look, so you continued. “I was cleaning up after the horses.”

Ellie looked up at the ceiling and thought about the vagueness of your words before a smile grew on her cheeks. She lifted her hand to cup her cheek to look her in the eye. “I think you would’ve looked beautiful anyway.”

“Shoveling horse shit?” You snorted

She shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t get in your mouth, no harm, no foul, right?”

“Ewww!” You whined as Ellie laughed at your reaction. You shivered at the thought. “Too early.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” She surrendered, admiring your entire face for a minute before looking behind her quickly. “Hey…” she whispered, almost nervous in a way.

“Hey.”

She moved closer to you, reaching up to stroke your cheek and hoping you wouldn’t notice the way her hand shook the entire way up. “Can I get a kiss?”

Your heart leaped. Your vocal chords were nowhere to found, so you attempted a simple nod. But Ellie smiled at you and shook her head.

“Can I hear you say it?”

You gulped. “Please kiss me, Ellie.”

With a wide smile, she leaned in and connected your lips so gently, you felt like you were being kissed by a fairy. She let you both grow comfortable in the kiss before pulling away lightly, giving you the same chance, and leaning in once more when you chased after her lips. The two of you remained in a tight embrace, neither pushing the others boundary too much but putting enough pressure to know she were there. For a minute, you forgot where you were.

“Hey girlie!” A voice boomed

The two of you pulled away in shock, looking between each other before you quickly looked around at your surroundings and hurriedly threw a brown bag in Ellie’s direction. She caught it in both arms before spinning around to face the burly old man who sauntered over.

“Williams. What are you doing in my shed?” He questioned her.

You popped out from the other side of the horse and patted her side. “Sorry, sir. She wanted to give the girls some treats for their hard work out there.”

He looked between you two suspiciously before crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Ellie with a look you couldn’t put your finger on. “So you’re the one who’s been sneaking my girls extra snacks, eh?”

Ellie’s mouth opened and closed for a second before sighing and handing him the bag as if she’d been caught. “Yep, it’s me. Sorry, man.”

He sucked his teeth and snatched the bag out of her hand, reaching inside to grab a red apple and bite into it. “You’re lucky you’ve saved my ass more times than I can count, Williams.” He pointed at her and then to you. “And you, stop bein’ so damn nice. Y’all are gonna fatten my horses up. Now, get.”

You and Ellie swiftly made your way out of the horse shed, walking side by side inconspicuously throughout Jackson. Your hands occasionally bumped each other and you both resisted the urge to grab it. Ellie, because she didn’t want her business out to the whole world, and you, because your hands were probably dripping from how sweaty they felt.

You’d never felt this nervous around anyone. The secrecy of your relationship made it all the more wild. And yeah, it would be nice for everyone to know that Ellie is yours.

It’s also just nice being able to tell yourself that Ellie fucking Williams is your girlfriend.

[spockiguess]

Same anon as before, with the fic idea

This feels like a younger doctor thing (so John Carter) to me, but it could work for Robby too

Rubber gloves. The rubber gloves that medical staff put on before touching patients? Those. John/Robby just teasing/fingering you over and over again while wearing those

Thoughts?

The Gloved Beast

Summary: While helping a patient, you and John get into some workplace flirting. You don't exactly realize just how much your seemingly innocent comments would set the new doctor off.

Pairing: Dr. John Carter x FEM!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Overstimulation, Mentions of Injuries/Gore

A/N: So, literally like fifteen minutes after I received this request, I got to work on this fic. I wrote the first 1,500~ words last night, got too tired to continue, then wrote the other 1,300~ words this morning. This request was so effing good, it got me so effing excited, I was like, "Holy shit!!!!! I need to do this right effing meow!!" Thank you so much Anon for this request, and please, if anyone else has a request for any Noah Wyle characters, send it!!!!! I'm so excited!!!! Also, sorry for the stupid title, I'm going back to my roots.

It–your current situation, that is–started with a simple, clean conversation. Nothing more. The conversation would have originally been classified as wholesome, even. What happened, though, was that Dr. John Carter, your boyfriend of about a month, had sustained a gratefully shallow cut while helping an overwhelmed father who found himself pushed through a window’s toy display just a week out from Christmas. The father was desperately searching for the season’s newest Super Soaker, a bright neon orange and chartreuse, just as the rest of Chicago was that evening. Apparently, no one had thought to check the store’s displays until the father snuck past a disgruntled worker and set off a whole tragic event that actually landed a couple of other parents in Cook County General Hospital, as well. 

What happened then, to credit the father’s recollection, is blurry. All he can remember from then on is ending up on an ambulance’s gurney with a thousand or so pieces of glass sticking out of his puckered skin, give or take. Once he arrived at Cook County, it was your job as one of the hospital’s essential nurses to painstakingly pick out every little shard. Dr. Carter had come in and out of Exam Room One through the entire process, checking in on your progress, and not so subtly trying to spend as much time with you as he could. Since your relationship was so new and shiny, you acted like lovestruck teenagers around each other. 

Eventually, it was time to stitch up the dedicated father, him and his thousand cuts. Luckily for you, Dr. Carter had just finished up with a hectic shootout in Trauma One and Two, so he was able to graciously extend his hand, literally, and patch the parent up. Carter had gone so far as to lay said hands over-top yours, in an equally unsubtle attempt to coach you through the procedure. You were somewhat ashamed to admit that the maneuver actually worked on you, forcing an embarrassing giggle out of you. 

John asked what got you so giggly, rich coming from him in the awkward position John took up just to be near you, but even then, you quietly admitted, “Well, you’ve got nice hands, John.”

The confession took the newfound doctor off guard, which earned you a slightly higher-pitched, “Well, thank you,” before he continued with a choked-off cough, “Is that–is that a thing?”

You snorted, handling the needle with ease despite John’s stubbornness to keep his hands on yours, “What do you mean ‘is that a thing?’”

John shrugged, “I’ve heard it from the other nurses. That women like hands, or something.” Then, John muttered out a lame excuse for a teaching moment with the particular stitch you just pulled. 

“Ah, the cat’s out of the bag, I guess,” donning a vaguely wizard-like voice, you continued, “Our greatest secret revealed! Curses!” 

Carter snorted, too, before his voice suddenly deepened and he leaned in closer, his lips just a few inches away from your ear, “So, you like my hands?” Just to be a problem, Carter flexed the muscles in his hands, showing off the various veins through the thin layer of his crisp, latex gloves. This is when the conversation veered off of the nearest cliff into the dangerous waters of workplace flirting.

Trying to retain an air of neutrality, you confirmed John’s suspicions, “Oh, sure. They’re strong, and quite large, too.”

John huffed out a haughty ‘heh,’ your answer only further fueling his undoubtedly enormous ego, but you didn’t mind. No, you were stuck in this fast sinking car, so why not plunge yourself deeper into unprofessionalism?

“The gloves only make them look better, too.” John’s breath caught in his throat, momentarily causing him to choke as his head struggled to reel from your brazen teasing. 

Unfortunately, your poor bedside manner was now too much for the poor father you were attempting to help. He groaned, palming his face with a free hand, “I get that you’re kids, but shuddup, for the love of God.”  That all but ended the conversation in its tracks, the car now being towed out of the ocean and back onto unforgiving land. 

The father’s plea didn’t necessarily end your situation, though. No, it was only the beginning of a cruel test of fate set upon you by the higher beings of this world, because once John Carter found himself struck with a stupid idea, he was determined to see it through. 

So, that’s how you ended up locked in a storage closet with one Dr. John Carter, who was eager to find out more about this secret, shared female obsession. 

With your back against an entire case of medical supplies, John’s closeness nearly suffocated you in the tight space, but the way he was holding the back of your head while you shared a steamy kiss made you care a little less. His mouth was slow, but aggressive, like you had all the time in the world. The kiss was full of passion and drew your breath from you even more, while Carter’s hands on your hips forced your plain, white panties to be just that more soaked from the sweet friction they provided to your balmy skin. It made you hot, unbearably so. 

You had to take a short moment to separate–to gather your breath and yank your similarly plain, baby pink tee over your head while Carter’s hands devoured your body further, a single bead of saliva still keeping the two of your mouths connected. Once his hands made contact with the soft lace of your matching, white bra, your mouths met again. 

This time, you allowed yourself to moan into the kiss, now past the point of caring for whoever might hear you outside of these tight walls. Carter met you in tandem, moaning too when your tongue pressed against his. The shared moment was wet and heavy, making the air feel like weighted lead in your chest whenever you dared to steal another breath. It was perfect, this little evening rendezvous, you didn’t think it could get much better. 

But then, Carter parted from you and this wicked smile dawned on his face, wholly unlike the usually adorable demeanor he had on most days. You had seen this smile before, though, it only crossed his complexion when he wanted to get into trouble. A very wicked smile, indeed. 

“Do you want me to put some gloves on?” John asked with nothing but a whisper. You stalled, undeniably shocked at his words.

Still, the idea excited you greatly, “Really? You’d do that?” 

John nodded, already teetering forward to attack a box of gloves just behind your head, ripping the contents out onto the shelf and floor. While John grabbed a pair, you laughed, now aware of the sound you two were producing.

You shushed your boyfriend, trying to urge him to be a little quieter, but he was solely focused on getting the pair of rubbery gloves on his perspiring hands, which proved to be a difficult feat. Carter ripped the first glove attempting to yank the garment on, and he lost the other due to pure excitement coursing through his veins. 

It took an extended period of time for him to finally win the battle against another pair of slippery, combative gloves, but it didn’t dull your shared anticipation as you finally got to gawk at his covered hands. The rubber shone under the bright, fluorescent bulb that hung above your heads, and you took the opportunity to grasp one of Carter’s hands in yours, your fingers exploring the material in a new light. 

Again, John flexed his hands, obviously preening under the close attention. You didn't mind one bit, you were happy to finally indulge this fantasy with a guy you were totally head over heels for. And John seemed happy to indulge, too, with public sex being a not-so-secret fantasy of his. This was the perfect combination of time and place, something you hadn't seen quite yet with the doctor.

Most of these meetings hadn't even gone past some heavy petting in empty exam rooms, but the deciding forces that be turned your fate to a destination most unknown. It made you a little giddy, to say the least. 

Especially when Carter brought his hands to your breasts, again, feeling the mounds of plush flesh through another, added layer. The cold latex stuck against your chest every time his hands moved from one spot to the other, forcing a shiver to run down the base of your spine. Goosebumps prickled on your skin from the touch, which John bravely tamped down with warm kisses, in reality only reigniting the bumps further. 

Soon, Dr. Carter worked his way downwards, stoking a great fire with every kiss he planted on your skin. When he found himself kneeling before you, he anchored his fingers in the belt loops of your pants and tugged. Your simple, cerulean blue jeans came down easily, as you decided against a belt that morning. John smacked kisses against the expanse of skin just below your navel while he helped you out of your pants, his hands immediately flying to the swell of your ass when they finally came off. 

There, he groped and squeezed, the off-white material of the gloves still cool to the touch and awakening embarrassing reactions out of you. You moaned as John moved his hands from your ass to the front of your midsection, ghosting his palms along the peaks and valleys of your body. Now, you were getting hotter by the minute, and Carter’s reluctance to help quench that flame only stoked the heat more. It was when Carter hooked a finger on either side of your underwear that you became antsy. 

You whined when John didn’t move even a single inch from those spots, just keeping his fingers firmly in place while he continued to kiss all over the front of your body. “C’mon, John, we don’t have much time,” you said, out of breath. 

Carter removed his face from the enveloping heat of your upper thighs to say, “I’m just trying to commit all of this to memory. You can’t fault me for wanting that.” 

When John got in a teasing mood, you knew you’d stay on the precipice of pure pleasure for a long time, your nerves building and building until they couldn’t hold out much longer. “But what if someone tries coming in? This’ll be over before anything actually happens.” 

Carter looked up at you, his big, brown eyes reflecting the white light from above while he sports a sly smile, “Are you saying that nothing is happening right now?” 

You huff, threading your hands through John’s hair and itching his scalp, a sure-fire way to get the young doctor riled up, “No, of course not, I just…”

“‘You just’ what? Tell me what you need,’ Carter breathed against your lower stomach, massaging your thighs. 

Your stomach flip-flopped with arousal, you were too far gone to worry about being honest or not, “I need you, John. I need you to touch me more.”

John continued to press white-hot kisses to your skin, “Where exactly do you need me to touch you? Gotta use your words.” 

Again, you whined, the sound high and reedy in your throat, “Aw, John, don’t do that to me.” 

“I’m not doing anything, just asking you to be clear with what you want.” John could be a real cocky shit sometimes, but it always got you worked up. Maybe that’s why Carter only acted like this when he was with you in these intimate moments, he knows how much it affects you. 

You couldn’t work up the nerve to say what you really wanted, but you could show John. So, you grabbed John’s hands and led them to your clothed cunt, bucking your hips when you finally felt the cool rubber situate itself there. Carter gazed up at you again, awestruck, before finally leaning in and touching along the fabric of your panties. 

Carter’s thumb swept along the curves of your cunt, right along the middle of your folds, before pressing against the bud your clit, hidden beneath the fabric. Your hips bucked again, entirely of their own volition, and you tried to keep any wanton noises from escaping you in this particularly vulnerable moment. 

John kept this up for a couple of minutes, just teasing you through the layers of fabric and latex, the sensation wholly new to you. Unfortunately, you couldn’t keep the noises down for long when a loud, shrill whine escaped the confines of your throat. John only laughed, now hooking his free hand back under the waistband of your panties while his thumb continued to alternate between pressing against your clit and sweeping along your folds. 

You didn’t know if John could feel how wet you were through the gloves, or if he just hadn’t mentioned it yet, but you were beginning to sport a puddle in the gusset of your underwear and you were begging God for John to do something about it. 

God had seemingly heard your prayers because Carter began to inch off your panties, carefully sliding them down past the curve of your hips and thighs. Once your panties were fully off, you shuddered at the feel of Carter’s gloved hands swiping at your pubic mound, just above where you needed them to be. 

The icy latex stuck to your skin, making a clacking noise every time Carter moved his hands everywhere but where they should be most. You didn’t have to see Carter’s smug smile to know that it was there while your body bucked wildly at his movements. You even began to beg Carter to do more, to help release the growing tension that was building at the base of your gut. 

“John, please. I need more. I need you,” you said, your voice a couple octaves higher than where it usually sat in your vocal register. 

“Since you asked so nicely, I guess I’ll help you out,” John said, his own voice low and full of want, which utterly betrayed the cool persona he was trying to wear now. 

Finally, John gathered a heap of wetness from your core and circled your clit with his gloved fingers, the fevered way he touched you now crumbling your willpower and reducing you to nothing. 

You keened, your hips moving in line with John’s ministrations as he applied full pressure to your clit, his other hand snaking its way up your thigh. Once his other hand found your core, two fingers began to prod at your seeping entrance, your cunt wet enough to take them both at once. John still kept up with his movements at your clit, having forgone the teasing for now. 

After a couple of moments, Carter finally pushed his two fingers into your cunt, curling them inwards as his thumb sped up at your clit. The material of the gloves was cold and smooth against the warm, spongy walls of your core, providing a contrast that made your toes curl in the confines of your Converse. You could see from this angle that John had a determined look in his eyes that would rival many of the other residents at Cook County. 

You nearly screamed with pleasure, the coil in your core winding tighter and tighter with the continued movements from your boyfriend below. Your release was so close now, especially as Carter kept moving his fingers and thumb in tandem. 

Eventually, your release came in the form of a rush of wetness from your cunt and a barely hidden scream behind your hand. John was fully satisfied with himself, but he didn’t let up with his movements. 

No, John kept fingering you, even well past your release. The sensations began to creep into overstimulating territory, almost painful now. Still, the pleasure you felt was unparalleled, and you bucked into John’s hand again and again. 

Tearing away from his work, John looked up at your heaving form with self-satisfied eyes, “You’ve got another one for me, don’t you?” 

You nodded yes, feeling another orgasm quickly approaching as Carter pushed past your feelings of overstimulation, the pain finally subsiding. 

After a couple of moments of Carter’s gloved hands working your cunt, another orgasm barreled through you, taking you completely by surprise and nearly alerting everyone in the near vicinity to what exactly you and your boyfriend were getting up to. 

Another rush of wetness escaped you and completely coated John’s hands, surges of electricity shocking your entire being like you were a live wire. John didn’t seem to mind though, he was thoroughly entranced by your orgasm and couldn’t find it within himself to look away. 

Even as you were coming down from this second release, John cocked his head to the side and asked, “You got another one in you?” You didn’t realize earlier just how much your comments would set John off, so you were really in for it.

[cbeargyu]

the mysterious boy I met yesterday.

summary: after mysteriously traveling to the past, y/n meets yeonjun—a boy she was never meant to love. bound by time and torn by fate, they fall for each other knowing their days are numbered.

pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader

tags: time travel, angst, slow burn, romance, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet ending (turned sweet).

warnings: grief, trauma, memory loss, mentions of death, emotional distress, hospital scenes, crying, found family, soulmates au.

notes: i recently watched the girl who leapt through time and, as someone who’s always been obsessed with the idea of time travel, i couldn’t stop thinking about it. it left me with that nostalgic ache only stories like that give. so i decided to write my own version of a time-travel romance, loosely inspired by the movie’s premise. i’ve also always had a soft spot for stories set in the late 80s or 90s—there’s something so emotionally raw about that era, so this felt like the perfect blend of everything i love. this fic is very dear to me. i hope it makes your heart ache in the best way.

wc: 19,6k💀💀💀

seoul, 2017.

your last year of high school. new city. new house. same mother.

you spend the entire afternoon unpacking. the house smells like fresh paint and floor polish. the sound of cars and distant sirens floats through the open window as you fold clothes into drawers and pull books out of boxes with quiet precision. your mother’s already out—work, of course.

it’s always work.

you’re halfway through arranging your bookshelf when you notice the small box, shoved at the very back of your closet.

it’s dusty, floral, and closed with a delicate pink ribbon, now faded and fraying at the edges. you pause, frown. you don’t remember packing anything like this.

you hesitate.

but curiosity wins.

you open it slowly, careful not to rip the ribbon. Inside: old letters, photos, movie tickets, and folded stationery that still smells faintly of perfume. you realize this isn’t yours. these are your mother’s things.

you sit down on the floor, cross-legged, and let yourself explore.

among the old documents, tucked inside a faded envelope yellowed by time, you found something unexpected—a marriage certificate.

the paper was brittle, edges frayed and stained with age, but the writing was still legible in parts. your mother’s name was printed clearly: choi nari, written in graceful hangul beside the box labeled bride. but your eyes were drawn to the space marked groom. the name there had been violently scratched out, covered in thick black ink, as if someone had been desperate to erase it.

you remembered, vaguely, a moment from your childhood—your mother once muttering that your father had changed his name to sever ties with his family, something about an inheritance, disapproval, a scandal she never fully explained. the only clue left on the torn paper was a partial surname at the bottom—just enough to read: “...bin.” the rest was lost. after his death, your mother had legally reclaimed her maiden name, kim, burying his memory under years of silence. but now, holding this document in your hands, the pieces began to tremble in your chest—uncertain, unresolved.

the letters are written in your mother’s neat cursive, signed with hearts. there are photos, grainy and sun-kissed, showing young faces in school uniforms laughing in courtyards, holding umbrellas in the rain, posing with peace signs.

you start flipping them, one by one. no names. just dates on the back.

until you find the last one.

it’s your mom. her hair is longer, parted and soft around her face. she’s wearing a high school uniform, standing with a boy slightly taller than her. his hands are clasped behind his back. they aren’t touching—but the tension between them feels real. tender. almost sacred.

you turn the photo over.

March 15th, 1991 – my first love, Choi Soobin.

your breath catches.

you read the name again.

choi soobin?

you’ve never heard that name before. not once. and your mother doesn’t just forget names—she erases them. just like your father. just like everything else.

you slide the picture back into the box, hands slightly trembling, and stash the whole thing deep in the back of your closet. you don’t throw it away. no—you’re not ready for that.

you want to ask her.

but you’ll wait for the right time.

one week later...

that night, you come home late from another day of school. it wasn’t terrible, just... lonely. your new classmates were polite but distant. you introduced yourself with a fake smile, laughed at the right moments. you’re good at pretending.

the place is quiet. too quiet.

dinner is quiet.

you sit at the kitchen island in an oversized hoodie, legs tucked up on the stool, hair still damp from the shower. a reheated bowl of rice and kimchi stew steams in front of you, but you’re not really hungry. you scoop at it absentmindedly as the soft glow of the television flickers across the small living room.

the news is on.

the anchor’s voice is calm, too calm for the words she’s saying.

"today marks the 25th anniversary of one of the country’s most devastating railway accidents... the train, traveling from seoul to incheon, derailed shortly in the afternoon, resulting in the death of all passengers aboard. rescue efforts lasted several days. one individual was never found."

your chopsticks freeze mid-air.

the image that flashes on screen—a twisted rail line, charred metal, grieving families—makes your stomach twist. you swallow hard, suddenly nauseous.

"how awful…" you whisper to yourself.

etched in the corner of the grainy footage was the date of the tragedy: november 12th, 1992.

a strange, unexplainable ache blooms in your chest. It lingers for a second too long.

you grab the remote.

click.

click again.

cartoons fill the screen—bright, loud, ridiculous. a character falls face-first into a pie. you force a laugh and shove a spoonful of rice into your mouth, but the food tastes like paper.

you pretend it’s fine.

you pretend everything is fine.

the door clicks open.

you turn your head.

your mother walks in, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, blouse crisp, makeup untouched despite the hour. she always looks like she’s heading into court—even at 9 p.m.

she doesn’t say hello.

she walks straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pulls out the container of stew. you watch her in silence as she spoons food into a bowl and places it in the microwave, her back turned to you.

when she finally faces you, she raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"what’s with the face?" she asks, blunt as always.

you blink, then smile nervously.

"i found something today. while unpacking."

her hands stop. just for a second.

"it was this box. really cute. floral. tied with a ribbon. it was buried in my stuff, but it wasn’t mine. i think it was yours."

you pause.

"there were letters… photos. one of them caught my eye. you were in your school uniform, next to this guy. you looked… happy. it had a date on the back. march 15th, 1991."

you smile, hesitant.

"it said… ‘my first love.’”

your mother straightens up slowly, staring at you with an expression you can’t read.

"you went through my things?"

"it was in my things. i thought it was mine at first, i just—"

"you shouldn't go through what isn't yours."

her voice is ice.

"you had no right to open that."

"it was in my room!"

"it wasn’t yours!"

"how was i supposed to know that?! i thought maybe it was something you left for me—god knows you never leave anything else.”

her expression hardens.

"don’t turn this into something it’s not."

"something it’s not?!" your voice breaks, raw and high. "you never talk about anything. not about your life. not about him. not about dad!"

that name hits like a bullet.

she turns her back to you, but it’s too late.

"i don’t remember him," you say, quieter now, but trembling. "i don’t remember his voice, his hands, his laugh. i don’t even know what it felt like to be held by him."

she doesn’t turn. she doesn’t move.

"i had to memorize his face from one picture—one, mom—before you threw it out like garbage!"

her fists clench on the counter, knuckles white.

"i did what i had to do."

"no. you did what was easier for you. you pushed everything down and shut me out with it."

she spins to face you, eyes wild now, cracking.

"what do you want me to say?! that i was broken?! that every day i woke up alone, wondering how to feed you, how to work, how to breathe while everything i loved was gone?!"

you flinch.

but you don’t back down.

"i didn’t ask you to be perfect. i just wanted a mother. not a robot. not a cold wall. just someone who gave a damn."

her lip trembles. she hides it behind a scoff.

"you think i don’t care?"

"you don’t act like it!"

the words cut, sharp and true.

"i needed you, mom. all these years, i needed someone to tell me it was okay to miss him. to miss you."

her eyes shine with something unsaid. something heavy. but she swallows it back down.

she always does.

"you shouldn’t have opened that box."

her voice is flat again. walls up. steel drawn.

you laugh bitterly.

"right. god forbid i see even a glimpse of who you used to be before you turned to stone."

you push the stool back with a screech and storm off toward your room, throat burning, chest hollow.

behind you, your mother stands frozen in the kitchen, bowl untouched, stew long gone cold.

the door slams shut behind you, the sound dull but heavy, like a sentence being passed.

you stand still for a moment, your hands still trembling, your heart in shambles after the fight with your mother. the entire house feels like it’s holding its breath, as if it too sensed that something inside you just broke… again.

you walk slowly to your room, dragging your feet, your chest aching with a pain that’s too familiar. you collapse onto your bed, not even crying at first—just lying there, staring at the ceiling, as if the cracks in the paint might give you some kind of answer.

why can’t she just talk to me? why does it feel like she hates me?

the questions pile up, pressing down on your chest until that lump in your throat finally bursts. the first tears fall quietly, warm against your cheeks. then more come, and more, until you're curled in on yourself, sobbing with that kind of grief that comes from years of swallowing it down.

you hear your own voice echoing back at you:

"i had to memorize his face from one picture—one, mom—before you threw it out like garbage!"

it still hurts. and it’s true. your father died shortly after you were born. you don’t remember him—his voice, his scent, the way he held you. nothing. your mother never wanted to talk about him, as if erasing him would protect her from the pain.

but it left you with an emptiness.

you wipe your face with your sleeve, eyes puffy, nose red, and sit up slowly. still shaking, you walk to your closet.

it’s there.

the box.

that wooden box with the delicate, girlish design, half-hidden among your things, like it’s been waiting for this very moment.

you hold it in your hands. It’s heavier than it looks. the surface is slightly warm, as if someone had touched it recently—like it has a heartbeat.

you kneel in front of the open closet. your clothes sway lightly on their hangers, as if a breeze had passed through… but there are no windows open.

then you feel it.

the air shifts.

it starts as a soft vibration, barely there, like the whisper of a memory. then the scent hits you: something floral, old, like perfume soaked into love letters tucked away for decades. goosebumps rise instantly across your skin.

you squint into the closet, through the folds of hanging fabric, and you see it.

light.

a faint golden shimmer, pulsing gently, like someone lit a candle behind the wall.

you step forward, the box still in your hands. your fingers, trembling, press against the doorframe. just as you open your mouth to speak—maybe to ask what’s happening—

a single tear falls from your cheek and lands on the box.

there’s no explosion. no lightning.

just a heartbeat.

loud.

deep.

like the whole world exhaling through your chest.

the air grows heavy. your vision warps, the room tilting, folding in on itself. the walls ripple like water disturbed. you grab the edge of the closet for balance, but your knees buckle. everything spins. the sound of your breath is swallowed by something bigger.

and then—

darkness.

the spring air carried that distinct scent of dust, freshly sharpened pencils, and the faint trace of someone’s perfume lingering in the hallways. the school buzzed with life—lockers slamming shut, giggles echoing down the corridor, chalk scraping across boards in classrooms behind closed doors.

you walked slowly, your fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. your school uniform felt unfamiliar against the skin, the pleated skirt too stiff, the blouse too crisp. you kept your head low, eyes scanning faces that looked like they belonged in old photo albums. everything around your screamed nostalgia—except it wasn’t nostalgic to you.

because somehow...

you were actually here.

in 1991.

the bell rang, signaling the end of second period. students poured out into the hallway, some dragging their friends by the arm, others glued to books or snacks from their lockers. you leaned against a wall, trying to breathe, trying to blend in—trying not to freak out.

that’s when you saw him.

he moved through the crowd like he wasn’t part of it. calm. unbothered. a little detached. he wore the same school uniform, but his shirt was slightly untucked, and the headphones resting around his neck gave him this effortless, rebel-cool aura. a soft beat leaked from his walkman. his features were sharp, perfectly carved, lips full and eyes that looked like they knew things they weren’t supposed to.

he stopped in front of you, holding a thick envelope in one hand.

"y/n, right?" he asked, voice low and smooth.

you blinked, nodding slowly, your brain still trying to keep up.

"this came from the main office," he said, offering her the envelope. "you're transfer paperwork, apparently."

before you could even respond, you blurted out:

"wait—do you know someone named choi soobin?"

his eyes twitched. his expression shifted—barely—but it was there. a flicker of something.

then, with the most unimpressed smirk, he rolled his eyes.

"oh great," he muttered under his breath. "another one of my cousin's admirers. they just keep coming."

and just like that, he turned and walked away, sliding the headphones back over his ears, music rising in volume as he vanished into the tide of students.

you clutched the envelope to you chest, heart pounding. you looked around, dazed, but no one was paying you any mind.

once you found an empty bench behind the old gym building, you sat and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. inside was more than just a transfer form.

there was a letter.

it was handwritten. neatly. carefully. and it read:

"if you’re reading this, it means you made it. welcome to 1991. you’ll need to be careful from here on out. you cannot draw attention to yourself. do not talk about the future. do not ask too many questions. blend in. play your part. Go to the boarding house owned by mrs. son after school. she’s expecting a new girl. room 3 is yours." this is not random. you’re here for a reason. i will send more instructions soon. don’t trust just anyone. and above all… be ready to make difficult choices. some things in the past are meant to stay broken. others… need to be fixed. —a friend".

you stared at the letter, hands trembling.

what the hell was this?

why you?

what were you meant to fix?

you leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky, your thoughts a chaotic mess.

your mind drifted to the photograph.

to her mother’s smile.

to the name: choi soobin.

and then… you eyes fell back on the letter.

was this real?

was this destiny?

your fingers brushed over the ink once more, and you whispered, almost to yourself:

"what am i supposed to change…?"

the final bell rings, and you stumble out of your last class like your brain’s just gone through a blender.

your head spins.

not just from the math formulas on the chalkboard or the endless chatter of your new classmates—but from the reality you still haven’t quite processed.

you’re in incheon. in 1991. in your mother’s freaking hometown.

the streets outside the school are buzzing with students. some run toward the corner shops for snacks, others grab their bikes, wave at friends, shout and laugh like nothing in the world has changed.

you, on the other hand, can barely keep your balance.

you blink slowly, your body moving on autopilot, trying to look casual, like you belong. but everything around you feels… off.

the way they talk.

the way they think.

the weird obsession with cassette tapes and soda in glass bottles.

even the smell in the air is different—less metal, more earth.

you’re overwhelmed. but you can’t fall apart yet.

you’ve got instructions. a destination.

you're still holding that damn envelope like it’s your last lifeline.

you turn a corner, heart pounding, and almost crash straight into someone.

“woah, again?”

it’s him.

the boy from earlier.

same walkman around his neck, same flawless face, same i-don’t-care energy wrapped in a school uniform that somehow fits him too well.

he eyes you with amused disbelief.

“are you seriously still carrying that?” he says, pointing to the envelope in your hands. “you’ve had that thing all day.”

you blink at him, still disoriented.

you have had it all day.

“i—i was going to read it again,” you mumble. “there’s an address. i’m supposed to go there but i don’t know how—”

“ugh,” he interrupts, sighing dramatically. “fine. lemme see it.”

you hand him the letter, fingers brushing his just for a second. his eyes skim the address, then glance back at you.

“i’ll take you. that place isn’t far.”

you exhale in relief, muttering a soft thank you.

you start walking together.

at first, it’s silent.

then the boy starts talking, throwing random comments into the air like confetti.

“you talk kinda weird, you know that?” you look at him. he’s not wrong.

you’ve spent all day trying not to sound futuristic. no slang. no weird expressions. no “lol”.

you force a smile.

“i’m not from here.”

“no kidding.”

“i mean—not from incheon.”

he raises a brow.

“then where?”

you scramble for a name and blurt out the most far-off place you can think of.

“ulleungdo.”

he stops walking and turns to look at you, blinking.

“ulleungdo? that island barely has electricity.”

you nod slowly, then force a cough like it explains everything.

“exactly. we’re... still catching up.”

he stares at you like you’re a walking mystery, then shakes his head and chuckles.

“makes sense. that explains why you look like you’ve never seen a vending machine before.”

you both keep walking.

for a second, the air is easier to breathe. almost normal.

but then, your mind slips—just for a second—and you ask:

“hey… who’s your cousin?”

he squints.

“what?”

“earlier. You said i was ‘another one in love with your cousin.’ who is he?”

he rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed.

“ugh. choi soobin. everyone’s obsessed with him. he’s perfect this, perfect that—blah blah blah.”

your heart stops.

soobin.

your mother’s first love.

you freeze mid-step. he walks two paces ahead before realizing you’re no longer beside him.

he turns around, eyes narrowing.

“why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

you force a shaky laugh.

“no reason. just… remembering something.”

he looks at you for a long moment, then shrugs.

“whatever. just don’t ask me where he is. i’m not your tour guide to the ‘soobin fanclub.’”

you say nothing.

the letter in your hand suddenly feels heavier. like it’s burning.

you wonder what’s waiting for you in that house.

you wonder who wrote the letter.

you wonder if fate is playing games with you—or if this has always been the plan.

you walk the rest of the way in silence, the streets of incheon glowing in the golden haze of dusk.

and somewhere, deep down, something tells you: this is only the beginning.

the street narrows as you follow him down an alley of uneven cobblestones, the golden dusk pouring through the lattice of tangled telephone wires above. the neighborhood is quiet—older, slower than the city blocks around your school. the homes here wear age like a badge, wooden gates slightly weathered, tiled roofs sagging slightly under the weight of time. you pause outside a low two-story house with faded red shutters and a blue mailbox shaped like a cat.

the boy nods toward it.

“this is the place.”

you look at it, blinking in disbelief.

it’s not just any house.

it feels like a storybook. like someone reached into your memories and tried to replicate what “home” should’ve looked like.

the wooden gate creaks when he pushes it open, and before either of you can step forward, the front door swings wide with surprising force.

an old woman, short and sturdy with perfectly permed gray curls and dressed in a floral hanbok apron, stands in the doorway.

her face lights up when she sees you.

“ah! you must be mr. hong’s niece, where are you from, little girl?”

you freeze. then bow quickly, hands by your sides, trying to remember every etiquette lesson your mom ever mentioned about greeting elders in korea.

“yes, ma’am. that’s me, i am from ulleungdo"

mrs. son eyes you up and down, then lets out a soft chuckle.

“you’re awfully pretty for a country girl. and different. too polished. hm.” her eyes narrow. “still, you look good. very lovely, actually.”

you’re not sure whether to smile or feel insulted. was that a compliment? or just passive-aggressive commentary wrapped in lace?

you smile awkwardly and bow again.

“thank you…”

“anyway,” she continues, waving her hand, “someone dropped off your belongings this morning. they’re in your room already.”

your heart skips.

“my belongings?”

you glance at the boy, confused. he just shrugs, completely uninterested in the mystery.

but your mind races.

what belongings?

when you arrived here—wherever here even is—you had nothing. not even the clothes on your back, which had changed without you realizing.

before you can ask more, yeonjun steps back, hands shoved in his blazer pockets.

“well, i got you here. i’m out.”

“wait—!” you call out, stepping toward him.

he’s already at the gate, lifting it slightly so it doesn’t scrape. you rush after him, your shoes crunching on the gravel path.

“you never told me your name.”

he stops mid-step and turns, looking slightly amused.

“I didn’t?”

“no.” you reach for his arm gently, fingers brushing against his wrist. his skin is warm, his pulse quick beneath your fingertips.

yeonjun looks down at where you’re touching him. his eyebrows lift. a tiny smirk threatens the corner of his mouth, like he’s not used to girls being this forward—and definitely not ones who stare at him like you do.

“yeonjun” he said. “choi yeonjun"

you meet his eyes.

“thank you, yeonjun.”

it’s the way you say it. soft. sincere. like it matters.

he’s caught off guard, the confident, untouchable energy around him faltering for just a second. his mouth opens slightly, like he wants to say something, but then he shuts it again and just gives you a small nod.

“don’t get lost.”

and with that, he slips out the gate, turning the corner and disappearing into the fading light.

you’re left standing in the path, the sky streaked with orange and plum above you, a dusty breeze rustling the loose ends of your borrowed school uniform.

behind you, the house waits.

inside it, a room with your things. dropped off by someone who knows exactly where—and when—you are.

and somewhere, tucked inside your thoughts like a whisper you haven’t heard yet, a name echoes.

soobin.

the boy your mother once loved.

you exhale slowly and turn back toward the house.

the room is small but cozy, with warm wooden walls and a low ceiling that creaks softly under your footsteps. you close the door behind you, leaning against it for a second, your heart pounding—still not from the walk, but from everything. the entire day. the time jump. the unfamiliar warmth in yeonjun’s voice when he said your name. the letter burning a silent promise in your hands.

you glance at the small suitcase perched neatly at the foot of the futon bed. It looks old-fashioned—stitched leather with tarnished brass buckles and a handle that has seen better days. kneeling before it, you slowly open the latches, the sound loud in the quiet of the room.

inside, folded with surgical precision, are several sets of clothes.

your fingertips run across the fabrics: simple blouses, high-waisted pleated skirts, a pastel pink cardigan, a cream-colored sailor-style school uniform that looks almost identical to the ones you saw the other girls wearing today. everything smells faintly of lavender and time.

at the very bottom, nestled between a pair of plain flats and a pair of canvas shoes, you find a small envelope with your name written in neat, slanted hangul. you lift it gently, your breath hitching.

you sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your weight, and unfold the letter.

the handwriting is delicate, old-fashioned. like someone took the time to write it with an ink pen, letting every word sink into the fibers of the paper.

"y/n, you must be confused. stay calm. there is a reason you are here. follow the instructions i send you. you are in the year 1991, in incheon—the city where your mother grew up. things are not as simple as they seem, but you mustn’t let anyone know the truth. you will blend in. your belongings have been provided. more will come. every step you take will be guided. do not ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to. there are things in the past that need your presence. be patient. be brave. soon, i will ask you to change something. until then… wait." -H.

your hands tremble slightly as you finish reading.

a chill runs down your spine.

who wrote this? how did they know where you’d arrive? why do they speak like they’ve done this before?

you fold the letter slowly, slipping it back into the envelope. your mind reels, swimming with questions that claw at you from every direction. there’s no logic, no explanation. one moment you were crying in your closet, and the next… here. in a world you’ve only heard about from your mother’s fading stories, wrapped in decades-old nostalgia and distant memories.

you don’t realize how long you’ve sat there, dazed, until a voice calls out from downstairs.

“dinner time, girl! come eat before it gets cold!”

mrs. son’s voice, clear and commanding, startles you into motion. you rise, smoothing your borrowed skirt, tucking the letter under your pillow like a secret you’re not ready to share with even the walls.

When you step into the kitchen, you’re met with the scent of something savory, thick and warm and unfamiliar. the room is bathed in soft golden light from a low-hanging bulb, casting everything in a nostalgic glow. mrs. son stands behind a small wooden table, setting down bowls and plates with practiced ease.

you stare at the food, recognizing almost nothing but finding it all intoxicatingly fragrant. there’s bubbling jjigae, a perfectly round plate of jeon with scallions poking through the golden batter, neatly arranged namul side dishes, and a mound of rice that glistens as if each grain were kissed by steam.

“don’t just stand there like a scarecrow,” she chuckles, motioning for you to sit. “eat, girl. you need energy. you’re too pale.”

you sit slowly, murmuring a thank you, and begin to eat. the first spoonful of stew burns your tongue but floods your chest with warmth. each bite is an exploration, a memory you never lived tasting its way into your bloodstream.

between spoonfuls, mrs. son starts talking—not directly to you, but more like letting the stories she’s carried her whole life spill into the air.

“you remind me of someone, you know. a woman who stayed in this house years ago. pretty thing. big eyes like yours. she was in love.”

you look up, surprised.

“she fell for a sailor,” she continues, “a local boy with a wild laugh and a heart full of the sea. he promised her the world. even got her a ring. but…”

she pauses to sip her barley tea.

“…before they could marry, his boat went down. storm off the coast. they say he drowned. some say he never wanted to return and used the sea as an excuse.”

she smiles sadly.

“but i saw her every night on that porch, waiting. right up until winter took her away too.”

you set down your chopsticks, the story making your chest feel tight.

a part of you aches for this woman you’ve never met.

a part of you wonders if the sea has a habit of stealing men who promise forever.

you stare down at your bowl, your appetite gone.

nothing makes sense.

not the past.

not the stories.

not your own existence in this strange, beautiful fragment of time.

the only thing you know for sure is this:

you’re not here by accident.

and someone, somewhere, is watching.

the day was already strange enough.

the 90s school uniform felt tight in places it shouldn’t, your socks kept sliding down no matter how many times you pulled them up, and your ponytail was starting to come loose from all the running around trying to figure out where your classroom was. you were still trying to adjust to the rhythm of this strange new world — a world that smelled like chalk dust, cassette tapes, and kimchi stew floating through the hallways.

you were walking through the back courtyard of the school, holding a borrowed notebook to your chest, when you missed the curb.

you fell.

it wasn’t elegant.

you hit the concrete hard, knees and elbows scraping against the rough ground. your notebook flew a meter ahead, your bag tipped over, and just as you tried to push yourself up, a sudden gust of wind blew from behind. and just your luck — you were wearing the uniform skirt that flared out slightly when you walked.

now, it flared up.

wide. high. completely.

right in front of a boy.

not just any boy.

his eyes widened comically as he froze mid-step, staring for a split second — a dangerous, deadly split second — before whipping his head to the side, red creeping across his neck all the way to his ears. He stumbled back with his arms up as if you were pointing a gun at him.

you screamed.

“YAH! don’t just stand there like a pervert — HELP ME!”

your voice cracked from the sudden mix of pain, panic, and fury. the boy flinched as if slapped, then scrambled forward, offering a trembling hand.

“i–i wasn’t trying to see anything!” he stammered, clearly about to pass out from sheer embarrassment. “the wind—! it just—! i didn’t—!”

you ignored his babbling, more concerned with your burning face and aching knees. but as he helped you stand, you got a good look at his face. that face.

the perfectly shaped lips, the soft, clean skin, the dark brows, the long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks... and those eyes.

those exact eyes from the photo.

your mother’s photo.

it was him. choi soobin.

in the flesh. younger, alive, real.

you gasped.

he tilted his head. “are you okay? you look pale—”

before you could respond, a loud thud interrupted the moment.

a soccer ball came flying out of nowhere and hit soobin square in the face.

he made a startled sound before falling flat on his back.

you stared at his sprawled form on the ground. “what the hell—?!”

moments later, both of you sat side by side in the school infirmary. the scent of alcohol pads and ointment filled the air. you were perched on the edge of a stiff bed, rubbing antiseptic into your scraped knees, wincing each time it stung. beside you, soobin sat with tissues crammed up his nostrils, his head tilted back and a faint blush still clinging to his cheeks.

the nurse — a woman with overly plucked, razor-thin brows, blunt bangs curled under with all the strength of a hot iron, and lips lined in dark brown pencil — shook her head.

“thank goodness it’s not broken,” she sighed, inspecting soobin’s nose. “you boys with your sports… always causing accidents. and you”—she turned to you—“keep your skirt down next time, young lady. what do you think this is, a fashion show?”

you blinked, mouth falling open in disbelief.

this place… this time… these people.

it was like you had fallen into a very vivid, sometimes painful, sometimes embarrassing dream. and now, the boy from your mother’s past was sitting beside you, sniffling through a nosebleed.

and you still had no idea what you were doing here.

soobin blinked at you, still slightly dazed from the hit. his nose was no longer bleeding, but the tissue stuffed under his nostrils made him look even more like the schoolboy he was. you were about to say something—maybe thank him, maybe apologize, maybe ask if he was okay—when the infirmary door creaked open.

“bin!” came a familiar voice, far too loud for the sterile silence of the room.

yeonjun.

he stepped in with an armful of paper bags and small boxes—colorful wrappings, handwritten notes, tiny trinkets peeking through. gifts. you watched as he strutted over to soobin’s bed with an exasperated groan.

"seriously? you just got here and you’re already collecting fans again?” he teased, tossing one of the bags onto soobin’s lap. “what is it this time—handmade chocolates or love letters?”

soobin groaned and rolled his eyes, muttering something about it being a misunderstanding, but you weren’t listening anymore.

yeonjun had looked up. His eyes landed on yours. recognition flashed across his face like lightning.

“you—”

he didn’t finish. he just stood there, blinking, mouth slightly parted like the pieces of his memory were trying to click together.

you didn’t think. you just acted.

ignoring the sting of your scraped knees, you jumped off the bed. the linoleum was cold beneath your socks, but your voice came out warm, too bright, too casual.

"hey, um… yeonjun, right?” you said quickly, your cheeks heating under his stare. “do you want to grab something to eat or… i mean, you helped me earlier and i—well, i don’t know anyone else here.”

he looked confused at first, almost suspicious. then a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “you sure? you're not gonna faint on me or something?”

you laughed, awkward and real. “i’ll try not to.”

he shrugged. “fine. you’re lucky i’m hungry too.”

so the two of you walked out of the infirmary side by side. the late afternoon light spilled down the corridor in golden streaks, warming the tile beneath your feet. the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and school uniforms.

you were just about to ask him where he thought you could find something sweet from a local bakery when—

click. click. click.

footsteps. fast. familiar.

you turned at the sound, heart stuttering. your eyes caught a silhouette at the end of the hallway, the light from the windows casting her in soft profile.

it was her.

your mother.

but not as you knew her.

she was younger. smaller. her hair was long and tied half-up with a little bow. she wore the school uniform, the same one you had seen in the photograph. she didn’t look like a stern, cold lawyer. she looked like a girl.

she giggled. and then you heard his laugh.

soobin’s.

they stepped into the infirmary together, talking—laughing. you couldn’t hear the words, just the sounds, but it was enough to send a strange ache through your chest.

you had never heard her laugh like that before.

not in your life.

not once.

and in that moment, as yeonjun rambled beside you about the best tteokbokki stand near the school gates, you couldn't even process a word.

your stomach twisted.

your mother. soobin. that laugh. that moment.

and you—

you were caught between two worlds.

the red broth bubbled quietly in the small metal pot between you. the scent of chili, garlic, and sweetness filled the air as you leaned over the table, watching the glistening rice cakes dance in the simmering sauce. yeonjun, sitting across from you in his white school shirt with the sleeves rolled up, poked at one of them with a wooden skewer and raised his brow at you.

“you ever tried tteokbokki before?” he asked, eyes flickering with curiosity as he blew softly on the piece.

you shook your head, almost too eagerly. “not like this,” you murmured after the first bite, eyes widening. the heat was perfect, the chewiness addictive, and the flavor—intense but somehow comforting. “god… it's actually good. like really good. everything back in my—” you caught yourself, heartbeat spiking, “—my time is just so artificial and bland. like, processed. rancid, almost.”

yeonjun tilted his head, mouth halfway open with the next bite. “your time?” he echoed, blinking slowly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

your breath caught in your throat. shit.

“i mean—my town! my town,” you laughed, too quickly, waving your hands. “back in my town. it's really rural and… old-fashioned, i guess? i’ve been studying a lot of history too for exams. i read so much about the different historical eras, i think the word ‘time’ just slipped in.” you forced another laugh and stuffed your mouth with a rice cake, cheeks burning.

yeonjun stared for a second longer than was comfortable, and then snorted. “you’re weird,” he muttered around his own bite, though his lips curled into a faint smile. “but you’ve got a point. food tastes better before the big corporations mess it up.”

you nodded quickly, relieved at the shift. the tension melted a bit between the spice and the conversation, the kind that warms not just your stomach but something deeper—something that makes the loneliness of waking up in the wrong decade feel just a little less heavy.

as you sat across from yeonjun, the last few pieces of tteokbokki slowly disappeared from the pot. the spicy warmth lingered on your lips, but your mind was far from the food. you couldn’t stop replaying that scene in your head—your mother’s laughter, sweet and girlish, echoing behind the infirmary doors. and beside her, soobin, smiling back like they were already familiar with each other.

you chewed slowly, lost in thought, until the question slipped out before you could stop it.

“what’s soobin like?”

yeonjun looked up sharply, brow raised, a teasing smirk forming on his lips. “oh? so now we’re talking about him?”

you blinked. “no, no—it’s not like that.”

“right,” he said, drawing the word out, clearly not believing you. “let me guess—you’re using me to get close to him?”

your jaw dropped. “what? no! It’s not even for me.” you scrambled for an excuse, mind racing. “it’s for… my friend. she’s interested in him. but she doesn’t really know how to approach him. so i was just curious. you know… to help her.”

yeonjun leaned back, arms crossed, clearly amused. “a friend, huh?”

you nodded quickly, trying to keep your face neutral. “yeah. she’s… shy.”

he squinted, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read through your soul. “well, if you want the truth… he’s a total playboy,” he said with a completely serious expression.

your heart dropped. “really?”

yeonjun burst out laughing, almost choking on his soda. “god, you’re so gullible.”

you glared at him, cheeks heating up. “you’re such a jerk.”

he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning. “no, seriously. he’s just a normal guy. chill, kind of awkward sometimes, but popular. everyone likes him. probably because of his face,” he added with a playful grimace. “also… his parents are loaded. like, seriously old money. but he doesn’t act stuck up about it or anything.”

you nodded slowly, absorbing every word. soobin… a boy born in privilege, admired by many, and yet—somehow—your mother had laughed beside him like they shared something deeper. you stared down at your drink, the fizz catching the light.

if soobin was already so adored… did that mean your mother had been one of his admirers too?

a strange ache bloomed in your chest, something between curiosity and dread.

you twirled a piece of tteokbokki with your chopsticks, still digesting everything yeonjun had said about soobin. the conversation had taken a strange turn, light and teasing at first—but your mind couldn’t let go of something he’d just casually mentioned.

“if soobin’s parents are rich,” you started, voice careful, “and they’re your uncles… then your parents must be rich too, right?”

the moment the question left your mouth, you felt the air shift. yeonjun's expression changed—subtle, but impossible to miss. his gaze dropped to the table, and he took a deep breath, the usual spark in his eyes dimming.

you opened your mouth, instantly regretting it, but he spoke first. “i live with my grandmother.”

that wasn’t what you expected.

you blinked. “with your parents too?”

he shook his head slowly. “no. just her.”

you rushed to fix your words, hands slightly raised. “i mean, that’s not weird or anything. a lot of families live with their grandparents. it just makes the family bigger, right? i only live with my mom and—”

he interrupted, voice calm, but distant. “my parents died.”

the words hit like a brick wall. your breath caught in your throat.

“it was a plane crash. when i was ten. they were coming back from the u.s.,” he continued, his voice softer now. “they’d been checking out places to live because we were supposed to move there together. but the plane… didn’t make it.”

silence blanketed the table like a thick fog. even the sounds of the street outside—distant laughter, scooters, the clink of bowls—felt suddenly muted.

you looked down at your lap, unsure what to say, but before you could even mutter an apology, yeonjun smiled. not forced, not bitter—just… gentle.

“it’s okay,” he said, looking up again. “i’m happy. my grandma takes good care of me. she runs a barbecue restaurant nearby. you should come by sometime. i’ll sneak you extra meat.”

your heart ached a little at his warmth. he was so open, so strong, despite everything.

you forced a small smile, eyes searching his face. “how old are you?”

“i’ll be eighteen soon,” he said, straightening a little with pride. “last year of high school. next year, i’m taking the csat. gonna try for a university in seoul.”

“that’s impressive,” you said genuinely.

“yeah, well… someone’s gotta get out of incheon,” he grinned, and the mood lightened just a bit again.

you didn’t know what to say after that, so you just kept eating, the tteokbokki no longer hot but still comforting. and all the while, your thoughts wandered—about soobin, about your mother, about how the hell you'd ended up here. but more than anything… you found yourself wondering just who choi yeonjun really was underneath all those layers.

that night, the air in incheon was unusually still.

you walked slowly down the quiet streets, your belly full of spicy tteokbokki and your mind spinning from yeonjun’s unexpected vulnerability. it had left a mark on you—how easily he smiled through pain. and the way he talked about soobin, half mocking, half affectionate… it made your chest tighten again. your mother’s laughter echoed in your ears, youthful and bright like wind chimes, paired with soobin’s soft chuckle. a sound you never imagined you’d hear.

you paused just outside the small gate of the son house, your temporary home in the past. the night air carried scents of distant grilling meat and flowers you couldn’t name. everything felt unfamiliar and familiar all at once. stepping inside, you slid the door shut gently behind you and walked up to your room.

but the moment you pushed open the door, your breath hitched.

there, neatly placed on your pillow, was another envelope. cream-colored, slightly yellowed like old parchment. your fingers trembled a little as you picked it up, the weight of the paper oddly heavy in your hands.

you sat on the floor, your back to the wall, and opened it slowly.

inside was a single folded sheet. elegant, slanted handwriting greeted you.

"there are things that must happen in their rightful time, and you are here to ensure they do. do not underestimate the importance of choi soobin. the first love always leaves the deepest mark." — H.

you stared at the letter for a long time.

your heart thudded violently in your chest.

choi soobin. the name might as well have been carved into your skin at this point.

was this… was he the reason you were sent here?

the connection to your mother felt too strong to ignore. her maiden name. that tragic love story mrs. son had told you earlier—the one about the sailor and the girl he never got to marry. was that somehow related?

was soobin him?

you reached for the tattered marriage certificate you'd found hidden in your mother’s things earlier. the ink-smudged name of the groom was still unreadable. all you had was a surname—choi. and now, soobin. was it all falling into place? or was your mind inventing connections where none existed?

you pressed your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed. “this can’t be real…” you whispered.

you hadn’t even had time to question how you ended up here. one moment you were in your mother’s room, digging through old boxes of memories, and the next… thrown into a version of korea you’d only read about in textbooks. no explanation. no instructions. Just instincts and heartbeats.

and now letters?

your thoughts swirled in chaos, and for the first time since arriving, your resolve faltered.

what if messing with the past had consequences?

what if you were the reason your mother’s love story ended in heartbreak?

what if you were supposed to stop something… or start it?

you pulled your knees to your chest, pressing the letter against your mouth to stifle the rising panic. the room was dark, quiet, humming with a kind of stillness that only came before storms.

and somewhere deep down, you knew:

whatever mission brought you here... it was only beginning.

time moved differently here.

days passed like water slipping through your fingers—slow and heavy, yet gone before you could truly grasp them. you’d started to adapt. your accent had softened, your posture adjusted. you walked with your hands folded in front of you like the other girls. you learned to bow at the right angle, to accept the stares without flinching, and to hide the flicker of your modern instincts when someone used a phrase you’d only seen in dusty textbooks.

in a way, you became someone new. but you never stopped looking over your shoulder, never stopped clutching the growing stack of letters from mr. hong like lifelines.

the latest one arrived tucked between the pages of a history book in the school library, hidden where only you would look. the handwriting, as always, was precise and calm—like a teacher’s, or perhaps a soldier’s.

“it is time to begin. you must guide your mother. help her open her heart to choi soobin. but beware—any alteration of their bond may cause irreversible changes to the future." H.

you read the letter three times, the words branded into your thoughts.

it made your heart ache with confusion.

soobin. always soobin.

you hadn’t seen much of him. he was in a different class, and so was your mother. both of them seemed to float in and out of your orbit like stars you couldn’t quite reach. you’d catch glimpses in the hallway—soobin, surrounded by classmates, a quiet but steady force of gravity. your mother, younger and nothing like the sharp, tired woman you grew up with. she was shy, always fidgeting with her sleeves, eyes lowered, cheeks turning pink when someone said her name.

and yeonjun… yeonjun had become your anchor.

you still didn’t know how it had happened, but one day, you were laughing at his terrible drawing of a teacher during lunch break, and the next, you couldn’t imagine surviving this world without him. he was the only one who could pull you back from the anxiety of feeling like you didn’t belong. the only one who let you be your strange, out-of-place self and still grinned like he was lucky to know you.

but that letter.

that letter twisted your insides.

because if you helped your mother fall in love with soobin… what would that mean for you?

would you vanish?

would your entire existence be erased?

you didn’t want to think about it. not now. not when your life here had finally started to feel like something real.

still, the next day, you found her.

she was standing behind the old school building, near the edge of the soccer field, half-hidden behind a low tree. the spring breeze tugged at her cardigan and sent petals fluttering to the ground. you followed her gaze and, unsurprisingly, found soobin on the field, laughing with a group of boys, his shirt a little untucked, his smile careless and devastating.

you stepped beside her slowly. she flinched when she noticed you.

“oh! you scared me,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.

You smiled. “sorry. i didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

she looked down, embarrassed, brushing hair behind her ear. “i was just… watching.”

you waited a moment, then leaned in closer. “do you like him?”

she went still. Her face turned crimson. “n-no! i mean… maybe. he’s… kind.”

you tilted your head. “do you want help?”

her eyes met yours—young, hopeful, unsure. “with what?”

“to… get closer to him,” you said, forcing a calm tone even as your stomach coiled with doubt. “maybe i can help.”

you didn’t know why you offered. maybe because the letter told you to. maybe because there was something sweet about her innocence, about the way she twisted her fingers together like love was something too big for her to hold.

or maybe you just wanted to understand.

to see what could have been.

to believe that everything wasn’t just coincidence.

as she nodded shyly, hope blooming across her face, you felt something cold drip down your spine.

what if she really did fall for him?

what if he loved her back?

what if they married—and you… never existed?

but the letter burned in your pocket like a second heartbeat. you had to trust it. trust that whoever—or whatever—had sent you here knew more than you did.

you forced a smile and said softly, “let’s start with a smile. next time he walks by.”

she looked at you with wide eyes. “just that?”

You nodded. “you’d be surprised what a smile can do.”

but you weren’t thinking of her when you said it.

you were thinking of soobin.

of the moment his eyes met yours for the first time.

and of how your whole world had started to change since.

the evening had that golden hue, the one you only get when the sun starts to sink behind the old buildings, casting everything in a nostalgic warmth. you’d organized the dinner with care. a simple yet modern spot: a small restaurant that served american-style burgers, with metal tables, hanging lights, and a jukebox playing soft romantic ballads in the background.

you thought it would be the perfect setting.

they just needed to coexist, relax, laugh a little. if your mom and soobin could spend time together, maybe you'd fulfill the letter’s request. maybe you could keep moving the pieces without altering the whole game.

yeonjun arrived first, greeting you with his trademark crooked smile and a pack of gum in hand. then came your mom’s friends, followed by soobin, and lastly, your mother, who looked absolutely lovely without realizing it—her hair loose, a navy blue dress with a white collar, and her cheeks flushed, as though simply being here made her nervous.

everything seemed fine… at first.

they all took their seats at a round table. you were between soobin and one of your mom’s friends. your plan was clear: give them space. let them talk, let something spark between them. but it didn’t go as planned.

the friends started whispering among themselves, yeonjun was animatedly talking about a movie he wanted to watch, and somehow, you ended up talking to soobin. again.

it was easy to talk to him. too easy.

both of you ordered the same burger, without even knowing it. you both took the pickles out at the same time and set them aside. at the first bite, you both chewed in sync, making a little involuntary sound of pleasure.

“mmm…”

“mm-hmm…”

you exchanged glances and chuckled. without realizing it, you both reached for napkins to wipe the same spot on your right cheeks at the exact same moment.

“what the hell?” one of your mom’s friends exclaimed, pointing at you both with a smile. “you two choreographed this or what? you look like twins! no, wait—clones!”

everyone laughed, except your mom.

“yeah,” yeonjun murmured, leaning on his elbows, watching you both closely. “even now, you’ve both got food on your cheeks... like two little rabbits.”

the laughter died down. you quickly wiped your mouth and glanced over at your mom.

that look.

you knew it too well. furrowed brows, clenched jaw, eyes cold and full of something between anger and discomfort. you’d seen it a thousand times, when you were younger, when you came home late, when you did something “out of line,” when you weren’t the daughter she needed you to be.

you knew what was coming.

and it came.

she stood up from the table without a word, grabbing her purse with force and walking out of the restaurant hurriedly. the others stared after her, soobin looked around confused, and yeonjun sat up in his seat, about to stand.

you reacted first.

you bolted after her, pushing the restaurant door open, the cold evening air hitting your face. you caught up to her on the sidewalk, calling her name. it felt strange to say her name out loud, like it wasn’t even the right name for her anymore.

she turned to face you abruptly, her eyes wet.

“are you mocking me?” she hissed, her voice shaking with anger. “did you really think i wouldn’t notice? you used me. you just wanted to get closer to soobin, didn’t you? used me to play your game.”

you froze, your heart pounding in your chest.

“n-no… it’s not like that,” you stammered, looking down at the ground as if you were twelve again and she had just caught you breaking something. “i don’t care about soobin, i swear. i just… wanted to help you.”

she didn’t answer, just stood there, eyes drilling into you with that piercing gaze.

you swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to your mind.

“it’s yeonjun.”

her expression softened slightly. barely noticeable.

“what?”

“i… i like yeonjun.”

she blinked, clearly caught off guard. you could feel the air change.

“what?”

“i... i like yeonjun.” you bit your lip nervously, not entirely sure of what you were saying, but the words felt right somehow. “not soobin. it’s yeonjun.”

you could feel your chest tighten as your mother processed your words. she blinked in surprise, before letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

“yeonjun?” she repeated, eyes widening. “you like yeonjun?”

you nodded sheepishly, the words coming out in a rush. “yeah, i mean… i think i do. but i’m not sure. i’ve just… been thinking about him a lot. you know, he’s kind of—well—different. i feel comfortable around him, i guess.”

you didn’t even realize yeonjun had been listening in from behind a nearby wall. he had been standing there, eavesdropping quietly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

your mother looked at you, and for a brief moment, her anger softened. “i thought you liked soobin…”

you quickly shook your head. “no, not at all. i don’t even see him like that. you know, like how people do with someone famous or something. it’s just not the same…”

suddenly, there was a rustling noise behind you. you turned around to see yeonjun step out from behind the wall, his expression unreadable. you didn’t know if he had heard everything, but from the way his eyes locked with yours, you could tell he had. your cheeks burned.

“i, uh...” yeonjun scratched his head awkwardly. “you didn’t have to tell her that, you know.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but your mother didn’t wait for you to speak. she turned away, the tension still thick in the air.

“i don’t know what’s going on between you two, but... if you really like him, then go for it. i won’t stop you.” her voice was cold, the finality of it stinging. “but don’t use me for your own plans.”

you reached out instinctively, but she was already walking off, her steps quick and purposeful.

you felt a sharp pang in your chest. you hadn’t meant to hurt her.

but in that moment, yeonjun stood beside you, his presence oddly comforting despite the awkwardness of the situation.

the days blurred by as you found yourself caught in the web of your own actions. you had committed to this, to helping your mother—nari—conquer soobin, following the exact instructions hong had given you in that letter. you didn’t dare stray from the plan; it was your duty, a responsibility you couldn’t afford to fail. so, day by day, you found yourself subtly maneuvering your mother closer to Soobin in every possible way.

you'd suggest small moments where they could talk, push nari into soobin’s orbit, casually organizing group hangouts, dinners, or even study sessions. every time they spoke, you’d make sure there were just enough quiet moments where they were alone, hoping for that spark to ignite.

but as the days passed, yeonjun grew suspicious. he was noticing things, and it wasn’t hard to tell. there was something off about the way you acted, like you were always just a little too eager to get your mom and soobin together, like you were pulling invisible strings behind the scenes.

“why do you always look so nervous when i ask about you and soobin?” yeonjun had asked one evening, his eyes narrowing as he watched you carefully.

you froze, unsure of how to answer. you didn’t want to tell him the truth—not yet. it felt impossible to explain, and you certainly couldn’t let him in on the secret. not when it was still so fragile, so delicate.

“i—” you hesitated, then quickly changed the subject. “it’s nothing. just… weird timing, i guess.”

yeonjun wasn’t convinced. “no, it’s not nothing. you’re acting strange, and i don’t buy your story.”

his suspicion lingered, and his questions began to cut a little too close to the truth. you knew you couldn’t keep this up forever. and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. not yet.

“i'm just… doing what I have to do,” you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. “it’s... a duty, yeonjun. a matter of life or death.”

he blinked in confusion. “a duty? what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

you sighed, rubbing your forehead in frustration. “i’ll tell you everything. just not now. i’m not ready yet. but i promise i’ll explain. saturday night, at your grandmother’s restaurant. we’ll talk then.”

yeonjun hesitated but nodded, as if he could sense the gravity of what you weren’t saying.

saturday night arrived quickly. you walked into the cozy, warm restaurant, the smell of grilled meats and spices thick in the air. yeonjun’s grandmother greeted you with a kind smile, and yeonjun led you to a quiet corner. he could tell you were nervous—hell, you were practically shaking with anticipation as you prepared to share your secret.

the moment the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath.

“so,” yeonjun started, leaning forward. “you said you were going to tell me everything. i'm listening.”

sou swallowed hard. there was no turning back now. you couldn’t run from this anymore.

“i—uh... i’ll start from the beginning,” you said, your voice wavering slightly. “a while ago, i found a photo between some old boxes when we were moving. it was a picture of a guy. he looked like he belonged in the past, like he didn’t fit in with the time i'm from.”

yeonjun furrowed his brows. “a guy?”

“yeah,” you nodded, the memories flooding back. “he’s… soobin. and my mom—she’s been acting weird, too. i started paying attention. i mean, she’s not like herself. she’s not the same person i remember. and it’s not just her attitude—there’s something deeper, like a whole other life she’s hiding. but it wasn’t until i found that picture that everything started making sense.”

yeonjun’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. “so, this guy, soobin... he’s important, right? but why are you involved? you’re talking about your mom like she’s not... your mom.”

you froze. his question hung in the air, thick and heavy. did he really get it? could he possibly know?

“i—i’m not from here, yeonjun,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “i’m not from this time. i’m not even from this place.”

he blinked, a frown spreading across his face. “what do you mean? are you—”

“i’m from the future,” you interrupted, your words tumbling out in a rush. “from 2017. i was sent back here, to help my mom, nari. you see, in the future, things went wrong. a lot of things. i was... i was told that if i didn’t do this, something would happen that could ruin everything.”

yeonjun stared at you in disbelief, his face pale as he tried to process what you had just said. “you’re from the future? like, actually? you’re not joking right now?”

you shook your head, watching his expression change from skepticism to pure confusion.

“i’m not joking. i know it sounds insane, but it’s true. and soobin… he’s connected to it all. i think he’s the key to everything.”

“soobin?” yeonjun’s voice was barely a whisper. “is he your—your father?”

the question hit you like a punch in the chest. you had thought about it, briefly, in your mind, but hearing him ask the question was different. it felt real, like it was something that needed an answer.

you opened your mouth, but the words stuck in your throat. “i—i don’t know,” you admitted, the words trembling. “my dad... he was choi taesang. i found papers—an old marriage certificate. i even found a small part of his name, ‘bin,’ that matched soobin’s. my mom told me my dad changed his name because of some family issues, inheritance problems... but he died when i was little. i never knew him.”

you stared down at your hands, the weight of the past pressing down on you. “i’m not sure if soobin is my father, but i need to figure this out. i have to help my mom... i have to make sure things happen the way they’re supposed to.”

yeonjun sat back, his expression unreadable as he processed everything you had just told him. the silence stretched between you both, thick with uncertainty.

finally, he exhaled sharply. “so... what happens if you don’t do this? what happens if you fail?”

“i don’t know,” you whispered. “but i can’t take that chance. my existence depends on it.”

yeonjun stayed silent for a long moment, staring directly into your eyes. the disbelief that had once filled his expression seemed to melt away, replaced by something else. it wasn’t confusion anymore. there was a sense of determination now.

“i’ll help you,” he said, his voice confident, almost defiant, as if nothing could stop him. “i won’t let you disappear. i won’t let you face this alone.”

the declaration took you by surprise, and for a moment, you felt the weight on your shoulders lighten slightly. but at the same time, deep inside, something else stirred—sadness. because the simple fact that he was willing to stand by you in all of this meant one thing: sooner or later, you’d have to part ways. If this whole thing worked out, if your mission was fulfilled, your return to the future would be inevitable, and that would mean disappearing from his life, like you’d never been there.

yeonjun looked at you, a playful gleam lighting up his eyes. “in 26 years, i’ll be an old man, and you’ll still be a little kid. just imagining myself as an old man is enough to depress me.” he chuckled lightly. “26 years sounds so far away, but that’s when i’ll need to have everything figured out, right? i need to be satisfied with my life by then.”

you let out a light laugh, the weight of the conversation easing just a little. he was right, though. twenty-six years were a long time in the future, and that was when all of this would come to a head. but he was right. he had to fulfill his dreams and live his life, just as you had to. it made the whole situation feel... less heavy, for a moment.

yeonjun’s tone softened again as he looked at you. “i don’t fully understand your situation, but i know you’re under a lot of pressure. your life depends on this, doesn’t it?”

you nodded, a deep sigh escaping your lips. “it does. i don’t know what’s going to happen, but it feels like i’m running out of time. i... i don’t even know how to explain it.”

you looked at him, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “i’ll tell you everything,” you said softly. “come with me to the house where mrs. son is. i’ll show you all the letters. i’ve been keeping everything hidden, but i can’t keep this secret anymore. i’m sorry, mr. hong, for telling you all this... but i just couldn’t anymore.”

later that evening, you and yeonjun found yourselves sitting at the small kitchen table in mrs. son’s house. the air was thick with the weight of the truth you had just revealed, and it was starting to settle in for both of you. the letters, the photo of soobin, the strange messages from hong, and the terrifying idea that you could disappear from the timeline—it was a lot to process. but now, you were facing it all with yeonjun at your side.

yeonjun, still looking a little incredulous but trying his best to absorb everything, leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours for more clarity. "so, if you really are from the future, then... what happens there? what’s it like? What should i be worried about?"

you sighed deeply. the weight of the situation pressed down on you, but you could tell yeonjun was trying to understand, and that made it a little easier to talk. “the future is... weird. so much has changed, and so many things that we take for granted here—like technology—just didn’t exist when i was growing up. it’s all connected. everything is connected.”

yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “connected how?”

you shifted in your seat, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “like, some major things happen in history, things that change the way the world works. like... 9/11.

yeonjun looked confused. “9/11? is that... some sports event?”

you shook your head with a small, sad smile. “no. it was a huge terrorist attack in the united states, and it affected people all over the world. it’s something that... well, it's just a big moment in history. but, for you, it doesn’t really matter. it didn’t affect your life here. in fact, a lot of the things that matter there... just don’t affect you yet.”

yeonjun scratched his head. “that’s... strange. i don’t know much about world events like that.”

“yeah, i guess it’s not on your radar yet,” you replied, “but there are other things, too. football—soccer, i mean—becomes a huge deal in the future. International matches, world cups, they get so much attention. some players... they make history, you know?”

yeonjun perked up, leaning forward now. "wait, really? like who? who makes history?"

you looked at him, a bit taken aback by his sudden interest. “well, in 2002, south korea made it to the semifinals of the world cup. it was a huge deal. the entire country was celebrating. people were so proud of their team.”

yeonjun’s eyes widened, and he grinned. “wait, seriously? south korea in the semifinals? that’s insane!”

you laughed, feeling the warmth of his enthusiasm. “yeah. It’s like one of the proudest moments in sports history here.”

yeonjun’s face lit up even more as he absorbed the significance. "i can't wait to see that happen in the future. when it does, you’ll have to remind me, okay? i’ll throw a big celebration for it! just wait, i’m going to be ready to party!"

it was an unexpected reaction, but it made you smile. despite all the heavy stuff you were dealing with, yeonjun’s excitement about something so simple—celebrating a victory in a future that hadn't even happened yet—felt comforting. for a moment, it was like things weren’t so complicated. like he was still just a normal guy with normal dreams.

you could tell that, despite his earlier confusion, yeonjun was beginning to feel more at ease with the whole situation. “it’s going to happen, just not right now. but hey,” you said, “maybe we can actually watch it together. i mean... if i’m still around.”

yeonjun nodded, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “we will. and i won’t let you disappear. not on my watch.”

it was said half-jokingly, but the sincerity behind his words was clear. you both sat there for a moment, allowing the silence to settle, but it wasn’t awkward. it felt... comfortable, like the weight of the truth was finally beginning to feel a little more bearable. yeonjun, despite all the confusion, was on your side. and that meant more to you than you realized.

“so,” yeonjun started, breaking the silence, “what’s next? what are you going to do with all this?”

you looked at the pile of letters on the table, still half-distracted by everything that had happened. “i don’t know yet. but i think i have to help my mom with soobin. i’m supposed to—well, the letters say it’s important. i just... i don’t know why. it’s all so weird.”

he leaned in closer, his tone serious now. “i don’t understand it all, but i get that you’ve got something you need to do. and i’ll help. whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. together.”

there was a sense of resolve in his voice now, a shift from the playful teasing earlier. he was no longer just a friend caught in the middle of your confusing life. he was someone who genuinely wanted to help you, someone who was willing to dive into the chaos with you and not back down.

and for the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope—hope that things might actually work out, no matter how strange and twisted your situation seemed.

the days passed, and as you and yeonjun continued to help your mother and soobin grow closer, you found a sense of tranquility in the small moments that blossomed between you both. you had done it. you’d helped them get to this point, this delicate moment where your mom was finally smiling in a way you had never seen before. the bond between her and soobin was undeniable, and watching it grow made your heart swell. it was a feeling you couldn’t quite explain—like a mix of pride and relief that you had completed a part of your task, something that had been weighing on your shoulders from the very beginning. but you weren’t just a passive observer anymore. you had become part of their story.

and on that day, march 15th, when your mom and soobin posed for their first photo together, you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth settle in your chest. it was a moment you had carefully worked towards, a culmination of your efforts to see them happy, to see them closer. you were the one who took the picture, the one who captured their smiles—their shared joy that lit up the frame. they didn’t know it yet, but this photo would become a symbol of so much more than just a casual memory. it was a milestone, a turning point in all their lives.

you stood behind the camera, the lens capturing the gentle moment between them, and your eyes shifted to yeonjun, who was standing next to you. “you think they’ll be okay?” you whispered, adjusting the focus of the camera.

he looked at you with a soft smile, his voice gentle. “i think so. they’re finally seeing each other for who they really are.” his words were comforting, and you couldn’t help but feel that warmth expand.

but as you stood there, camera in hand, it wasn’t just their happiness that lingered in your heart. yeonjun, who had been standing next to you the entire time, his shoulder brushing against yours as you captured the moment, made the whole day feel like it was meant for the two of you. you had become part of something larger than yourself, something far beyond just the letters and the tasks hong had laid out for you. you had become a part of this world, a world that, in its own way, felt like it belonged to you and yeonjun.

days later, you found yourself sitting in your room, carefully sorting through the photos. there were the ones with your mom and soobin, their smiles as wide as the world itself. but then, there were others—the ones you had taken with yeonjun. the ones that seemed so simple, yet carried so much weight. you had never intended to take those pictures, but in the rush of moments, you had. there was the one where you both were riding his bike down the narrow, windy streets, laughing as he swerved the bike just to hear you squeal in fear. or the one where you were sitting on the school rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge as you whispered things about your time, things that felt like secrets shared between two souls who had no business existing in the same moment. those were the photos you’d kept—hidden in a little corner of your heart, tucked into the back of your mind.

you hesitated before pulling one of the pictures from the pile, the one where you were wrapped in yeonjun’s arms as he rode the bike. his face was full of joy, eyes crinkled in a grin, while you were buried in the back of his jacket, your face flushed from the wind and the thrill. you thought about whether it was allowed, whether it was okay to keep such a thing, but in that moment, you didn’t care. this photo, this simple image of you and yeonjun, held something more. something you didn’t have words for yet.

you tucked it carefully into your bag, your fingers grazing the edges of the photo one last time before you turned your attention back to the other picture—the one of your mom and soobin. you felt your heart tighten as you looked at her face, her expression softer than you had ever seen it. there was a glow there, an undeniable happiness that hadn’t been present before. she looked younger somehow, the years of hardship fading away beneath the tender light of a new love—of the first fluttering steps into something that could only be described as the beginning of something beautiful. you couldn't help but feel a rush of emotion wash over you. the woman who had always been so strong, so independent, was now looking at soobin with a softness that made her seem... fragile in the most endearing way. her cheeks flushed with the warmth of her newfound feelings, and her eyes sparkled with the innocence of someone discovering love for the very first time. it was almost impossible to imagine, but there she was, looking at him with a glow that almost seemed surreal.

you didn’t hesitate. you handed the photo to her, watching her take it with trembling hands, eyes scanning it like it was the most precious thing in the world. she looked at soobin, then back at the photo, and then back at you. for a moment, she didn’t say anything, and you almost wondered if she had even noticed the way her face changed. but then she smiled—a smile that wasn’t forced or polite. it was genuine, a smile that came from deep within her, and you realized, for the first time, that maybe you had finally done the right thing.

as the days passed, the air around your relationship with yeonjun grew lighter. you found yourselves spending more and more time together, and each moment seemed to deepen the connection between you both. It was something unspoken, an invisible thread that kept pulling you toward him, no matter how much you tried to resist it. there were moments when it felt so natural, so easy. riding on his bike—your arms wrapped around his waist, your face pressed against his back, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. he never seemed to mind. and when you helped him out at his grandmother’s restaurant on weekends, scrambling around the kitchen and laughing as you tried to juggle orders, it felt right. it felt like home.

“thanks for helping me today,” yeonjun said, a smile tugging at his lips as you wiped your hands on your apron. he stood next to you, leaning against the counter, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place.

“of course,” you answered, glancing up at him with a playful smile. “what else are friends for?”

he grinned back, but there was something deeper in his gaze, something you both avoided acknowledging. “friends, huh?” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

“yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you turned back to the counter, not daring to look him in the eye.

and when the two of you snuck away from class to spend a few stolen minutes on the school’s rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge, it was like time stood still. you’d share bits of your world with him—small things, like the way your phone had changed from an old flip model to a sleek, glass-covered touchscreen. or the way people started using the internet for everything, even their grocery shopping. but when you spoke about the past, about the things that would come to pass, there was always that look in his eyes—one that made your heart beat faster, as though he was hanging on to your every word, each story you told drawing him closer.

“so… the first man on the moon, huh?” yeonjun asked, a twinkle in his eye as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “that’s a big deal in your time?”

“it is,” you answered softly, nodding. “it changed the way we see the world. the idea that we could be more than just earth-bound.” you paused, catching your breath before continuing. “it was… a promise. a promise that anything is possible.”

yeonjun’s gaze softened as he absorbed your words, the weight of them hanging in the air between you. there was something unspoken in that moment, something fragile, like the threads of a story yet to be fully told. you were both trapped in this moment, floating in the same strange space, neither of you daring to say what was on your mind, but both of you feeling it all the same.

“maybe one day we’ll go to the moon,” he said quietly, a light laugh escaping his lips. “wouldn’t that be something?”

you smiled, your chest swelling with a feeling you couldn’t name. maybe one day. maybe one day, you and yeonjun would do just that.

under the clear early-winter sky, you and yeonjun lay side by side on the worn-out blanket he had brought to the rooftop of the shared house. It was one of those nights that felt like it belonged in a diary—quiet, cold, intimate, and framed by a dome of stars so dazzling they seemed ready to spill from the heavens.

the night sky was purer than anything you'd seen in your own time. no pollution. no smog. no glowing cities to wash it all out. just the two of you, and a universe that felt infinite.

“the stars…” you whispered, eyes wide, fixed on the constellations. “they’re so beautiful here. so clear. in the future, you can’t see them like this anymore.”

yeonjun turned his head to look at you. his gaze was soft, filled with that quiet curiosity he always seemed to have when it came to you. “really? not even on clear nights?”

you shook your head, a breath slipping from your lips like smoke in the cold. “not even then. the city lights drown everything out. it’s like the stars have disappeared completely.”

he was quiet for a moment, watching the sky as if trying to memorize it for you—like he could bottle the night and give it to you to take home. then his voice dropped low, barely louder than a thought. “what do you think would’ve happened… if you’d never come here? if you hadn’t time-traveled?”

the question caught you off guard. your fingers brushed against his, half-consciously seeking him out on the fabric between you. “i don’t know,” you admitted truthfully. “maybe… we’d have never met.”

yeonjun let out a soft laugh—not teasing, just warm and tinged with something bittersweet. “yeah… i probably would've kept going with my life. not knowing someone like you even existed.”

“that sounds really sad,” you murmured.

he turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to face you fully. the starlight reflected in his eyes, making them shine. “y/n,” he said quietly, “i think i was born just to meet you.”

your heart clenched. the words hit you in a way that felt too big for your chest. cheesy. ridiculous. impossible. but still—so honest it hurt.

you smiled, cheeks flushed pink from more than just the cold. “maybe i was born to travel through time… just to meet you.”

he blinked slowly, then grinned. “so destiny was playing matchmaker, huh?”

“looks like it,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

it wasn’t a confession. not really. but the space between you shifted, electric and fragile. there were no titles, no labels. just the quiet knowledge that you felt the same—unspoken, yet undeniably there.

since your arrival, months had passed. it was now early 1992. your mother and soobin were officially dating, a real couple. it felt surreal. every time you looked at them, you could feel your mission inching closer to its end.

yeonjun was starting to prepare for university applications. his excitement was contagious—he’d talk about moving to seoul, walking through huge lecture halls, making music with other artists. sometimes he’d describe it so vividly you felt like you were already there with him.

“you should come with me,” he said one afternoon while helping you dry bowls at the restaurant. “if you’re still here when school starts.”

you blinked at him. “you mean… to seoul?”

“yeah. why not? you can live in a rooftop apartment next to mine. we’ll eat cheap ramen together. i’ll walk you to your classes.”

your laugh was quiet. “i don’t even know if i’ll still be here. if my mom’s already dating soobin, maybe… maybe it’s almost over. maybe I’ll be sent back soon.”

his smile faltered a little. “right…”

there was a beat of silence before he asked it again—the question that lingered over both of you like a shadow.

“do you think soobin’s your dad?”

you exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the sink. “i don’t know. i wish i did. But i won’t know anything until i go back and… ask her. for real.”

yeonjun nodded, lips pressed tight. you could tell he hated the unknown, hated that all of this—the time you had together—was out of your hands.

still, he leaned in closer, his shoulder bumping yours. “whatever happens… i’m glad we met.”

you tilted your head toward him. “even if i disappear one day without warning?”

he looked at you, eyes unwavering. “even then.”

and in that moment, beneath the stars of a world untouched by time, your hands found each other again. fingers interlaced, quiet and certain. there were no promises. no confessions.

but you both knew the truth.

even without a name, this—whatever it was between you—was real.

though soobin and your mother acted like shy high school sweethearts—barely daring to hold hands in public, cheeks flushed at the simplest touch—you’d heard him once when he thought no one else was listening.

“i want to take you to meet my parents,” soobin had said, voice steady but soft. “i want their blessing. i know we’re young, but i’ve never been so sure about anything.”

your mother had stared at him, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. and you… you had frozen behind the door, hand on your chest, trying to breathe quietly.

it wasn’t just puppy love. soobin meant it. he was serious about her. about a future with her.

you swallowed the lump in your throat. was this… really your father?

you didn’t know what to feel. or say. or even think. all you could do was watch. hope. wait for time to untangle itself beneath your anxious feet.

through it all, yeonjun had been patient with you. so sweetly patient it almost hurt. he never rushed you, never asked for more than you were ready to give. he held your hand when you offered it. stayed close when you needed someone to lean on. you were happy—so achingly, dizzyingly happy—but every so often, reality would fall on you like cold water.

you weren’t meant to stay here. not forever.

you didn’t belong in the past.

if you stayed, who knew what chaos you could cause? butterfly wings and hurricanes. your existence here was a ticking bomb—you just didn’t know when it would explode.

letters from mr. hong still came, even after your confession to yeonjun. he didn’t mention what you’d done. he didn’t seem angry or hurt. just distant. polite. almost like a mentor trying to keep things strictly professional now.

but then… in may, a letter came that chilled you to the bone.

"this will be the last letter, but it doesn’t mean your mission is over. you may stay in the past for weeks, or months, even after this. but something dark is coming. something that will shake the foundation of everything you’ve protected until now. in august, during the farewell party for the senior students… something will happen. be alert. watch closely. whatever happens, protect them." -H.

your eyes scanned the paper in panic, fingers trembling.

you memorized every word. you carried the letter folded tight in your bag, your pillow, your pockets. you barely slept. you watched your mother like a hawk, stuck to soobin’s side more than ever. you hoped it was paranoia. that maybe nothing would happen.

but august arrived.

and so did the storm.

the night of the farewell party was warm and buzzing, the air thick with the joy of students celebrating the end of a chapter. you wore a borrowed dress, hair tucked up, eyes scanning every face. yeonjun stayed close. you could feel his hand grazing yours whenever you drifted.

then, it happened.

scream. loud. sharp. ripping through the music.

you turned and saw soobin—face twisted in rage—hitting a boy again and again. the boy on the floor was bleeding from the mouth, gasping, trying to block the blows. around them, students scattered, screaming. a teacher tried to pull soobin back, but soobin was gone. blind with fury.

someone yelled your mother’s name.

uou turned and saw her—shaking, pale, clothes torn at the shoulder, crying.

and then the cops arrived.

sirens. chaos. lights blinding.

they took soobin in cuffs. he didn’t fight it. he just turned to look at your mother, blood on his knuckles, and said, “i’m sorry.”

everything spiraled after that.

you learned later what had happened. the boy—older, drunk—had cornered your mother. tried to force himself on her. soobin had found them just in time.

but justice wasn’t simple.

soobin’s father, a well-known senator, came crashing down with fury. his name had been dragged through mud. his son in a scandal. a fight. a girl.

he beat soobin the night he got home. soobin showed up days later at your mom's house, face swollen, lip split. he said nothing. just hugged your mother and cried.

and then came the final blow.

his father announced that after soobin’s brief juvenile sentence, he’d be sent to the u.s. for good. a fresh start. a new life. a university abroad.

he was forbidden from seeing your mother again.

she wore the promise ring on her finger still. tiny, silver, nothing flashy—but it shimmered like a thousand diamonds when the light hit it. soobin had given it to her just weeks ago.

“i’ll marry you one day,” he’d whispered. “i swear.”

now she barely left her room. she stopped eating. stopped smiling. her eyes were always red.

you watched it all unfold. helpless. like your chest was being split open from the inside. you thought this was it. you thought this was the end of your mission—and that you’d failed.

maybe you were supposed to stop it. maybe this was the event. maybe this was what you were meant to prevent.

but now it was done.

and you hadn’t stopped it.

one night, after crying so hard your body physically ached, you found yourself in the backyard, curled up on a bench, arms wrapped around your knees.

yeonjun found you there.

he didn’t say anything. he just sat beside you, then gently pulled you into his chest. his arms wrapped around you like a shield. you buried your face in his sweater and sobbed. he stroked your hair slowly, patiently, as if telling you without words: i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.

“i think i ruined everything,” you whispered, voice raw.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly.

“i didn’t stop it. i didn’t protect them.”

“you’ve done more than anyone ever could,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you’ve loved them. that matters. that always matters.”

you closed your eyes.

and for the first time since august began, you let yourself fall apart. safely. in yeonjun’s arms.

even if everything else was crashing down, at least—for now—he was still here.

the months slipped by like smoke between your fingers.

from august to october, the colors around you changed—summer golds fading into autumn reds, then the gray hush of early october. but inside the house, inside your mother's room, it was always winter.

she tried to smile. tried to live. you made her tea, left her notes, held her hand through silences that stretched across entire afternoons. but you couldn’t force her heart to forget.

she had been in love with soobin since the very first day.

it had been fast. intense. a fire that lit her from the inside out—and now, after being torn apart so cruelly, she was trying to breathe through the ashes.

“everything i felt for him was real,” she whispered one night, curled beneath her blanket like a ghost of herself. “i’ve never loved someone like that. and now he’s gone.”

he was gone. living on the other side of the world. his father had made good on his promise—sent him to the u.s., far from everything that made him human. from her. from you.

at first, letters came. they were sweet, hopeful, full of aching promises.

but then they stopped.

you weren’t sure if he was being watched, controlled, or if he’d been forced to forget her by the cold grip of his powerful family. all you knew was that her mailbox stayed empty. and your mother stayed broken.

but in your corner of this spiraling world, there was yeonjun.

yeonjun, who saw you even when you tried to disappear behind your guilt. yeonjun, who didn’t ask for more than what you could give. who held your fears gently in the curve of his palm and waited for you to breathe again.

he was the only one who could calm your unraveling thoughts.

but even that peace became fractured. as october arrived, he pulled away—not emotionally, but physically, lost in piles of paperwork and meetings and test prep for university in seoul.

days would pass without seeing him. you waited, restless. you’d grown addicted to his presence, to the way his voice softened your panic and made the world feel less heavy.

so when he finally said through the phone “let’s have dinner tonight. just us,” your heart skipped like a stone over water.

it was a sunday evening.

the sun had set early, painting the sky in smudges of burnt orange and deep plum. the air was crisp but not cold, the kind that wrapped around your skin like a silk scarf. the streets were quiet, glowing under amber streetlamps, trees shivering slightly in the breeze.

he waited for you at the tteokbokki place—the same spot where you'd first laughed over spicy sauce and nervous glances months ago.

but this time… he looked different.

he’d styled his hair back with gel, revealing the full line of his forehead and the soft arch of his brows. it made him look older, more refined. dangerous, even. the boyish charm hadn’t vanished—it had evolved, carved into something breathtaking.

you blinked, stunned. “you… you look so hot.”

he nearly choked on his water, laughing. “what?”

“i mean it. the hair. it suits you. you look like a model or something.”

his cheeks flushed red. “you can’t just say that and act normal.”

you leaned forward, smug. “i just did.”

the tension melted into warm laughter, echoing between the tiled walls of the tiny restaurant. it felt like you were the only two people in the world.

then, you picked up a piece of tteokbokki, holding it in your chopsticks. “say ‘ahh~’.”

he gave you a playful side-eye. “are we really doing this?”

“yes,” you grinned. “we’re method acting as a couple. you need to commit.”

he opened his mouth with a dramatic sigh. “ahhh—”

you fed him the piece, your fingers brushing his lips by accident, and you both burst out laughing. it was ridiculous. silly. but the way he was looking at you—it wasn’t silly at all.

then he said it.

“i love you.”

the world stopped.

your smile froze on your lips. time seemed to fracture around you, holding its breath.

before you could speak, he continued, voice lower now, almost trembling.

“i know you’ll leave. i know this isn’t your world. but you have something that belongs to you. me.” he reached across the table, took your hand. “even if our time is short… i want to spend it with you. i don’t want to regret not saying it. i don’t want to spend the next 26 years wishing i had.”

your throat tightened. your fingers gripped his.

“i like you, y/n. I like you so much it hurts. and if the universe tears us apart, i’ll be reborn just to find you again. in every timeline, i’ll search for you. always.”

your heart beat so fast it hurt. your mouth was dry. your body frozen.

but he wasn’t waiting for permission anymore.

he stood, leaned over the table, and kissed you.

softly. slowly. like the world didn’t matter.

his lips tasted like tteokbokki and heartbreak, sweet and fiery all at once. your eyes fluttered shut. everything blurred. the restaurant, the lights, the soft chatter of other customers—all vanished.

there was only him. his mouth against yours. his breath brushing your cheek. his hand cradling the side of your neck with delicate reverence.

the world spun.

but for the first time in months, you didn’t care.

you kissed him back. you kissed him like he was the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

because maybe he was.

you started a relationship without labeling it. no one asked, “will you be mine?” they just... were. and that was enough.

no promises, no declarations. only two hearts quietly choosing each other in the midst of borrowed time.

yeonjun didn’t push you. he never asked for forever. he just gave you his time—every second of it. and you, with a heart full of fear and a mind screaming you don’t belong here, you gave him everything you could.

your moments, your awkward laughs, your unsure hands, your kisses that tasted like soft desperation, your half-written thoughts and unfinished dreams.

every date felt like a stolen lifetime.

one warm afternoon, he took you to the park with an old checkered blanket and a thermos full of hot chocolate. he brought his vintage camera and snapped pictures of you while the sun painted you in gold.

“you look like a memory,” he said, looking at you through the lens like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

another night, you strolled through the streets hand in hand, fingers tangled loosely, like a promise never spoken.

you passed by old storefronts and flickering streetlights, until you found a small cinema playing black and white films.

he held your thumb the whole time, tracing slow circles into your skin, and you weren’t even watching the movie— you were memorizing the way his jaw looked in the flickering light, how he leaned close when he laughed.

on a lazy saturday, he took you to a dusty secondhand bookstore tucked between an old pharmacy and a fruit shop.

you two hid between shelves, reading poetry aloud, laughing when he made up the endings, and somewhere between the little prince and a forgotten romance novel, he kissed you again— slow, reverent, like you were made of something holy.

some mornings, you just stayed home.

he made pancakes in a worn apron with a bunny print, and you danced around in oversized socks, hair a mess, and he’d tell you, “you’re my favorite song.” and you’d whisper back, how am i supposed to leave this?

but you didn’t say it out loud. you didn’t have to. you both knew.

and still—he stayed.

and still—you loved him.

while yeonjun became your calm, your anchor, your mother began to slowly stitch herself back together.

not in grand gestures. not overnight. but little by little.

she stopped crying in the mornings. she let you brush her hair again.

she smiled at breakfast, not because she was over soobin, but because she remembered how to feel sunlight on her skin.

you watched her heal. you watched her reread soobin’s old letters with trembling fingers, tears still fresh, but her spine straighter.

“i’ve never loved someone like that before,” she confessed one night while folding laundry, voice soft as dusk. “it all happened so fast… it was real. i know it was.”

and you nodded, because you saw it— the way they looked at each other like time was a thief.

and you were living that same story now. with your own boy. your own impossible love.

except you didn’t know how yours would end.

only that it had already changed you. forever.

it was thursday. early. too early.your eyes were heavy, your limbs sluggish with the weight of not enough sleep.

your mind replayed the night before in soft flashes— you and yeonjun lying side by side, talking about everything and nothing. he told you he'd be leaving at dawn to catch the train to seoul. his csat exam. he had smiled when he said it, eyes wide with excitement and nerves.

“i’ll take the 6 a.m. train,” he whispered. “i want to be early… less stress that way.”

you’d nodded, fingers brushing his. you kissed him—sleepy and slow—and told him good luck. told him you’d buy cake and celebrate when he came back. he grinned, “then now i’m more excited about the cake than the exam.”

your chest ached gently with the memory. how warm his voice had sounded. how real he’d felt.

you went about your morning like any other. brushed your teeth. took a quick shower. you padded downstairs, hair still damp, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.

mrs. son was already up, bustling in the kitchen, apron tied neatly at her waist. the scent of warm broth and toasted rice filled the air. you walked past her to the small calendar on the wall.

she reached it before you. ripped off yesterday’s page in one clean motion. november 12th.

you froze a second. something tugged at your gut. but you shook it off.

“need help?” you asked, voice light.

“set the table, darling,” she said, smiling.

you did. poured the tea. laid out the bowls. and sat down across from her.

she talked casually as you ate. about the weather. the street cats.then she looked up from her spoon and grinned.

“you really won the lottery with that one, huh? so handsome, your yeonjun. if i had met someone like him in my youth…” she sighed dramatically.

you laughed. but there was a tremble in it. because this wasn't your youth. and it wasn't your time.

you were borrowing this moment. and somewhere inside, you knew the clock was ticking.

after breakfast, you stayed in the living room, watching a slow moving drama with mrs. son. she liked to yell at the characters, complain about the villains, cheer for the lovers. you leaned your head against the cushion, letting her voice wash over you, but your mind drifted again.

to his voice. to his train. to his smile as he said “see you tonight.”

and then—

the screen cut to static. just for a second. then the image returned, but it wasn’t the drama anymore.

breaking news.

you sat up.

a smoky image filled the screen. metal twisted into grotesque shapes, a train on its side, the ground scorched and steaming. bodies—blurry—too blurry— sirens. flashing lights.

your blood went ice cold. your lungs forgot how to breathe.

“the train… the train from incheon to seoul has… derailed—”

and you knew. you didn’t need them to say it. you knew.

the flashback hit you like a bullet— “the tragic accident of the incheon-seoul express…” your own voice, from before. before all of this.

“no.” the word spilled from you in a whisper. then louder. “no—no—no—YEONJUN!”

mrs. son barely had time to react before you were on your feet, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to shatter them, legs moving without direction—without control.

you burst out of the house, wind clawing at your skin, eyes blind with tears.

how could i be so stupid? you knew. YOU KNEW. you had the date. the place. the headline burned into your memory. and you let him go.

your breath tore out of you in gasps as you flagged down the first taxi you saw. the driver looked at you wide-eyed as you shouted,

“the train wreck—take me there. please—now.”

“miss, they won’t let you near it. police closed everything. it’s chaos—”

“my boyfriend is there!” your scream cracked your throat raw. “he’s in there—i have to get to him—i have to—”

he drove.

but you were already breaking. from the inside out. because the pieces were fitting together, one after another like cruel clockwork.

you could save your mom. you could save soobin.

but not him.

yeonjun. your bright light. your stolen season of peace. and you’d let him go with a kiss and the promise of cake.

god, why didn’t you say don’t go? why didn’t you scream the truth

you pressed your forehead to the car window, watching the blur of streets race past, but all you saw were his eyes. his hands. his smile.

the memory of his “i love you” slammed into your chest like a truck.

your vision tunneled. everything felt muffled. your body was still moving, still trying, but some part of you had already shattered.

you felt it. a cold certainty deep in your bones.

he was gone. and you’d known it. and you couldn’t stop it.

the sobs started in your gut—ugly, loud, and you curled into yourself in the back of that taxi, screaming his name as if the wind might carry it back in time and stop him from boarding that train.

but time, as always, didn’t listen.

the taxi barely slowed when you pushed the door open.

"hey! miss! what the hell—!" you didn’t hear the rest. your feet hit the pavement hard and fast. cars honked around you, drivers yelling, but none of it registered.

you ran.

the train station loomed ahead, a warped silhouette behind smoke and flashing lights. traffic had collapsed around it—cars trapped in a gridlock of sirens and screams. people were everywhere, shouting, crying, pacing the sidewalks with phones pressed to their ears, desperate for news.

but you only had one thought. one name.

yeonjun.

your breath tore from you in bursts as you shoved through the crowd, ignoring the sting of elbows and the heat of panic. you had to find him. he was here.

he was—

a loud honk split the air behind you.

you turned your head— just a flicker— and saw it.

a car.

too fast.

too close.

your eyes widened. you didn’t scream. just a choked, helpless whimper as your knees locked in place.

then—

impact.

your world tilted. the sky spun. your body flew—weightless— before slamming into the ground with a sickening crack.

pain.

then nothing.

voices.

screams.

doors slamming.

tires screeching.

everything faded—

the colors, the sounds, the smell of smoke and burning metal. all of it fell away, until even your mind went quiet.

you gasped awake. your scream pierced the sterile silence of the hospital room. your body jolted upright, limbs flailing beneath thin sheets, the ache in your chest unbearable.

"YEON—"

but the name—

the name—

what was the name?

you froze, heart hammering wildly as tears welled in your eyes. there was a face. a smile. soft brown eyes that crinkled when he laughed. warm hands. a voice that said “i love you” in the quiet.

but the name. what was his name?

a soft thud.

your mom—

startled awake from the small couch by the window.

“baby—baby, you're awake! oh my god—" she rushed to your side, holding your trembling hands.

you blinked at her. tried to speak, but your throat burned.

the door burst open. nurses flooded in, followed by a doctor with a clipboard and calm urgency.

“heart rate’s spiking—she’s in shock—prepare a sedative—” no. no. you didn’t want to forget.

you clung to the face in your mind. you bit your tongue to stay conscious. you tried to picture him— his eyes, his laugh, the way he said your name.

but the details blurred. the voice faded. and worst of all— you couldn’t remember what you used to call him. what he used to call you.

your body thrashed on the bed until the needle slid into your arm. warmth spread through your veins, thick and heavy, dragging you down.

you sobbed. not from pain— but from the terrible emptiness blooming inside your chest. something was gone. someone was gone.

when you woke again, it was quiet.your mother sat beside you, stroking your hair with gentle fingers. her eyes were red.

“you scared me,” she whispered. “you passed out two nights ago. i found you by the closet. you wouldn’t wake up.”

two nights?

your lips parted.

your voice came out hoarse.

“two nights…?”

“yeah. the doctor says you were dehydrated. exhausted. they ran some tests, but…” she paused. her brows furrowed. “they think it might have been psychological. you were… crying in your sleep.”

your mind raced. no—no— you were gone for longer than that. you lived another life. with another family. with him.

but the memories were slipping like sand through your fingers.

“i was somewhere else,” you murmured, barely audible. your mother leaned in.

“what, sweetheart?”

you shook your head, tears filling your eyes. “i—I was in the past. i was with… with…”

his face.

for a moment it was there again.

just a flicker.

but when you tried to focus—

when you tried to hold it still—

it scattered like dust.

you choked on a sob.

what kind of cruel joke was this?

you remembered how it felt.

the love.

the joy.

the heartbreak.

but not him.

not even his name.

you wrapped your arms around your knees, curling into yourself on the hospital bed.

“mom…” your voice cracked. “i think i lost someone important.”

she looked at you with quiet confusion, not understanding what you meant. but how could she?

how do you explain losing a person you’re not even sure existed anymore? how do you mourn someone your mind won’t let you remember?

but your heart knew. somewhere deep down, in a place no medicine could reach— it knew.

and it hurt like hell.

a month had passed since you were discharged from the hospital. the doctors said you had collapsed from shock, that maybe it was stress, dehydration, or a neurological response. none of them had a real explanation for why you’d been unconscious for so long, or why, when you finally woke up, you whispered a name you couldn’t remember and cried for someone who didn’t exist.

your body had recovered. you could walk, eat, shower, smile if you really had to. but something inside you felt... disconnected. sometimes you would stare out the window for hours, not even noticing the sun moving across the sky. sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night with tears on your cheeks and an ache in your chest that wouldn’t let you breathe. other times you felt like a ghost living in your own skin—aware, but not present.

you couldn’t ride the train again. even the sound of one passing in the distance made your knees weak and your hands tremble. it was irrational. you knew that. but every time you tried, something deep inside screamed at you not to go. a primal terror wrapped around your ribs and wouldn’t let go. maybe it was trauma from the collapse. maybe it was something you brought back with you. you weren’t sure anymore.

you tried to convince yourself that none of it had happened. that it was just a vivid dream your brain created while you were unconscious. it had to be, right? people don’t just fall into different timelines. they don’t leap through summers that never existed, meet boys with eyes like galaxies, or change the past. yet, no matter how many times you repeated that logic to yourself, it never stuck. something in you knew it had been real. and that knowing haunted you.

you had changed. you were quieter now, reserved. you spoke only when necessary and often found yourself zoning out in the middle of conversations, eyes unfocused as if you were somewhere else entirely. school felt like noise. people buzzed around you, but you couldn’t keep up. your grades dropped. you didn’t care. you didn’t connect with anyone. making friends felt pointless when your heart still lived in a different time.

your relationship with your mother had shifted too. after your collapse, she was visibly worried, almost overly attentive—but you couldn’t let her in. not after everything. not when you remembered her as the teenage girl you met that summer, crying into your arms, struggling through heartbreak. that memory clashed too harshly with the woman sitting at the dinner table now, asking if you’d done your homework. you had built a wall between the two of you, and she didn’t know how to climb over it.

and then, one evening as you both sat eating dinner in silence, the question escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“is soobin my father?”

the fork in her hand froze mid-air, and her eyes flicked to yours, wide and sharp with alarm. her mouth parted slightly in surprise, brows furrowing in clear discomfort. you regretted asking immediately—until her expression softened. she sighed and set the fork down, folding her hands in her lap as she looked at you with a strange mixture of vulnerability and nostalgia.

“no,” she said quietly. “he’s not.”

your stomach twisted, unsure if the answer brought relief or disappointment. she looked away for a moment, as if remembering something from a dream of her own.

“soobin... was someone i knew in high school,” she continued. “he was sweet. shy, but in a charming way. he helped me get through something really hard. i remember this girl who was there too—she supported me, made me feel less alone—but i can’t remember her name now. it’s strange. i remember her eyes, her voice, but... not her name.”

your throat tightened. that was you. but you said nothing.

“soobin and i dated for a while. we thought we were meant for each other. but life had other plans. he left for the united states. we tried to stay in touch, but... things faded. i fell apart for a while. but eventually, in college, i met someone else. your father. choi wonbin.”

the name hit you like a wave. your eyes widened, heart stuttering in your chest. wonbin. not soobin. and that explained everything. that was why you hadn’t vanished when soobin left. that was why the timeline remained intact. your existence had never depended on him. your mother smiled softly, almost laughing to herself.

“i know, i know. soobin, wonbin—it sounds ridiculous. just a coincidence,” she said. “but sometimes... life is full of coincidences that somehow make sense.”

for the first time in weeks, the tension in your shoulders eased. it was as if a door had opened. as if something that had been stuck finally began to shift. and for the first time since you returned, you felt a sliver of peace.

a week later, a package arrived for you. it was small, lightweight, and addressed in delicate handwriting. your fingers trembled as you opened it. inside, you found a single letter. your breath hitched the moment your eyes recognized the script. it was his.

mr. hong.

“y/n, it wasn’t a dream. you really did travel through time. the reason you’re still alive and well is because you followed the path that was meant to be. everything happened as it had to. even the painful parts. even the losses. you played your part with courage, with love. thank you. now, rest. beautiful things await you. this is my final goodbye. live, y/n. truly live. —hong.”

your vision blurred as hot tears rolled down your cheeks. you clutched the letter to your chest, heart aching with a grief that had no words. you didn’t know why it hurt so much. only that something inside you had broken open. maybe it was because it had been real. maybe because it was over. maybe because someone had finally said thank you.

a few days later, your homeroom teacher called you into his office. you weren’t in the mood for anything. you shuffled into the room with tired steps and blank eyes.

“we have a transfer student,” he said with a warm smile. “i’d like you to show him around. since you’re both new, maybe you can help each other.”

you nodded absently, barely paying attention. your gaze drifted to his desk—a black pen, a leather-bound notebook—and something about the handwriting on the paper caught your eye. your stomach flipped. before you could say anything, he stood up suddenly.

“ah—excuse me, i have to take this call. meet him while i step out, alright?”

and then the door opened.

you turned.

your breath left your body.

there he stood.

tall. familiar. too real to be real.

ear piercings gleaming. airpods in. hands buried in his pockets. that same effortless cool. the exact look you remembered, etched into every corner of your heart.

he smiled at you—soft, warm, and impossibly alive.

“hi,” he said, voice smooth and gentle. “i’m yeonjun. son yeonjun. please take care of me.”

your knees buckled. your lungs stopped working. your heart screamed.

“you’re real,” you whispered.

he stepped closer without hesitation, taking your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

“i told you,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, “i was born to meet you. and i’d follow you through time. in every line. every world.”

you choked on a sob as the tears spilled over. he wiped them away with quiet tenderness.

“we were meant to find each other. no matter when. no matter where.”

your arms wrapped around him, and he pulled you close—tight, grounding, safe. you buried your face in his chest and breathed him in. he smelled like summer rain and all the moments you thought you’d lost.

he tilted your chin, looked into your eyes with infinite softness, and kissed you. gently. surely. like it was always meant to happen.

and in that kiss, everything returned—every laugh, every memory, every promise unspoken.

outside, the rain began to fall. soft. steady.

but inside the room, wrapped in his arms, you felt the warmth of a hundred summers.

and this time, you knew with your whole heart—

you were home.

[fictionismyreality3]

Sharing is Caring (18+)

Kinktober fic #1

Warnings: 🚨SMUT WEEWOO WEEWOO🚨

Notes: I’ve been so tired n busy lately this is all I could whip up, babes 🤷🏻‍♀️, also I would totally let them run a trai-

“C’mon, L.T. Let me ‘ave a turn with ‘er.” Soap pleaded.

The air in the room was thick, hot and heavy with the smell of your dripping pussy and the musk and sweat of the 4 men who were each pounding the brains out of your head.

When Simon had first suggested opening your relationship to other people, you were a little hesitant. Before Simon, most of your sexual experience had been mediocre quickies with guys in college, and you weren’t exactly eager to the idea of dealing with teaching another guy what you liked all over again.

But he had been so reassuring, coaxing you with enticing promises and a night of him making you explode all over his tongue. And that’s how you found yourself stuck between two muscled men, getting your holes stuffed while the others watched.

“That’s it, good girl.” Simon hissed lowly in your ear, his cock barreling into you.

Your mouth hung open, eyes half-lidded and glossy as you gazed back over your shoulder, your eyes catching on the wet, sticky sweetness coating his lower abs. You almost wanted to lick it.

Someone was grabbing your face, pulling your attention back over to the cock in front of you. “Open up, baby. Give me that mouth.” Gaz groaning was all the warning you got before his dick was pushed past your lips, your cheeks hollowing automatically as you gagged around his length.

Soft, squelching sounds were coming from beside you, making you vaguely aware of the more boisterous man Simon introduced you to. Trying to look over, you caught a glimpse of him fucking into his own hand before your head was force back straight.

“Dumb fuckin’ baby, keep your eyes on me.” Heat surged through your belly, Gaz pressing his hips forward as your nose met his pubic bone. “Oh, fuck, pretty g-girl-” Your throat and pussy clenched at the same time, Simon’s hips stuttering slightly, his cock dragging out of you and teasing that delicious spot inside you. One hand was reaching down, rubbing your clit, and you locked eyes with Price.

“Look at you.” He crooned, rubbing his cock on your soft, plush thigh. “Fucking wrecked, aren’t ya?” You nodded, groaning around Gaz’s cock.

The bed creaked under the 5 of you, Soap coming to bully Gaz out of the way, replacing the Brit’s cock with his own. The girth of him was a sudden change from how long Gaz had been, and you choked, eyes tearing up as you hit weakly against his leg.

“Be fuckin’ gentle, Johnny.” Simon snarled possessively.

“Sorry, L.T, she’s so-” His cock hit the back of your throat. “She’s so fucking perfect.”

A large, calloused hand grabbed one of your own, and you mewled as Price wrapped your hand around his thick cock, enjoying the tortured groan he let out. You felt stupid for ever questioning Simon, remembering how tentatively you accepted the idea. But now?

Now, you could get used to this.

(Idk might continue might not, kinda meh)