#collision ii

[sluttywonwoo]

collision [part two] || h.js

pairing: virgin!fratboy!han jisung x best friend!reader

summary: jisung's fraternity brothers decide to pool their money and surprise him with a stripper for his birthday! nice gesture and all, but that stripper just so happens to be his best friend...

warnings: swearing, feelings, smut (18+ mdni)

additional warnings: m first time, grinding, boob sucking, f masturbation, protected sex, multiple orgasms

word count: 3.7k

-> read part one here

Jisung doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t know if it means anything. You’re horny, he’s horny. Maybe you’re under the impression that you’re using each other as a means to an end. He’s too afraid to ask, too afraid to ruin the moment. What’s happening now is good and he should enjoy it while it’s happening, especially if it’s the only time this is happening. Jisung tries not to think about that (very likely) possibility, though, and focus instead on the feeling of your lips on his neck. 

You’re working his denim jacket off of his shoulders as you kiss your way down the column of his throat. You’re already topless, obviously. Jisung has been trying not to think too much about how he could feel your nipples through his shirt ever since you first sat on his lap and pressed your chest against his.

You’re careful not to drop the jacket on the floor, which Jisung appreciates. You’ve heard him complain about how hard they are to wash and you of all people know how disgusting frat houses can be. You, of course, had just done part of your routine on the floor but Jisung supposes that’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make in your line of work. You’ll shower later anyway. Maybe you’ll ask him to shower with you-

“Can you sit up a little?”

Your voice startles Jisung out of his train of thought. He lifts his head to look at you, blinks twice, and does as instructed, leaning forward so that you can tug his T-shirt over his head. 

“Is this still okay?” you ask. 

“Yeah, yeah this is great,” he breathes out. 

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He expects to feel self-conscious about being shirtless in front of you in this context but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s because he’s been shirtless in front of you in other contexts or maybe it’s because you’re looking at him like you want to devour him. He’s willing to bet that it’s the latter. 

His shirt joins his jacket on an adjacent chair. You run a hand down his torso, then each of his arms, admiring his body with your lips slightly parted like you’re surprised by what you see. All of the lifting he’s been doing with Chris and Changbin must be paying off. 

He shivers under your touch, which seems to break the little spell you’d been under, making you smirk. 

“You can touch me, you know.”

Jisung realizes his hands have been stuck attached to your hips since you first put them there several minutes ago, while yours have been in his hair, cupping his face, feeling him up. Ugh, why was he so bad at this? He nods, sliding one of his hands up your back. His fingers trace your spine, palm resting on one of your shoulders. He isn’t really sure what he should do next. What usually happens next? He’s watched porn, a bunch of porn, what did the actors do after making out? 

Rationally, Jisung knows porn isn’t an accurate reflection of reality. But he doesn’t have much else to go off of. 

You stop kissing his neck and sit up to catch your breath and Jisung realizes the answer is staring him in the face, literally. 

“Can I, uh, can I use my mouth?” he asks.

“Fuck, yes,” you sigh. “You can do whatever you want.”

Jisung gulps and nods absently, eyes transfixed on your chest. He feels kind of silly as he sticks his tongue out and laves it over one of your nipples like he’s trying a new flavor of ice cream but you seem to like it. You gasp and jolt a little which encourages Jisung to keep going. He tests out a couple of different methods to see what you like the best, eventually settling on a pattern of sucking and flicking that has you whimpering his name in his ear. 

He doesn’t want to forget about your other boob so after a minute or so he switches, replicating the motions with his thumb on the first one. He isn’t sure how much time passes. It could be minutes, it could be hours. All he knows is that he could do this forever. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed because he’s the happiest he’s ever been with your tits in his mouth. 

“Ji,” you whisper, getting his attention by tugging on his hair. 

He reluctantly pulls away with a pout. “What?”

“Kiss me again.”

Oh. Well, he could do that too. He melts into you all over again when you press your lips to his. It’s sloppier this time, both of you drunk off the other. When he pulls away, he notices the way your lips shimmer with something sparkly. It’s glitter, he realizes. Body glitter. You always wear it for your shifts. He’d sucked it off of your boobs and now his lips and chin must be covered with it too. Like a reverse vampire. 

“‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella,��” you quote, running your thumb across his lips to collect some of the glitter. It was like you had read his mind. Maybe you really were Edward Cullen. “I hope this is safe to consume,” you add. 

Jisung shrugs. “Something’s gotta kill me someday.”

Instead of telling him off like you usually would, you stick your thumb in your mouth and suck, also swallowing some of the glitter. It was like you were saying if he was going to die, you were going to die with him. He thinks the gesture is very poetic of you, albeit stupid. 

But he figures body glitter has to be relatively harmless so he doesn’t feel too concerned about it. 

You lift yourself off of his lap so that he’s able to unbutton and wriggle out of his jeans. He puts them with his other clothes, leaning over to be able to reach the chair you’d chosen. He’s not sure whether or not you want him to take off his underwear yet so he keeps them on, looking back to you for further instruction. 

“You can take them off,” you say. “I’ll take mine off too but before I do, do you want me to suck your dick?”  you ask, kneeling in front of him. 

“No, no no,” he replies hurriedly, pulling you back to your feet. “I already know I’m not going to last very long. I don’t want to put myself at an even greater disadvantage.”

You snort. “Suit yourself.”

“But can I-” he pauses. 

“What?”

“Can I eat you out, though?”

“You want to eat me out on your birthday?” 

“Well, yeah,” he pushes his bottom lip out into a pout, making you chuckle and kiss him again, sucking on his lip to get him to moan into your mouth. 

“This is supposed to be about you, though,” you point out.

Jisung doesn’t know how to admit that wanting to eat you out is about him. He doesn’t know how to tell you that it’s something he’s fantasized about for years now, that it would be the (second) best birthday present you could ever give him. He can’t say any of that without confessing to his big fat crush on you so he lets it go. 

“Okay,” he concedes. 

“Next time, though?” you suggest as you bend over to take your thong off, making his eyes nearly pop out of his head at both the sight and the words coming out of your mouth.

Next time? There was going to be a next time? Jisung doesn’t know what kind of face he’s making but you must think he’s still sulking because you start to make a deal with him. 

“I’ll tell you what, if you want it that bad, you can eat me out once the clock strikes midnight when it’s not your birthday anymore. We can leave your little party early if that’ll make you happy. But for now, you can have a taste, if you want.”

 Jisung watches you spread your legs and slip two fingers inside of yourself. You sigh in relief and curl them upward, getting yourself even wetter for him. He already has his mouth open, (in shock) waiting, when you sit back on his lap. This time, he can feel your arousal on his bare thigh and it makes his cock twitch against the waistband of his boxers. 

You push your dripping fingers into his mouth, nodding approvingly as he sucks them clean. He moans around them, taking them deeper until your knuckles are brushing his lips. He wishes he could somehow deepthroat them but your fingers are only so long. You retract them far too soon for Jisung’s liking but he knows you need to move on if he’s going to get fucked and make it to his party before it ends. 

“Wow, Ji. You’re a little slutty, aren’t you?”  

“I didn’t know I would be,” he laughs breathlessly. “You bring it out of me.”

You put a hand over your heart. “I’m flattered. Now take your underwear off.”

Right. He had forgotten about that part. He had been distracted. You hover over his thighs as he slips out of his boxer briefs and tosses them to the side. He doesn’t care where they land. Underwear is easy to wash and who knows how many times Jisung has stumbled acros someone else’s boxers in this godforsaken fraternity house. 

“Didn’t know you were so desperate to get in my pants,” he jokes.  

You tilt your head to the side with a small smile he doesn’t know how to read. “Can’t you feel how wet I am?”

To punctuate your point, you grab his dick and lower yourself enough to run the head through your slick folds. It’s a rhetorical question so he knows you aren’t expecting an answer but he gives you one anyway, sputtering out a “y-yes, holy shit!” in response. 

Your hand is so warm and still a little wet from Jisung’s saliva and it feels perfect around his cock. He’s so fucked. You can’t help stroking his dick up and down a few times just to tease him, smirking as he tenses underneath you and grits his teeth in an attempt to stay in control of himself. 

Thankfully, you relent. “I’m going to get a condom now, okay? I’ve always got some in my bag.” 

Jisung doesn’t realize he’d had his eyes closed until he feels your weight disappear from his lap. He wonders when he shut them. 

You’re already on the other side of the room, bent over the bag you had gotten the speaker out of. The fact that you carry condoms in your work bag is interesting to Jisung. A lot of your rules implied that the people you... service don’t interact with you much at all. But they say there are exceptions to every rule... 

There had to have been times when you were just as attracted to the client as they were to you, right? But have you ever acted on that? He shouldn’t ask. It’s none of his business. He is curious, though. 

You return with a foil packet in one of your hands and offer it to him. 

“Would you like to do the honors?”

Jisung takes the condom and rips the packaging open with his teeth. You look impressed, which is a relief because he’s not sure if he’ll put it on correctly and he needs that buffer of you being turned on by something he’s done if he’s about to embarrass himself. He’s practiced putting condoms on before but never with an audience. His hands are shaking as he guides it down the shaft and he can feel you watching intently. It dawns on him that not only are you watching him struggle with something so simple, you’re also looking at his dick. Do you like what you see? Is he smaller than you were expecting? Uglier? He knows dicks aren’t exactly pretty but he didn’t think his was anything remarkable on either side of the spectrum. 

The longer he spends trying to roll it on, the more he feels panic building in his stomach so he decides he needs to say something to ease the tension, to shift your attention away from this pathetic little display. 

“Have you ever fucked one of your clients?”

God damn it. 

You shake your head adamantly. “Never.”

“So I get to be the first one?” he asks happily.

“You’re not my client,” you remind him. “So that rule is still intact.” He pouts. “Unless you want me to call, what’s his name... Chris? In here.”

Jisung narrows his eyes at you as you climb back onto his lap. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Yes, Ji. It’s a joke.”

“You think you’re funny?”

“I know I am,” you scoff, then take him by the shoulders. “Still sure about this?” 

“Yes, yeah, I’m sure,” he assures you, nodding. You take his cock in your hand again and position yourself above it. “Just-”

You freeze, eyes wide. “Just what?”

“Can you kiss me? As you put it in?”

Jisung doesn’t hear how romantic the request sounds until he says it out loud but he had only asked because he’s afraid he’ll make an embarrassing noise or worse, confess his love to you, if his mouth isn’t occupied when you do sink down onto him.

Thankfully, you don’t question it and do as he asked as you, kissing him deeply as you slip the head inside of you. Jisung lifts his hips slightly to push himself into you a bit more. You gasp against his lips.

“Sorry, are you okay?” he asks through grit teeth. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Just give me a second to adjust.”

“Shit, sorry. I should have fingered you first or something,” he mutters. 

He feels so stupid. How could he forget something so important? Of course, grinding and your own fingers wouldn’t be enough to prepare you for the real thing. He hadn’t even stretched you out at all. 

“No, I wasn’t thinking,” you laugh. “I just wanted your dick so bad and I’m so wet I thought I’d be fine... but you’re huge.”

“Wha- am I?” 

“Yeah, dude, are you kidding me?” you laugh, still sounding strained. “I knew you had to be big but- stop smirking!”

“I can’t help it!” he cries defensively, covering his mouth with his hand so you can’t see it anymore. “Come on, you’d react the same way.”

You roll your eyes. “I guess.”

“Don’t even lie- god, fuck!” 

You had taken that exact moment to sink down further on his length, probably to get back at him. It worked, obviously. 

“What were you saying?” you taunt, raising yourself momentarily before dropping all the way down this time. 

“I don’t remember,” Jisung groans. 

“That’s what I thought.”

It takes everything in Jisung not to blow the instant he feels your hips flush with his the first time. He’s heard guys complain about condoms before, whining about how they can barely feel anything through the latex, but they must have the smallest dicks in the world because he can feel everything. 

Obviously, he knows fucking raw must feel better to some extent, but this is pretty damn good. 

You must think so too because you can’t keep your eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. You can’t stop kissing him either, pressing your lips against his mouth, then his jaw, his neck, anywhere you could reach. He wishes he could kiss you back but all he can do is sit there and take it. All of his concentration, all of his energy, is being put into lasting as long as possible, lasting long enough to make it good for you too. 

“You feel so good,” you compliment, murmuring the words into his skin. 

“Not as good as you,” he whispers back. 

He’s not sure if he’ll make you cum but he wants to try so he snakes one of his hands between your bodies and starts feeling around for your clit, assuming he’ll know when he finds it. He has to be way off because you grab his wrist and direct him to it after a few seconds of mindless searching. 

“Here?” he asks.

“Mhm, right fucking there. Just rub in gentle circles and you’ll get me to cum in no time. A little less pressure- o-oh fuck...”

Some of the tension leaves your body and you rest more of your weight on Jisung as he moves his fingers in the way you’d told him to. He takes it as a good sign and keeps going. 

You try to maintain some semblance of a rhythm as you bounce on his lap but the added stimulation on your clit makes it difficult. Jisung tries to help but he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. 

You’re a little too gone to guide him but he doesn’t mind. He can figure it out. Probably. He’s not any better off, mind completely clouded with thoughts of you, you, you. He’s wanted this for so long, wanted you for so long, that it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening and almost impossible to focus on anything else. 

“You’re going to- Jisung, you’re going to make me cum,” you whimper. 

“I am?”

“Yes, I’m so close please don’t stop!”

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop after you cum the first or the second time. He just fucks you until you’re digging your nails into his back and clenching around him so tight that he can’t stave off his own orgasm any longer. It goes on for what feels like forever. His vision goes white and his ears start ringing and he only knows you came again because his back starts stinging with fresh scratches. 

You’re boneless when he regains his sight and feeling in his legs. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

“I’m fantastic.”

Jisung laughs. “I was okay?”

“Okay? You were incredible. Seriously. Best fuck of my life.”

He doesn’t know how true that statement is, figures your judgment is a little lacking in your post-nut haze but he decides not to question it. If you say he was the best fuck of your life he’s going to take your word for it. 

“Was it good for you?” you ask.  

“Oh my god, yeah of course,” he assures you. “I couldn’t have asked for a better first time. Thank you, again, by the way.”

You sit up a little and cup his face with your hands. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s not like I was just doing you a favor. I wanted it too.”

He sighs. “I know but-”

“Jisung. I feel the same way. I’ve wanted this too.”

He stares at you. “What?”

You stare back at him. “When we were...  you know. You said you’ve wanted this for so long?”

“I said that out loud?” he gasps. “Wait, is that... is that what made you cum the first time?”

You duck your head, suddenly shy. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god. You like me too?”

You smack him on the arm. “Yes, idiot. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

“But you never told me! You dated other people!”

“Because you never made a move!”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship!” he looks away for the next part. “And because I was scared you didn’t feel the same way. How was I supposed to know?”

“Ji, why else would I have stayed and offered to give you a lap dance after figuring out it’s you, my best friend, that I’m supposed to be dancing for? It’s because I like you as more than a best friend!”

“That can totally be a best friend thing!” he argues. 

“In what world?!”

“I don’t know! It’s my birthday, don’t yell at me!”

Your eyes widen with panic and realization. “Oh shit, your party!”

-

“That was the longest thirty minutes ever,” Minho comments loudly as you and Jisung walk into the foyer together. He’s smug as he claps Jisung on the back but is ultimately ignored because everyone else is already swarming the two of you to wish your best friend a happy birthday.

You and Jisung had rushed to get dressed and make yourselves presentable after remembering why you were there in the first place, promising each other that you would talk about the serious stuff later. 

“Yeah, are we getting charged extra for that?” Chris asks you under his breath, having pulled you both aside. He checks his watch and grimaces at how much time has actually passed since he left you with his friend. 

“No, no, it’s on the house,” you assure him with a wink. 

“Thank god. We don’t have the budget for that. Oh, but you know, Felix, another one of our brothers, has a birthday tomorrow. Are you doing anything?”

Jisung interjects before you can answer for yourself. “She’s busy.”

Chris looks back and forth between the two of you, an eyebrow raised in confusion. 

“Um, yeah, I’m not available tomorrow,” you stutter, giving Jisung a what the fuck side-eye. “Sorry.”

“Okay, well, if your schedule clears up, Jisung should bring you by. Not to work, just as a guest.”

“I’ll try to make it,” you promise.

Chris gives you a thumbs-up and disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with Jisung again. He’s sure his other fraternity brothers will find him soon enough, though, and drag him off to do shots or something. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cockblock a work opportunity,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“I don’t think cockblock is the right word to use there,” you scoff. 

“I think it is if I was thinking with my cock,” he shoots back. “I just wanted to have you to myself for twenty-four hours, is that okay?”

And maybe he also didn’t want another one of his brothers getting a birthday lap dance from you so close to his birthday. Sue him. 

You smile and kiss him on the cheek. “Of course. Anything for my birthday boy.”

Your birthday boy. Jisung likes the sound of that. But to be fair he likes the sound of anything if it means he gets to be yours.

apologies for the delay but lmk what you think I always appreciate feedback!!

[artem1sc0re]

I’ve been having a bit of fun with photo mode when playing Alan awake 2 a second time around since I never seemed to take the time to in my first playthrough (do not ask why because even I have no idea why I didn’t) soo

Hands you these

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Wajahat Ali at The Left Hook:

Elon Musk showed the world that buying the U.S. presidency only costs about $300 million. This is like shopping at The Dollar Store for the world’s richest man. I grudgingly tip my hat to Musk, an immigrant, who is an aficionado of Nazi salutes much like his Hitler-supporting grandparents who moved to South Africa because they were inspired by the Apartheid regime. Musk’s $290 million was a small risk with a massive return on investment. Money alone didn’t move the needle. He also bought Twitter at a loss so he could take over a major social media site and use it to promote misinformation, conspiracy theories, and platform white supremacists and hate-mongers like Tommy Robinson and Nick Fuentes.

He went all-in with Donald Trump after saying he wouldn’t donate to any candidate because he realized Trump is an unethical criminal who would treat the Oval Office like an ATM. It’s all quid pro quo. Donald has returned the favor by allowing Musk to roam free around Mar-a-Lago, join phone calls with world leaders, dine with tech billionaires who bent the knee, and he even publicly thanked him for helping with those “vote counting computers” in Pennsylvania. So far, whatever Musk wants, he gets. Musk decided to torpedo the bipartisan government spending deal via Twitter and Republicans almost shut down the government to appease him. Musk went all-in with H1B visas and referred to MAGA who criticized him as “contemptible fools” and “retards,” and Trump did a 180 on the issue and sided with him.

So, why be content with just the appetizers? Why not raid the fridge and grab everything, including the cake, the cookies, and all the crumbs? Musk has a voracious appetite and the United States of America as his “all you can eat” buffet. As Donald Trump yells at the clouds and threatens to make Canada the 51st state for balking at “the dumbest trade war in history,” Musk is busy gaining access to all of our financial data. On Friday, David Lebryk, a top civil servant at the Treasury Department, was pushed out of his job after he refused to give DOGE, the Department of Government Efficiency headed by Musk, access to the system. Please note Musk is a private citizen and not a federal employee. We still don’t know the scope of DOGE’s role, its limits, its budget, its staff, or whether it will function as a department of the government or exist as an independent organization. What we do know is DOGE is behaving like a Trojan Horse and has allowed Elon Musk to gain access to the Treasury’s federal payment system, which includes every US taxpayer’s personal information. Through DOGE, Musk has promised to eliminate wasteful spending, which according to him includes ending DEI programs, “defanging” regulators like the Securities and Exchange Commission and FTC which have investigated his businesses, privatizing the US postal service, “deleting” the IRS, and ending remote work. However, he wants to improve defense spending, so he will continue receiving government subsidies for his SpaceX which will produce rockets that explode in the sky and give Americans the most expensive fireworks.

Another target on his chopping block is eliminating humanitarian spending. He’s accomplishing that goal by attacking USAID, which provides life-saving support to marginalized communities around the world. But to Musk, who loves the pro-Nazi AfD party, USAID is an “evil” and “criminal organization” that deserves to die. As of Sunday, USAID’s X account and website are no longer available. People around the world, such as children in Sudan, Gaza, and Ukraine, will die as a result of this cruel, unnecessary action, but, hey, none of that matters to the “pro-life” MAGA movement. On Saturday night, two top security officials from the agency were put on leave because they refused officials from DOGE access to private systems. Thanks to Musk’s interference, the head of the FAA was also forced to resign, which led to the United States being without an FAA chief during a preventable and tragic airline collision in DC that claimed nearly 70 lives. Musk didn’t appreciate Starlink being fined in 2022 for violations of safety protocols.

In two weeks’ time, the Co-”Presidency” of Elon Musk and Donald Trump has destroyed everything that made America great, as the broligarchy has taken over and plundered everything in sight.

See Also:

Let's Address This (Qasim Rashid): MAGAs 7 Deadly Sins—So Far—And How to Fight Back

America, America (Steven Beschloss): Bullies, Criminals and the Fight for America

[sw5w]

Anakin Maneuvers Through the City

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:18:55

[wallcute]

The Marana Municipal Airport that’s near where the deadly mid-air crash happened doesn’t have a control tower and here’s why and what changes were proposed. watch now

[er-cryptid]

Inelastic Collisions [Ex. 1]

A 4.98 kg box moves at 2.5 m/s and collides and sticks to a 4.80 kg box moving at -2.5 m/s. What is the velocity of the objects after they collide?

-- Since the objects stick together, you know the collision is inelastic

-- Use conservation of momentum

-- p = mv

-- This can be simplified for inelastic collisions

-- Plug in values and solve for Vf

-- The velocity after the collision is 0.05 m/s

.

Patreon

[refreshdaemon]

There's plenty of intrigue and thrills as the spaceship, the Zephyr, and the bomb truck collide with the group on the bomb fumbling a bit while the Zephyr offers twists and turns.

[sevenoakstransmissions]

Your Trusted Choice Among Auto Body Shops in Winnipeg

Auto Body Shop Winnipeg, Auto Body Painting &  Repair Services

[pritchardautobody]

Autobody & Glass Repair Specialists Serving Winnipeg

[wileys-russo]

alexia, “I'm here... I'm not going anywhere, so take your time, but please come back to me”, hospital 😔🤞🏻

clash of the titans II a.putellas

you didn't remember the clash, but every single one of your teammates did. the sound of the collision, the way the crowd went so silent you could hear a pin drop, the way they formed a circle around you to stop anyone from looking.

alexia remembered the noise of your body hitting the pitch, time slowing as she tried to race toward you but it was as if she had a resistance band around her waist holding her back.

she remembered finally reaching you and pushing her way through the circle, dropping to her knees as the medical team tried pulling her back. your body perfectly still despite the strange way it was twisted, nobody brave enough to even try touching you until the spinal board was there.

she remembered the blood, as much as she'd tried to forget it, it drowned her mind and trickled and dropped her way into every little crack and crevice it could, the vision striking her as she'd sit bolt upright in bed, skin clammy and cold and her head pounding as she reached for you but could only grab empty sheets.

but what alexia remembered most of all was your eyes slowly closing, and the way her heart stopped with a suffocating and all consuming terror that they might not open ever again.

it had been brewing all game, something bad happening, a hazardous mix of poor refereeing and a frustratingly locked 0-0 scoreline.

you were subbed on in the sixtieth minute, palms slapping against ingrids as she patted your back and took your place on the bench, your boots digging into the soggy turf beneath your feet.

it began to drizzle not long after that, which promptly grew harder and harder until the ball was barely moving more than a few feet with each pass and your shirt clung to you like a second layer of skin, uncomfortably damp and tight.

the second yellow of the game was finally shown much to the relief of the home fans when a poor tackle meant ewa went thumping to the ground clutching her ankle, a small patch of red bleeding through her sock the only evidence of the studs which slashed her skin.

it should have been a red, then again everyone was shocked the referee even stopped play, pere already warning he would be putting in a complaint for the lack of calls and fouls at half time.

somehow the tension was amplified even further when in the eighty second minute, the drought was broken, your girlfriend freshly subbed on and slotting one in the back of the net after a mere four touches of the ball.

you knew she'd been frustrated when she was told she wouldn't be starting and would be on managed minutes, but you'd gently reminded as you had time and time again that this was all a part of her recovery plan and she couldn't afford to rush it and risk her knee again.

you'd been there through the acl which almost broke not just alexia but your relationship with her, the stubborn midfielder pushing everyone away including you.

you were screamed at to leave until you had no choice but to listen for fear of alexia shredding her vocal chords, her mami giving you a pitiful look and a soft assurance that she would come around as she closed the door after you.

despite her demands you not bother you came back the next day, and the day after that, and again and again until finally she had no choice but to accept she couldn't just push you away, you simply wouldn't let her.

selfishly that was one of your first fears when her knee had tweaked again not long after she'd finally touched the pitch again, that you'd once again be iced out and pushed away and that this time not even therapy might be able to salvage your relationship.

alexia loved fiercely, she was one of the most passionate and strong willed women you'd ever known, but sometimes it was the pride that came along with that passion that meant she was blind to just how fiercely others loved her back.

it didn't take long before she'd managed to get it out of you, your girlfriend noticing right away you'd seemed just that little bit more reserved and withdrawn from the moment she felt that odd sense of discomfort, even if it was so slight that nobody but alexia would have even picked up on it.

as soon as the confession left your lips you were apologizing, assuring about how you knew this wasn't about you and your insecurities.

that you knew alexia needed to put her strength and her will into her recovery and again you would be by her side however she needed, but before you could even finish a hand was covering her mouth, an ever so small smile tweaking at the girls pale pink lips.

"mi amor you are allowed to have feelings, sí? it is my knee but we are a team, a couple, and i need you. i will not ever take you for granted again cariño, vale? te quiero."

and alexia did need you, more than she realised as the angst of having to once again sit in the stands and watch plagued her more than she was prepared for, feeling like all the work she'd put in to take steps forward was for nothing.

but you were always there to remind her of the truth, the truth that everything was not for nothing, and that if anyone could come out the other side stronger it was alexia, the constant reassurance that her best was all anyone could ask for.

so you'd been a little nervous when she'd finally come on, knowing that the game was nothing but tension and poor tackles but of course your girlfriend of all people would be the one to break the deadlock.

but the relief was short lived, everyone knowing now it needed to be kept a clean sheet to take the win, and you'd be lying if you said that even if she scored your mind wasn't the tiniest bit preoccupied by your worries for alexia.

that slight slip in concentration was all it had taken for you to go down, that and a corner gone horribly, horribly wrong.

it was in their favour, every single player stacked up between the posts, elbows flying and hands pushing as everyone fought to maintain position, the thud of boots meeting ball and it was flying through the air.

you'd been shoved in the back and not expecting it your knees buckled and you lost your balance, though right as you stumbled the ball fell into the pit of players and suddenly you felt a white hot pain rip through your face.

you felt something wet and sticky drip down your cheek, the smell of grass invade your nostrils as you hit the pitch and the taste of metal in your mouth, and then everything went black.

alexia was the first person in the ambulance with you, nobody even attempting to argue with her as she barked out orders about calling your family and the paramedic advised which hospital you'd be going to before the double doors slammed shut.

alexia felt bile rise in her throat, barely able to see you with the two paramedics busy trying to slow the blood and make sure you were stabilised, her questions all going unanswered as the sirens blared and the ambulance sped quickly through the streets of barcelona.

"que? no no no i have to go with her! por favor she is-" alexia tried to argue as they arrived to the hospital and you were quickly wheeled away and out of sight. but no matter how much she argued the nurse was firm the best thing she could do was wait and let the doctors do their job.

alexia was ready to find someone else to argue with but her phone ringing stopped her, your mums contact flashing as the midfielder stepped away to answer it, quickly filling her in on what happened and trying to remain calm as she did so.

being from england your family didn't fly over for every game, but your mum was quick to assure she would be on the next possible flight to barcelona and begging alexia to keep her updated which your girlfriend promised she would.

the unfortunate collision had of course been a cruel mistake but it was an accident, thanks to wet ground and poor timing. though when the player whose studs had ripped through the skin on your face had tried to come over and apologize it had taken four of your teammates to hold alexia back.

a few more phone calls, a quick change out of her soaking wet unform once eli arrived and practically shoved your girlfriend into the bathroom with a dry outfit, and a new nurse was coming over to give alexia an update. eli and one of your cousins who lived in barcelona both with her now as a few more of your teammates would be on the way now the game had finished, alexia had more support than she knew what to do with, wishing desperately she had more answers to the questions sent her way about your condition.

the nurse quickly assured everything looked worse than it really was, and that the deep gouge in your forehead was able to be stitched up, but that you'd needed a skin graft for the one in your cheek given a fair chunk of the flesh was unsalvagable.

the image of it the torn tatters of your cheek flapping in the wind and the rain as you lay still on the grass with mauve tinted blood stained skin was one that would haunt alexia for a long time yet to come.

the midfielder was only half listening, body coiled with adrenaline as the nurse spoke but really her mouth just opened and closed, blood pumping through your girlfriends ears like waves crashing against the shore.

she felt a tug on her arm, grounded back down into reality as her mami gently repeated she was able to go and see you now, but that you were heavily drugged up.

alexia was quick to follow the nurse back toward the recovery rooms, nodding along to whatever she was saying but not paying the simple pleasantries much mind, her breath catching in her throat at the final sight of you laid up in a hospital bed.

"sí sí, gracias." alexia quickly thanked the nurse who stepped out for a moment to give you both some privacy, alexias feet rooted in place as a tsunami of emotions washed over her and she needed a minute before she could even begin to process any of it.

finally her head and her feet seemed to communicate and alexia took a few steps before very slowly lowering herself into the chair at your bedside, reaching out for you before recoiling her hands, scared as if you were made of glass that could shatter at her touch.

"oh mi amor." the girl sighed with a wince, eyes raking over the stitches in your face and ever so carefully tracing her thumb along your jaw for a fleeting second.

the moment was interrupted by a soft knock at the door, the nurse appearing with an apologetic smile explaining the doctor wanted to check you over and she needed to head back to the waiting area until you woke up.

“mi vida i am here... i am not going anywhere. so take your time, but please please come back to me." alexia whispered to you quietly, kissing her thumb and again very softly pressing it to your jaw, too afraid to dare to do anything else before she stood, one final look back at you as her chest ached and she forced herself to follow the nurse out of your room.

it wasn't for a few more hours before you woke up, several of your friends and teammates coming and going and alexia's phone near constantly chiming with even more support flowing in.

until finally the fog in her head could clear just that little bit when finally the nurse on shift appeared, advising you were somewhat awake and the doctor was happy with your vitals.

eli had already left to go collect your mum from the airport, keira promising to update them both before alexia left to quickly follow after the nurse.

"ay dios mio." alexia exhaled, your eyes half fluttering open as she near levitated to your side, the nurses words falling on deaf ears as alexia nodded, gaze glued to your face as once again she left to give the pair of you some privacy.

"oh amor." alexia reached out to carefully take your hand, reief flooding her body at the ever so subtle squeeze from you, your eyes barely open as you hummed, the nurse having already warned alexia with the stitches you'd not be able to speak much.

"who-who-" you tried to mumble, alexia leaning a little closer so she could hear you properly. "who are you?" with those three words her heart dropped, her world coming crashing down as her grip on your hand slipped and she lurched back as if burned.

but then she saw it, that ever so subtle smile and the way one of your eyes opened a little wider, a too familiar look in them as groggily you reached out for hand again and she was all too happy to take it.

"eres un imbécil." alexia muttered with a shake of her head, only you would find a joke so fucked up that funny in a time like this.

"ale." you croaked, barely able to move your mouth as gently your girlfriend shushed you and warned it was best if you didn't speak as to not risk popping any of your stitches while they were so fresh.

"i am here cari, i will always be here with you, always."

[wilwheaton]

Here we witnessed the President and Vice President of the United States, supposed leaders of the free world, berating and belittling the leader of a sovereign nation fighting for its very survival. This wasn't just a breach of decorum; it was a repudiation of the principles that have underpinned global stability for generations. In that moment, the mask slipped, revealing the true face of a leadership so divorced from reality, so consumed by its own narratives, that it can no longer distinguish between allies and adversaries, between democracy and authoritarianism. But what makes this moment truly chilling is not just the behavior of these particular individuals. It's the realization that this event is the logical endpoint of the ideas we've been discussing. This is what happens when Yarvin's neoreactionary thought infects the highest levels of government. This is the real-world consequence of treating democracy as an outdated operating system, of viewing international relations as nothing more than a game of power to be won by the most ruthless player. In that Oval Office, we saw the collision of multiple dangerous ideologies: the crude nationalism of Trump, the technocratic authoritarianism of Silicon Valley, and the cynical realpolitik of those who believe might makes right. It's a toxic brew, one that threatens not just American democracy, but the entire post-World War II international order.

Clear Thinking v. Curtis Yarvin - by Mike Brock

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 4/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : none

CHAPTER 4 : SMAU

Serie Masterlist

@landonorris

Life lately: city nights, soft lights, slow things 🎼

@pietra you forgot “dragged to the ballet and actually kinda loved it” 😌🩰

@maxfewtrell he's lying. man was into act II don't let him pretend otherwise

@carlossainz55 slow things? who is this poetic new version of you

@formula1fashion slide 4… tux?? okay classy king

@curiouscatfan is that a program for The Nutcracker? 👀

@slowcircuits love this whole soft mood. winter season lando is ✨

@arianariverria

Opening night in Royal Opera still lingers in my limbs. Thank you to the ones who made it feel like gold 🩰🤍

@ballerinasoflondon You were luminous on stage

@velvetdanse this is what grace looks like

@stagequietly saw you last night — truly breathtaking 🩰

@quietballetgirl this bouquet is straight out of a novel. you’re magic.

@balletfansunited whoever gave you those flowers has taste 😍

Instagram Story – @pietra

@f1casuals not pietra casually giving us ballet night with the lads content 😭 I love it here

@ballerinasonthegrid wait was doing Lando and Max at The Nutcracker??

@fashionf1blog tbh obsessed with this whole aesthetic

@quietobserver32 Lando looked like the adoptive son of Max and Pietra

@f1winterwatch #LandoNorris seen by fans at the Royal Opera House in London for opening night of The Nutcracker during winter break. Dressed in full tux and accompanied by close friend Max Fewtrell and Pietra Pilao, the McLaren driver was photographed looking very out of his usual element.

Fans were quick to clock the ballet program in hand — and even quicker to spiral. Sources say he stayed through the full performance and went to the after show gala, according to Max’s own comments he was “weirdly into Act II.” 👀.

@f1girlie lando norris watching ballet in a tux… literally what dimension is this

@chaoticgrid so we all agree this is Pietra’s doing right??

@curiouspitlane "weirdly into Act II" IS THE FUNNIEST THING I’VE EVER READ

@formulafits not me falling in love with winter opera lando. he’s just like a victorian novel character now

@gridgossipgirl he’s not suddenly into ballet y’all 😂 he prob just got roped in by max and pietra

@f1curiosity don’t forget it was donors night at the Royal Opera… PR move?? 👀

@midfielddreams let’s be real: this is 100% media team damage control for the party boy Lando headlines

@offtrackantics tbh i wouldn’t be shocked if McLaren told him to show face and act classy for once lol

@slowburnsundays he looked good. that’s all i’m taking from this. tux Lando supremacy

@gridoverdramatic we’ve gone from ibiza yachts to ballet in a month 😭 PR team is working overtime

@f1goat not buying the “soft boy era” spin yet. we’ve seen the club videos. we remember.

@quietlyofftrack maybe he was just trying to support pietra. like. sometimes guys do wholesome things to balance the chaos

@fansofthegrid i know everyone’s like “image change!!!” but honestly?? maybe he just likes dressing up and sitting down for 2 hours

Texts messages :

Unknown Number hi so, this might be weird unless it’s not? I don’t know

Ariana Who is this?

Unknown Number right, yeah sorry it’s Lando from the other night I get your number trough the dancers contact list I hope it's okay, I swear I’m not weird

Ariana …Norris?

Lando yes, that one Formula One guy bad-at-tuxedos guy

Ariana I remember You weren’t that bad at tuxedos

Lando 😅 thanks I practiced standing still in a mirror beforehand

Ariana Impressive. So, what’s this text about?

Lando right, yeah ok so this isn’t like a thing like it’s not a date not that I wouldn’t, I mean it could be not that it has to be I just thought—

Ariana Breathe.

Lando okay resetting hi again

Ariana Hello again.

Lando I wanted to see if you might want to come to this gathering thing, not like a wild party or anything just friends, pizza, blankets, probably candles Pietra said something about fairy lights and “safe vibes”

Ariana That’s… quite the pitch

Lando I panicked halfway through and committed to the bit

Ariana I could tell So you’re inviting me to a not-a-party?

Lando yes, very chill Max is hosting and Pietra’s coming no pressure at all, if you hate it you can pretend you weren’t even there

Ariana Are you always this nervous when texting?

Lando only when the person I’m texting is kind of intimidating and elegant and casually tore my ego in half at a club once

Ariana Fair And do you usually invite said people to pizza nights?

Lando no, this is a new thing trying something different slower quieter less… tequila and regrettable decisions

Ariana I appreciate that Maybe

Lando maybe yes or maybe “I’ll disappear for three months and never answer again”?

Ariana Maybe yes if I’m not busy and if the playlist isn’t terrible

Lando Max made the playlist so yes it’s terrible but we can change it if you come

Ariana Tempting

Lando pls come I already told Pietra I invited you and she’s going to mock me forever if you don’t

Ariana Send the address I’ll think about it

Lando [📍Shared Location] okay sent thank you for being gentle with how awkward I am I swear I’m cooler in person actually no, that’s probably a lie

Ariana It’s fine I don’t like cool people anyway

Lando 😳 I’ll take that as a win

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

[nephilim-tears]

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐑

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫   Warnings: F! Reader | NSFW | Word count: 8k ↳Arranged marriage/Romance: Dream and his wife's milestones

I.“I just escaped one cage, and you aid in throwing me into another?!”

Annoyed, Lucienne pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to maintain her composure. “My lord, please — be still. This union is not without merit. It was arranged carefully, and not without reason.” She adjusted the sleeve of his coat with practiced ease. “You might try seeing her as a friend first. From what I’ve gathered, the Princess is far more reasonable than most born to crowns.”

“I don’t need more friends. I already have you.”

“I meant a friend you don’t employ.”

Morpheus’ eyes drifted to the raven perched atop the life-sized dressing mirror. “...Can I count you?”

Matthew ruffled his feathers in delight. “Hell yeah, you can count me! That’s a good start. And uh, what about that weirdo that roams Earth — what’s his name again?”

“...Hob?” A smug grin swept across Morpheus’ face and set ablaze the infinite cosmos swirling mischievously in his eyes. “See, Lucienne?” He tilted his chin upward slightly. “I do have friends. Matthew and Hob.”

Not taking her eyes off the busy work of fixing here, tweaking there, Lucienne deadpanned, “Excellent choice in company, my lord.”Pleased with her work, she straightened the golden crown of thorns that hovered above his head. “All done. Now... where’s your gift?”

“What gift?” Morpheus gruffed.

“You didn’t get your wife a gift?” Lucienne asked, her patience beginning to fray.

“For fuck’s sake, she’s not my wife.”

“Yet,” Matthew called over his shoulder.

“Right,” he intoned absentmindedly, swatting the bird away. Morpheus slumped into the chair, brooding over the foreign taste the petal-soft word wife left in his mouth.

Lucienne hesitated — just for a breath — sparing him a sympathetic look. “This was never left to chance, my lord. Threads like these don’t weave themselves. Someone higher is tying the knot... and we’re all just following the pattern.”

II. The nocturnal creature that he was crept up the altar like the waiting dark. He wasn’t curious; he was humoring the ceremony. It changed nothing — or so he told himself. When it concluded, he would return to his affairs, unchanged, untouched, undisturbed. Until his world went still.

She was here.

Morpheus craned his neck at her arrival for a better view of his would-be wife, tugging anxiously at the white tulle ruffles around his neck.

On cue, a swarm of fireflies rose from the lilac woods, blotting the dusk in gold flecks. The carpet of apricot clouds that stretched down the watery aisle parted as her bare feet dipped into the surface, each step rippling like breath across a dream. She breezed down the aisle like the warmth of the summer’s last sunset — and with her arrival, even the music seemed to soften: tinkling bells, stringed instruments, and choir harmonizing over David’s chord melted beneath the weight of her presence.

Each step she took fell in rhythm with his heartbeat. The afternoon sun sagged low behind her. Her dress, made entirely of thawed stardust, shimmered seafoam white in the fading light, shifting to lagoon green wherever the hem grazed the water.

Morpheus knew a walking fantasy when he saw one.

Internally, he scoffed at the Greeks — a thousand ships? Was that the best they could offer her?

Slowly, as if already tethered by an invisible string to him, she approached the altar till they became diametric opposites bound for collision.

It wasn’t romance that filled the space between them. It was something older. He glanced at her wet feet, then her wet face. And in a rare moment of clarity, he understood what the cost of new beginnings looked like: grief, dressed as duty.

She stood before him — melancholic, ethereal — with an expression like the Milky Way had begun to fall like snow. Her desperation had crumpled into fear, and though she spoke no words, he heard the voice inside her scream: Freedom. Freedom is better.

She looked frightened. Unhappy. Not the way most brides looked. He knew she’d imagined this day differently. Once, long ago, he had too. For beings as old as creation itself, regret isn’t a feeling they know. If they had known it, it was long forgotten. Though not entirely the same thing, sorrow, on the other hand, he was all too familiar with the notion of it.

 And so, as a man of quiet merit, he wanted to take her hands in his and say: No matter what happens, this is your home now. I ask nothing of you but patience. However, the more sensible part in him saw the temperamental fall like a thunderbolt demeanor seething beneath the layers of hopelessness. She had nothing to lose. And it made even the King of Nightmares want to flee. Yet he soured his face and stood rooted, adhering to the unwritten rules of the universe: Never run from anything immortal. 

Awkwardly, Morpheus shifted on his legs, his fitted suit of black velvet ash stretched too tight across his spider-long limbs. The dark indentation around the space he occupied — a void of nothingness devouring texture and saturating colors, shrunk in her presence. 

It wasn’t on purpose, at least not at first. But as the minister droned on, Dream found himself trying to seem as welcoming as possible. He slouched his wide shoulders and crouched his baleful presence of around seven feet closer to the ground. Much to his disappointment, it was apparent his efforts were fruitless. He couldn’t see his reflection in her eyes. But what he could see was that the Arabian poets came closest to describing them; the devil would kiss her eyes and repent. 

Uttered like a fractured fable, the first words she said to him were a resentful promise of commitment for the satisfaction of the minister: “I do,” she repeated after him. Out of respect, Morpheus bent his knee, lowering himself fully to the ground. After he slid the matching gold band up her ring finger, he delicately kissed her knuckles, then pressed it to his forehead. 

III.“And where exactly do you think you’re going?��Morpheus turned, startled, to find Lucienne standing behind him — arms folded, foot tapping, her disapproval sharper than her tone.

“For a walk,” he replied flatly, unaware of how selfish such a small desire could sound. But then his gaze flicked to his bride, sitting alone in a sea of celebration — her eyes glassy, her posture crumpled like something forgotten. The guilt was inextinguishable.

Turning back to Lucienne, he added, “See to it that she gets whatever she desires. Please.”Lucienne paused, watching the laughter and clinking goblets swirl around the woman in white, untouched.

Her voice was quieter when she replied, “She’s not a pet, Morpheus. You’ll have to speak to her at some point.”He didn’t answer. He simply plucked a stray piece of bread from a nearby table and muttered, “For the birds,” before disappearing into the woods cloaked in night.

One loaf of discarded bread later, he roamed restlessly through the empty halls, pushing past his chamber's double oak doors, eager for sleep's embrace. 

At first, he didn’t see her waiting in the dark; he only sensed her presence nearby, the way he senses dreams before they form. Startled, he stood rooted at the entrance. His curious eyes found her like a pinprick of light in his darkened bedroom, gazing back at him. 

Suddenly, Morpheus realized his room was in no condition for a princess, let alone one who was his wife. Nothing was her own in here; did Lucienne not arrange a chamber for her? He wondered.

His confusion only grew when she averted her gaze and let the robe topple to the floor, leaving her exposed. From a distance away, his eyes lingered on her frame longer than they should have. Perhaps it was the initial shock.

Or perhaps it was because so many centuries have passed since he last touched another; it might as well have been another lifetime. At that moment, the only thing that weighed heavier on his heart than sleep was the need to devour the woman before him. 

The sight was almost sacrilegious as the moon peeked through tufts of heavy storm clouds, illuminating the edges of her silhouette; she was divinity personified. None were worthy. His heart sped up thinking of the artless falsettos that would tumble from her lips if he touched her.

But the stiffness in her rigid muscles suggested she did not want to be touched; therefore, he dared not. 

Then: “Ahem.” He flinched, whipping his head toward the sound. One of her handmaidens stood near the doorway, holding a basin of water in both hands. She had bashful deer eyes, twitching ears, and slender hooves peeking from beneath her white shawl. Pink flowers bloomed in her antlers.The blush crept slowly from his ears to his cheeks, spilling across his pale face like watercolor.She thought they’d consummated the marriage. She was here to clean her mistress afterward.

Wordlessly, he entered the room and, for the second time that day, he sank floor-level in the presence of his wife. Picking up the discarded robe, he wrapped it around her shoulders; then exited the room as fast as he could, leaving both women perplexed.

IV. Sure and stingy, the late September morning hoarded the phantom moon, fogging up the rippled skies with its grey stillness. Somewhere in the palace, a grandfather clock chimed loudly, and she woke alone in a chamber of her own. As she had every day since the night she last saw Morpheus. 

A month had gone by, yet she still was unsure what to make of him. Although they were tangled in a waltz of avoidance, she often felt his presence haunting the halls, busying himself with work.   

Hidden, forgotten, or forbidden, the hollowness of unexplored attics, chambers, and tunnels echoed under her feet. If she stood perfectly still, she could feel the woodwork thumping at a consistent tempo, as if the fortress hid a heart under all the mosaics and broken marbles, like a living thing. 

A solemn chill blew through the palace, and with it came a long-dead lullaby and brittle leaves sailing about aimlessly in circles. Dragging her hand along the cobblestone wall, she followed the familiar sound down the hall to the library. 

“Für Elise,” she said. 

Matthew hobbled around to face her, abandoning the book he was previously hunched over, “You know it?” 

“I was there when it was written,” She smiled at the candle-lit memory of a man with untamed hair and spirit. Biting the insides of his flushed, pudgy cheeks in concentration as his nimble, quick fingers worked obsessively to perfect each note. 

“Who’s playing?” She asked, half wondering if her old friend was locked in a room here. “Ah, the palace does that sometimes,” Matthew said matter-of-factly.

“This is a favorite of your husband’s, especially when it gets cold. You’ll get used to it.” 

“The palace plays Beethoven for him?” 

Matthew did not have shoulders to shrug, so instead he tilted his head to the side casually, “Yeah, and that’s not even the freakiest thing about this place. If you’re quiet enough, you can hear it breathing sometimes. Now, if you ask me, I’m a simple man. I don't think architecture should be alive. It’s ghastly, but so is your husband’s taste in well…everything.” 

Her eyes traveled up several feet, fixing on a spot above Matthew’s head. 

“Aaaand he’s behind me, isn’t he?” The raven asked, devoid of shame. 

To which she only smiled and nodded. 

In his black floor-length robe, Morpheus’ large presence loomed ominously in the library, snuffing the light in the area he stood. The fringes of his ruffled perpetual bed head fell into his eyes, shielding his unamused, sour expression. 

Lucienne nudged him forward with her shoulder. Dream scratched the back of his neck, looking away, then paced forward and presented a black velvet box.

 “Th-thisisforyou.” He rushed the words from his mouth, accidentally shoving the box into his wife’s hands. She staggered back slightly, blinking at his strength. “I’m sorry,” Dream mumbled before scurrying away. 

On his way out, Matthew landed on his shoulder and whispered dryly in his ear, “If I had hands, I’d face palm with both.” The princess thumbed the velvet box and then snapped it open, revealing a crimson diamond, in the shape of a heart, strung on delicate gold. 

Lucienne, still cringing from the interaction, rested a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “He made it himself.” 

Growing fond of his strangeness, a small smile etched itself onto the princess’ face.

The metamorphosis had begun.

V. The next time Morpheus saw her, the thorn-pricked jewel dangled at the base of her throat with effortless elegance. Instinctively, his fingers grazed the same spot on his own neck a quiet pride bloomed amidst the calm in his chest.

Gingerly, he offered her a hand to help her onto the mare. She accepted with grace. He considered mounting the saddle behind her, but since she didn’t suggest it, he maintained a respectful distance and walked beside her instead, the lead rope looped loosely in his hands.

Unfortunately for the princess, Morpheus was not an exceptional tour guide. He preferred the company of silence.They moved past knee-high yellowing reeds. And every now and then, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he stole a glance.

Her veil shimmered in the daylight — sea-salt and gold — cloaking her from head to toe like moonlight diffused through gauze. It trailed behind her, rippling in the breeze, fluttering against the black mare’s flanks. By tradition’s measure, she was appropriately dressed for her first passage through his realm.

They tracked a mile together through Fiddler’s Green. If Dream was tired, he didn’t show it; his face was unreadable as ever. Still, she reached into the saddle pouch and offered him a bottle of water. When he took it, their hands brushed — and he was certain she’d flinch, pull away from his touch. But she didn’t. Through the veil, she smiled at him — warm and unguarded — almost as radiant as the ruby nestled at her throat.

Unconsciously, he mirrored her smile for a fleeting second before glancing away and clearing his throat. The blush creeping up his neck did not go unnoticed. And just like that, she decided she rather liked this strange man and his stranger charms.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he said once they resumed their quiet rhythm.“Whatever for?” she asked.“Matthew told me about Beethoven.”

It was her turn to flush, and she quickly averted her gaze. This was the most direct he had ever been with her, and the full force of his attention was unexpectedly disarming.

“It would’ve been a shame if the world hadn’t heard his talents.”

“Funny,” Morpheus murmured, “I thought the same of Shakespeare.”

She gasped, whipping her head toward him in disbelief. “That one was your doing?” He allowed himself a small, rare smile. “Yes. That one was me.”

Tempted by curiosity — always — Morpheus could have let a dozen questions tumble out. Instead, he settled on one: “Tell me about the time you spent with them. With the humans.”

She let out a wistful sigh, her voice nearly lost in the hum of the meadow. “I loved watching them create, and build, and grow. The artists and children were my favorites. Politicians and bankers…” she pulled a face, “…not so much.”

“What’s their offense?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“They keep trying to reduce my myth to math. Strategize me. Trap me. And when it inevitably fails — as it always does �� they say I’m fickle,” she huffed, clearly offended.

Morpheus disguised his amusement as a cough. “…you kind of are fickle.”

“I am not!” she defended, mock-offended. “Before I was conscious, I was a coincidence. Now, my work is far too deliberate to be fickle. Do you know how many parts move at once to keep harmony across the realms? If I falter even for a moment, everything collapses. The detail alone would drive some mad.”

A shadow crossed her features, fleeting but heavy. “You asked about my time with the humans. Well… It’s in the past now. We all know when it ends, Death will be the one to close the doors. But it was I who opened them.”

Morpheus fell silent, pondering the weight of her words — and the truth in them. It was luck that humans existed at all.

“You’ve grown attached to them,” he observed, voice low and steady. Then, with softened candor, “And I know you’re not fickle. I was only teasing.”

Her smile returned, gentler now, more real. He listened to her speak with such reverence, such insight, and found himself wanting to share something in return — a piece of his own regrets, or what passed for them in his endless life.

But not yet. Then a new thought crept in — unbidden and unsettling: how useful she was to mortals. And how dangerous that made her. He had seen human greed too closely, too many times, to dismiss the thought. His grip tightened on the rope. He stepped a little closer to the horse, not wanting to imagine what he might do if they ever tried to take her.

The unease stirred something raw in him.“Forgive me,” he said, at last. “I know the situation between us hasn’t been ideal… and for that, I’m sorry.” Waves of empathy shimmered through her as she turned to face him fully.

“You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness, Morpheus. But… if it’s any consolation, I’m glad it’s you.”His name fell from her lips like a blessing, and something in him unraveled.“I’m glad it’s you, too.”

VI. Five, Four, Three,

The princess stood before the monitor at the center of the crowded room, her head hung low in shame, tears brimming in her eyes. Each staggering breath was jagged, sharp as knives.“This one is more than a dream—it’s a memory,”

Morpheus said, making his unexpected presence known.

For once, he was not the most morbid creature in the room. He stood facing the window with his hands folded neatly behind his back, anticipating the launch.

She gripped the coin until her nails dug into her palms. Another memory was melting into a different dream. She didn’t need to acknowledge it—she’d seen this one before. She’d lived this one before.

With a heavy heart, Morpheus stood with her beneath the same sun many moons ago, his gaze fixed heavenward. Under a clear blue sky, it looked like a lone star plummeting through eternity, forever falling upon this city.

“Luck never made a man wise,” Morpheus murmured, his voice falling flat against the dirty pavement.

“No, it never seems enough to do so.”

He could sense her distress more clearly than the day-old, crumpled newspaper skittering across the street. Even if he hadn’t taken a special interest in her dreams, he would have sensed it—in every realm, in every lifetime. And he would come to her aid in every realm, in every lifetime.

“This was never yours to carry alone,” he said, voice quiet but resolute. “If you strip them of conscience, you strip them of consequence. My dear Fortuna…it is finished. Let it lie.” He paused, as if giving silence its due.

“Here—let me take care of this for you.” Mere moments before the catastrophe, the world swirled in clouds of orange and pink, scrambling her view. Morpheus placed a firm, comforting arm around her shoulders and turned her gently away from the scene.

“My sister Death will be here soon. We must leave.”

“Yes. And Despair too,” the princess added bitterly. “She’s made a home among these people… and she’ll still be here for generations to come.”

Dream did not doubt it. Death and Despair often worked together, and it would be a pity for the world if they ever learned to get along.

As the blur of colors subsided, she immediately recognized the image before it fully materialized. Turning to her husband, she asked, “How do you know this place?”

His face remained unreadable. “It is my duty to keep you safe here in the Dreaming… and in the waking. Therefore, it is my duty to know this place.”

Secluded in the woods, they stood before a hot spring, quietly simmering in the dappled light.“This is my happy place,” she said with a small, reverent smile. Dream shrugged, and a flurry of petals came sailing from the clouds, decorating the surface of the water—his personal touch. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, then turned toward the spring.

Morpheus gasped softly, startled by the unexpected gesture. Blinking twice, he lifted his hand and ghosted it over the kissed skin, surprised at how it lingered.

He hadn’t thought further than his desire to comfort her. So when she began slipping out of her silk nightgown, his breath caught.

Embarrassed, he flushed pink and turned his back, granting her privacy. He wondered if he’d already missed his chance to return the kiss.

“It’s okay, Morpheus,” she said gently. “You can look.” Still cloaked in dark robes, he crouched at the water’s edge and craned his neck toward her, surrendering to his attraction.The daughter of the sea stretched out, her naked body gliding luxuriously across the surface, rippling the hot spring in small waves. Like a siren rising from the deep, her eyes peered over the waterline, watching him with a knowing softness. She raised a hand and caressed his jaw, guiding him closer.

Obeying her silent call, Morpheus leaned forward, eager to please—until she grinned and pulled him suddenly into the water."Ah—!"He surfaced, sputtering and disheveled, his dark hair clinging to his face. He fought the urge to laugh… and lost. Her laughter was too infectious.

Grinning with pearly whites he rarely revealed, he watched her push the wet fringe from his forehead.“I would court you with more grace… if I knew how,” he said, leaning into her touch. “I’ve been alone for so long.”

“Not without reason,” she soothed, unwilling to let his sorrow return.

“If history serves as any reference,” he murmured, “I must inform you—I’m not very good at this.”

“Whatever you have been, you are mine now. Don’t look to your past, Morpheus—you won’t find me there. What’s done is done. Leave it to rest.”

“I like it when you say my name.” He kissed her knuckles gently, then placed her palm over his beating heart. Her warmth settled comfortably over his pale, frostbitten moonlit skin.

“I like it when you smile,” she whispered, leaning in. He met her halfway.

They happened like a miracle.

The kiss was gentle at first, new love blooming between their entangled bodies, curling into smiles on their lips. To Morpheus, she tasted of an intoxicating mixture of the finest ambrosia and nectar.

One button at a time, she disrobed him till he was as bare and vulnerable as she was. Peering into her eyes, Morpheus said, “We didn’t get a choice, but I promise you, this is. This will always be first and foremost, your choice. Beloved, will you be mine?” 

“I’m already yours,” she mused, playfully lifting her left hand in the air till her wedding band glinted in the sunlight. Impatiently, his fingers tangled themselves in her wet hair and tugged softly, tilting her gaze to meet his, “Morpheus,” she moaned.

He was certain he could hear the uprush of ichor in her veins charging the thick air till it crackled and popped like electricity between them. “I want to hear you say it again,” he gritted through his teeth sternly, “And I want you to mean it when you do.” 

Obediently, she responded, “I belong to you, Morpheus, take what is rightfully yours.” Her words may have been submissive, but her demeanor was not. Curiously, her hands glided across the lean, firm muscles of his chest; they looked small in comparison.

Touch-starved, Morpheus shuddered at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut,  “Bride of mine— ” he began, but she did not let him finish. In height, he towered over her even in the water, to level the playing field, she wrapped her thighs around his torso, hooking her ankles together, keeping him close and easily accessible. 

He slipped his hands under the water, gripping her thighs firmly, not only out of lust but to fulfill the ever-growing innate desire to hold her close. “Here?” he asked out of breath.“Right here.” She confirmed, sucking and kissing along his jaw then focusing her attention to his throat, determined to freckle the area with purple love bites as evidence of her existence. 

Morpheus stirred beneath her, arching his pelvis to find hers, with one hand wrapped firmly around his neck for support, she idly dragged her fingers down to his loins.  Heavy-lidded, he closed his eyes and sighed as she tightened her closed fist around his hard shaft. Needy as ever, he did not wait for insertion, instead he began thruting in her closed fist desprate for friction, frantically tugging and groping at the curve slope of her ass, the her back then her breasts. 

When his breathing became labored, she released him from her grip, giggling when he groaned, “Bride of mine, do not tease me, or you will find I am not the most merciful of eminems.” 

“Chances are in my favor,” she whispered against his lips, pulling him in for a kiss. Slowly, she took his length in her hands once more and positioned herself, hovering it between her folds, fluttering her eyes closed in anticipation. 

“Focus your eyes on me, dearest, I am your keeper now.” He vowed quietly, sinking completely into her body, stretching her out and making her his forever. Despite the burning sensation, she greedily rocked her hips into his, splashing water between them with every steady rhythm.

Her head already foggy with the building pressure and his fullness, marvling at all the ways they fit together. Morpheus groaned and leaned into her, pink lips attached themselves to every exposed area within reach, nibbling here biting there until settling on one of her nipples sucking firmly.  

She arched into it, nails digging crescent moon into his biceps, mewling and panting in ecstasy, knowing she would unravel any second, but clung desperately, the moment not wanting to end. 

Enchanted by the sounds tumbling past her lips, Morpheus twitched inside of her, his intense, unwavering gaze eager to memorize the twists and turns of passion on her face. Succumbing fully to her, he lost the sense of separate beings and melted into his wife with one final thrust, emitting a throaty growl. 

Limply, she draped over him, her heartbeat slowly syncing with his. He didn’t mind. He simply held her—tender, silent, eternal. Their bodies still hummed with the memory of what they had just become.The touches after were gentler, reverent. Fingertips traced temples, arms, and the slope of her back.

Their foreheads pressed together like a prayer, anchoring her until she felt real again, until she was wholly present in the Dreaming.“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she murmured, a yawn catching the edge of her words and twisting them into a soft pout.

Morpheus chuckled—a low, reverent sound that rumbled from deep in his chest. He pressed his lips to her temple, voice raw with something ancient and unguarded. “You may not have been my first love,” he whispered, “but I think… You will always be my favorite.”

VII. 

Mount Olympus

600th Floor,

Empire State Building

New York, NY

With best wishes,

Zeus

Morpheus cringed at the clutched envelope; he’d meant to throw it away, as he had with all of Zeus’ previous invitations. He cared little—if at all—for divine gatherings.

At their worst, they were soirées for gods to brush elbows and bargain favors. At their best, civil pretenses masquerading as peace. The invitation was merely a gesture, done in good faith. As far as Morpheus knew, none of the Endless ever attended.

Until today.

Linked at the elbows, he escorted his sophisticated goddess through the drab, dreary streets of New York. With tender composure, they glided across the pavement. His wife’s spirited heels clicked in rhythm, an elegant punctuation to each step.

It was their first outing as a married couple outside his realm, and she wore his colors proudly. They looked like a mating set. Or a united front.

As they walked past yellow cabs jamming the roads, the city’s usual cacophony paused. Drivers stopped shouting profanities mid-sentence. Pedestrians stood still, umbrellas clutched tighter, mouths agape. Morpheus smirked.

They looked human enough. But their presence was unearthly. Even if mortals didn’t comprehend what they were seeing, something woven in their souls made them stalk backward, clearing the area like prey evading unexpected predators in the wild.

In the empty elevator, she turned and fixed his tie.

“Morpheus.”

“Hmm?”

“Lighten up, will you? We don’t get out much. So behave, please?”

He sighed in surrender.She was right. Since the marriage, she’d remained in the palace, watching seasons pass. The only reason he’d agreed to come was for her.

When they entered the venue, the hush didn’t go unnoticed.Zeus—bronzed and broad-shouldered in a designer suit, hair flowing like a greying monsoon cloud—strode to greet them personally.

Pleasantly surprised, he clasped Morpheus’ shoulder with a grin.“Obedience does not come naturally to you,” he said, then glanced at the goddess, “but to have the odds eternally in your favor is a good trade-off. Congratulations on your union, brother. Come, it’s been too long. We’ve much to catch up on.”

Morpheus glanced at his wife, reluctant to part. Her eyes answered, Keep the peace. Go. She let go of his hand with a small smile and walked off. Had she looked back, she might’ve seen it—his quiet, aching gaze: I miss you already. Don’t stray too far.

Like a bullet through a flock of doves, a blond figure scattered her thoughts, reducing the room to white noise.

She recognized him instantly.She twisted away before he even reached her. Naively, she had expected him to be where sun gods usually lingered in the afternoon—drunk at the bottom of a suburban swimming pool. But a prestigious Olympus party suited him too.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, wine warm on his breath.

A constellation of nymphs hovered near, hoping to catch his eye. But he looked only at her. She couldn’t blame them—Zeus’ Great Gatsby theme looked exquisite on him. His white suit contrasted with his tan skin well, thick blond coils tamed and swept aside. A soft halo of light chased every shadow from his face, reminding onlookers he was born to be seen.

“I heard you got married.”

She thought of a time long ago when he had made plans to marry her. During their Southern Hills Country Club days, she spent her summers riding shotgun while he drag-raced his Corvette, a habitual blood red sangria within his reach.  Then she’d spend her nights ripping off his polo shirts, tying him to the bed. His wrists bounded together by her daisy chains. 

“I did,” she said. “To an Endless.”

He rolled his eyes, scoffing at the brevity of her reply.“What do you want from me, huh? Do you want me to beg? Is that it?”

“I want you to leave me alone,” she said, cold where he was fire.

“You don’t realize how powerful you are with me beside you. Olympus could’ve been ours.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “Your father might overhear you. And we all know how he feels about usurpers. Son or not.”

His expression twisted. “Is that a threat?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. Daring him.

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. He pulled her close. “Understand this. I’m only this desperate for you. I will never let you leave me. I will hunt you down if I have to.”

Before she could speak, like serpents crawling into his ears, coiling around his brain, a numbing voice hissed from behind him. 

“Boundariesss, Apollo.” 

Morpheus emerged, his presence turning the air to frost. “You’re trespassing on hers. Therefore, by extension—mine.”Morpheus' aura radiated bitter dread, amplifying everyone's worst fear till it hindered their ability to think.

Should Apollo choose to offend him further, there is no version of this event where he’d reign victorious. Yet the sun god stood his ground and looked up defiantly at the king of nightmares.

Horrified, the Olympians stiffened. This was a line none had crossed before—and none would now.

Apollo braced himself, shoulders tightening as Morpheus’ gaze settled on him. He felt wild and reckless, as if he’d abandoned all sense of self-preservation. But then an ancient terror began to unfurl within him—primal and absolute. In that instant, he understood why fear of the dark is innate: what dwells within it is seldom kind.

As Morpheus willed it, shadows peeled from the walls, snuffing out every light source. Cold nothingness compressed Apollo.The longer the nightmare king stared, the more Apollo dimmed—like a star being swallowed by the void.

Until he stood hollow, defenseless as an animal staring at a scalpel about to be flayed alive, flesh from bone. Hollow empty sockets where Morpheus’ eyes had been burned like twin melancholy-blue, dwindling charcoal flames. And with the stillness of an eerie viper ready to strike, Morpheus whispered  through the darkness, “Tell me, sun god, is precognition possible…without eyes?” 

Thunder clapped overhead. The crowd gasped. Ozone thickened the air. Zeus stepped in, voice forced into levity, “Ah, pay my son no mind. The boy means no harm, eh?”

He gripped Apollo’s collar, yanked him away from Morpheus, and addressed the stunned room.“You are all guests! Come! Laugh, eat, be merry!”Slowly, reluctantly, the party resumed.

Dream turned to his wife. “Did I scare you?”

“No.”

“Good.” He draped his coat around her bare shoulders, his voice low.

“There’s something about your shared history I do not like.”

“That’s all it is,” she said gently. “History.”

“Still,” he murmured, “I do not understand what you saw in him.”

A sly smile played on her lips. “Are you jealous, Morpheus?”

“Have I reason to be?”

“No, my heart. Take me home?”

He exhaled, softer now. “Yes. I shall take you home.”

IX. The king of nightmares slammed the double doors open, his frantic eyes searching every inch of the library, “Where is she?!” he growled with continent-shaking anger.

Who? Dissolved at the tip of Lucienne’s tongue before she could ask it, she already knew who. 

“She’s not in the palace. I can’t find her, I can’t sense her. Did she mention leaving to you?”

Lucienne knitted her brows together, “No, my lord.” Dream squeezed his eyes shut, fearing the worst. “Find her,” he gritted through his teeth. 

The days bled into night, and the night bled into more night. Like wishing on a birthday candle, the dark extinguished the sun and snuffed the vibrant colors of life and plunged the land into barren shades of grey.

All across the realms, the sleeping remained asleep while creatures of the dark haunted the streets freely. Around the palace, the sky thundered and cracked, flaking off, falling continuously like molten obsidian, the heavens weeping fragments of stars, lighting her way back home. 

Morpheus hadn’t been seen in weeks. Then months.

He was unraveling.

Despair felt it first. The sudden drop. A hollow thud that reverberated through her mirrors like a death knell.“He’s cracking,” she whispered, cradling her own cheek. “Cracking like old porcelain.”

Delirium had been watching him longer. She tried to paint a portrait of his grief—using screaming birds and melted clocks—but couldn’t finish. She'd lost the colors for "abandonment" again.“I think he’s looking for her,” she said to nobody in particular. “Or maybe looking for where he lost himself.”

Even Death—eternally graceful—looked worried. She visited the Dreaming often now, just to sit beside the throne he no longer used. “You’ll break yourself trying to hold what’s already broken, little brother,” she murmured. But he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t there. He was everywhere else.

Dream crossed realms like a comet caught in orbit, burning through the edges of the known and unknown. He begged the stars of the Helium Courts for omens. He sat with Time and asked if she'd seen a woman made of summer sunsets. He descended into the Labyrinth and asked the Minotaur to dream her shape in sand. But no realm held her. No dream bore her name. And he could no longer dream of her himself.

It was Desire who finally pulled him from the brink. “You look positively ravaged, dear Dream,” Desire purred from their crimson threshold, one leg draped lazily over their armrest. “I must say, heartbreak wears beautifully on you.”

Dream didn’t answer.

Desire twirled a thread between two fingers. Red and fine as hair.“Still searching? That’s sweet. But isn’t it obvious by now? You’re not meant to find her.”

Dream’s breath hitched at the sight of the thread. “Where did you get that?”

“I don’t know, brother,” Desire smiled wickedly, leaning closer. “Where do all destined threads come from?” Dream stepped forward, realization dawning like a poisoned sun.

Destiny.

He arrived at his sister’s doorstep with fire in his eyes and frost in his voice.“I need you to take me to him.”

Death didn’t pretend not to understand. She closed her book gently and stood.“I warned him not to do this,” she said softly. “Told him not to play jailer with someone like her. You don’t bind Fortune. She chooses.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure which would be worse: you knowing… or you going.”

Dream looked haunted.“Is she…” He hesitated. The word alive was meaningless for beings like them. But well was not.“She sleeps. Not dreaming. Not living. Just waiting.”His throat tightened.“I’ll take you,” she said gently. “But once you cross into his realm, even I can’t reach you. That’s his rule.”He nodded.

“Dream,” she added, just as he turned away. “Do you love her?”

He froze.

“I do.”

When Dream stepped into Destiny’s realm, time ceased. Not slowed. Not shifted. Ceased. No wind stirred. No birds called. The garden stretched on infinitely in all directions—rows upon rows of pale gray trees, every leaf etched with ink. Footpaths twisted in fractal spirals that rearranged behind him with each step.

Here, the concept of choice was a myth. Here, only what was could exist. Dream's boots echoed along the stone path, though there was no sound. His cloak dragged behind him like a funeral shroud. At the center of the garden, as always, stood Destiny. Eyes veiled, chained to his podium, the Book in his hands—open to a page Dream had never seen. Not even in his own realm.

“Brother,” Destiny said without looking up.

“Where is she?”

“That is not the first question you should ask.”

Dream’s temper flashed. “Then allow me to ask them all at once: Why did you take her? Why did you put her to sleep? Why did you steal her autonomy? And why—why in all the realms—did you not come to me first?”

Destiny turned a page.“It was always written this way.”

“Don’t.” The wind trembled beneath Dream’s voice. “Don’t hide behind inevitability.”

“I do not hide,” Destiny replied. “I reveal.”

Dream stepped closer, fists clenched. “She is not a tool. Not a sacrifice. Not a line in your book. She is my wife. And you have caged her.”

Finally, Destiny looked at him. Behind the veil, his eyes were galaxies too ancient for stars. “I have preserved her.” Dream’s mouth parted. Confused. Reeling.

“She is safer here, untouched by the chaos her presence will cause.”

Dream advanced, his footsteps trembling the ground. “You claim to guide fate, not write it.”

“Some paths,” Destiny said slowly, “require a hand steadier than fortune’s. You were never meant to love her, brother.”

Dream flinched, as though the word itself were a curse.

“I used you both,” Destiny admitted without remorse. “She tempers your wrath. You temper her volatility. I forged the bond to bring balance. But she fell too deep into your realm. And you into hers.”

“You chose to bind us—”

“Yes,” Destiny continued, his voice the sound of dry ink scraping parchment paper. “And you have both outlived that purpose.”

“She is more than her role,” Dream said quietly.

“Yes. Which is why she must remain here. Until she forgets who she was.”

Dream stepped back as if struck. “Forget? You would erase her?”

“She will become what she must. And you will return to what you were.”

“I will not leave her here.”

“You cannot unwrite what has been written.”

“No,” Dream said, spine straightening. “But I can rewrite what is still becoming.” He turned. “Where is she?”

Destiny tilted his head. “You already know.” And he did.

Dream sprinted through the garden, past branches that clutched at his robe, past vines whispering fates he refused to hear. The trees parted, revealing a still pond—like glass—at the heart of the paths. There she lay. The Princess. The Goddess. His wife. Floating just beneath the surface, in a cradle of starlight and silk.

Her hands folded across her chest. Her hair drifted like seaweed in the water. Her face serene. Peaceful— Too still. Dream fell to his knees, the weight of eons collapsing onto him.

He pressed his palm to the surface. It did not ripple. “Fortuna,” he whispered. “Come back to me.” A faint red thread appeared between them—almost invisible—connecting the ring on her finger to his. A pulse.Then another. The thread began to glow. And Destiny, watching from the center of the garden, turned another page.

Then—A ripple. The water shimmered, her lips parted faintly, and Dream surged forward, preparing to break the veil between worlds—to reach her, to drag her back with him if he had to tear time and fate apart. But the light dimmed. The surface resisted. And behind him, Destiny’s voice split the air: “If you free her now, you unmake what remains of the balance. You don't know what lies ahead.” Dream didn’t turn. “I don’t care.”

“You will.” Destiny spoke, and eternity held its breath. “If you pull her from this place, you will not only doom yourselves—but what comes from you.”

Dream froze.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

“They will be born of dream and fortune. Imagination and chance. Power unbound by law or logic. Children of impossible will. I have seen what they become, Morpheus.”

He turned another page, slower now. “They would not simply shift the order of things—they would unmake it. Realities would bend. Time would bleed. Even Death would not be able to claim them.”

Dream’s voice cracked. “Then come for me. Bind me. Curse me. Take whatever you must—but not her.”

Destiny’s silence wasn’t stillness. It was judgment. “I gave you this love to temper you,” he said at last. “But you have let it consume you.”

Dream’s voice shook. “Because it is real. Because for the first time in all the infinite yawning dark, something belonged to me. Because, even if fate hadn’t woven us together, even if she was called into being by forces beyond me—she is still mine. And I will not let you erase her, no matter the cost, no matter the future you fear.”

Destiny stepped forward. For the first time, he closed the Book. And the sky cracked. “You think I fear what might come, brother?” His voice became the wind through every leaf, every turning path. “I know what will. I have seen them—your children. Born of realms that should never touch. They will walk outside time. Rewrite existence with thought alone.”

Dream’s face went pale. Destiny’s voice chilled to ash. “When they are born, I will come. I will erase them. From every page. Every story. Every star. I will erase their possibility. I will erase their luck.”

Dream turned, eyes glowing with fury and grief. “Then I will teach them to hide from you.”

“You cannot.”

“Then I will create a place even your Book cannot reach.”

Destiny stared at him, the weight of uncountable eons behind his gaze. “You were always the most stubborn of us,” he said. “And the most dangerous when in love.” He opened the Book once more. “Take her. She is yours. For now.”

The sky sealed. The trees exhaled. “But know this, Dream of the Endless: I do not threaten. I warn. And when your children come—so too shall I. ”With that, Destiny vanished into his spiraling paths.

Dream turned back to the pond. The glow around her body pulsed faster now. The spell was breaking. He sank to his knees again—and this time, the surface gave way beneath his hand.

The water shimmered. Fortuna gasped awake. She coughed, limbs trembling, and curled her fingers into his robe like a drowning soul clinging to shore. He held her like a man starved. Pressed his forehead to hers. “I have you,” he whispered. “And I will never lose you again.”

But far away, in the garden without choice, another page turned. And on it, a name had begun to write itself— A child yet unborn. 

A war yet begun.

EPILOGUE: THE EVIDENCE OF A SUCCESSFUL MIRACLE IS THE RETURN OF HUNGER 

The cat lay coiled beside her feet like a heap of cream and orange autumn leaves, its sweet face twisting into a yawn. It stretched languidly, then padded closer, purring softly as its nose brushed hers. This had been part of their shared morning ritual for over a millennium.

At the time, Morpheus had fashioned the creature as an anniversary gift, though she was certain a purring alarm clock had not been what he intended.Sensing movement beyond the chamber, its curious little triangle ears flicked toward the door. The translucent green wings on its back, delicate as dragonfly glass, perked in anticipation. In a blink, it zipped out of the room—no doubt in pursuit of the kitchen.

“I thought a king does not serve tea,” murmured the goddess in his bed, half-awake, her voice a warm teasing lilt.

“No,” he replied, the smile clear in his voice, “but your husband does.”She heard the soft clink of porcelain as he set the tray down beside her.“How are my Dreamling heirs this morning?” he asked.

“Excited to hear your voice, it would seem,” she said, guiding his hand to the swell of her belly. Beneath his palm, a flutter of movement greeted him. Morpheus beamed. “I cannot wait to meet them both.” He bent down to press two featherlight kisses to her stomach, then brushed a third across her lips.

Since learning of the children, he had developed a habit: when entering a room, he greeted them before anyone else—even her.“And to where do your royal duties call you today?” she asked, drowsy but amused.“I have declined them,” he said simply.

���Today belongs to fatherhood. We’re decorating the nursery, just as you asked. I’ve requested the staff to leave it completely barren. It will be yours to shape, just as you envisioned.”

“Finally!” she exclaimed, eyes now open and shining. “I’ve been putting it off, waiting for you. I was beginning to think I’d have to do it alone.”

Her words, even said in jest, struck a subtle chord in him. At once, Morpheus slipped beneath the covers, drawing her close, his body curving protectively around hers.

He cradled her face between his hands, and kissed the base of her ear, whispering with reverent certainty: “Mother of my children… you will never be alone. You are mine. And as long as I exist, you will be safe. You will be cherished. You will be loved.”

EPILOGUE: FORTUNA IS A WOMAN 

Death of the Endless sighed, tilting her head back with theatrical exasperation. “Of all the entities I run into at work, you’re easily my least favorite.”

Across from her, the princess smiled, cradling a once-warm cup of tea between her hands. “Last-minute change,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid you can’t have this one. Not today.”

She pushed the teacup across the table.“Here. It’s chamomile.” Death accepted it with a raised brow. “Stealing souls and serving tea. You’ve really embraced domestic chaos.”

She sank into the chair beside the princess, fingers curling around the porcelain, casting a sideways glance at the radiant crown of thorns circling her companion’s head.

A knowing smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. She knew exactly who the crown belonged to—and the promise it carried.They passed the cup between them in easy silence, as old friends might, watching the moment unfold below.

A blur of red.The shriek of tires tearing across pavement. The vehicle veered violently off the road, spinning into a chaos of screeches and honking horns. Pedestrians screamed, scattering just in time.

All except one.

Mark stood frozen—caught between breath and fate.In a heartbeat, he was airborne.Then the sickening thud. Bones against asphalt. Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like wind through dry grass. Screams followed.

The princess watched calmly, her golden eyes flickering once—an unearthly gleam, subtle and certain.

Down below, the boy stirred. He coughed once. Then again. And to the stunned horror of the onlookers, he stood up—shaky, bloodied, grinning like someone waking from a beautiful dream.

A jagged smile stretched across his maroon-smeared face, eyes wide in the sudden, inexplicable rush of being alive.“Dude,” someone breathed, “how the hell did you survive that?”

Mark blinked, swaying slightly.“Just got lucky, I guess.”

Back on the balcony of the in-between, Death took a final sip of tea, side-eyeing the princess beside her. “Luck,” she echoed dryly. “Sure. Let’s call it that.” The princess offered no rebuttal. Only a smile.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ahmed Baba at Ahmed Baba's Newsletter:

A flurry of incompetent policy decisions and abuses of power spark chaos and immediate court injunctions. Unhinged, divisive, blame-seeking press conferences that try to exploit a crisis or disaster. Democratic lawmakers and pro-democracy groups jump into action to oppose the latest unlawful maneuver. GOP lawmakers twist themselves into either defending the latest ramble or evading questions from an eager press demanding answers.

To the surprise of no one who has been honest with themselves, Trump’s second term is unfolding much like his first, but with higher stakes. This week, the Trump Administration's federal funding freeze sparked confusion and chaos before they rescinded it after public pressure and court injunctions mounted. After a plane crash in D.C. killed 67 people, President Trump sought to exploit the tragedy by baselessly blaming DEI, sparking media fact-checks and public outcry. Trump’s team has tried to sell the public on the idea that they would be more competent this time. That they learned from the failures of Trump’s first term. But it’s clear that Trump 2.0 has many of the same shortcomings as Trump 1.0. Perhaps one of the biggest obstacles to Trump’s authoritarian ambitions is his own incompetence.

I documented every day of Trump’s first term in real-time and later organized it all in an index where you can click into every week. For me and many Americans who have been warning about what could happen in a second Trump administration, this was déjà vu. For others, this week was a stark reminder of why Trump is unfit for office. How Trump has behaved in office thus far is exactly why he lost as an incumbent in 2020. Trump's outrage-bait nonsense works in a campaign, but it's toxic in government, especially during a tragedy or crisis. During the 2024 election, many Americans appeared to have collective amnesia about Trump's first term. I wrote about this in my newsletter last year. The truth is Trump's governing style is defined by self-interest, chaos, incompetence, and divisive depravity. Now, Americans are being confronted with the real-world consequences of his re-election.

Even before the events of this week, a new Reuters/Ipsos poll showed that many of Trump’s executive orders are wildly unpopular, and Trump’s approval rating has dipped to 45%. The poll found that 77% of Americans oppose Trump ending requirements that make government employees report gifts or investments, 62% of Americans oppose pardoning the January 6 rioters, 60% oppose implementing new tariffs on imports from Canada, 59% oppose ending birthright citizenship, and 59% oppose ending federal efforts to hire women and people of color.

[...]

The first major commercial plane crash since 2009 had just occurred above D.C., and bodies were still being pulled from the Potomac River. The American public was in a state of mourning as we learned more about the passengers, which included American figure skaters. At this moment, Americans needed calm, deliberate leadership and credible information. Instead, they got the Donald Trump we remember from the unhinged COVID-19 pandemic press briefings. President Trump repeatedly sought to blame Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion programs at the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) and the Biden Administration. Trump also cited people with disabilities. Multiple reporters pushed back, including NBC’s Peter Alexander, who pointed out the fact diversity policies were also in place during Trump’s own administration. [...] The fact this policy was in place during Trump’s own administration takes down one part of his argument, but the notion generally that this was somehow the fault of DEI, aka the presence of more people of color and women in these roles, is asinine and depraved. Even Senate Republicans were caught off guard by the comments.

[...] President Trump later signed a memo that blamed the crash on DEI. First off, it’s not clear whether there were any people of color or women flying either aircraft. So, that undermines his point. I feel terrible even talking about the race or gender of these people who have lost their lives, but Trump has forced that into this discussion. This was a tragic accident, and the skills of these individuals should not be thrown into question. They go through rigorous training and are highly qualified for their roles. [...]

This crash came days after Trump made sweeping changes at the FAA as part of his efforts to downsize the federal government. Trump removed several key officials and implemented a hiring freeze. It’s not clear if Trump’s actions contributed to the circumstances that caused the crash, but Trump received online criticism for the changes after the fatal accident. Faced with criticism, Trump did what he always does: deflect blame. This time, he scapegoated DEI.

[...]

On Monday, the Trump Administration made its most chaotic move so far this term and ramped up its distortion of the federal government by ordering a freeze on federal assistance programs. Unilaterally freezing congressionally approved funds is a direct violation of the Impoundment Control Act of 1974. This funding freeze came as Trump has made several unlawful moves to test the boundaries of the law and this Supreme Court’s appetite for further expanding executive power

The incredibly vague 2-page memo, written by Acting Director of the Office of Management and Budget, Matthew J. Vaeth, threw the country into a state of confusion. The freeze on federal assistance was set to take place on Tuesday evening at 5 pm EST and was for the purpose of reviewing if the funding complies with Trump’s culture war executive orders. The initial memo made exceptions for Medicare or Social Security and “assistance provided directly to individuals,” but there were widespread reports of Medicaid portals being down in all 50 states on Tuesday, in spite of a second “clarifying” memo from the White House claiming Medicaid was unaffected. There was confusion among nonprofits who administer aid and healthcare providers. Lawsuits began flying from nonprofits, health groups, and Democratic state attorneys general.

Then, minutes before it was set to take effect, D.C. District Judge Loren Ali Khan temporarily blocked Trump’s funding freeze. By Wednesday, the public backlash had grown so great that the White House rescinded the OMB memo, attempting to avoid further court injunctions. But Trump’s Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt sent a tweet trying to save face, claiming the funding freeze was still on. Hilariously, the Trump Administration was heading into another court hearing moments later. A federal judge, citing Leavitt’s tweet, said that they intended to grant another injunction. Talk about a self-own.

[...]

Trump’s Overreach Could Backfire Politically, Too

In November, I wrote an article claiming that Trump was going to overreach when in office and predicted that instead of focusing on lowering prices, he would bring about Project 2025 extremism, incompetence, culture wars, and cruel policies.

It’s all going exactly as expected, and it could backfire on Republicans. As I noted at the beginning of this piece, polling isn’t looking good on Trump’s executive orders. And when it comes to Trump’s approach to his billionaire allies, that’s also not going over well with Americans. An AP/NORC poll earlier this month found that Elon Musk only has a 36% approval rating, DOGE has a 29% approval rating, and only 12% of Americans think it’s good that billionaires are advising the president. The Musk poll came even before he made that arm gesture at the inauguration many are calling a Nazi salute. It turns out that oligarchy is unpopular. Who knew? The data indicates that if Democrats lock in on a consistent anti-corruption message while pointing out that Trump’s moves are directly impacting Americans (like they did with the funding freeze), they could be well-positioned to win in the 2026 midterms.

After almost two weeks of Tyrant 47’s reign that has tattered America at the seams, he is repeating his first term on steroids: authoritarian overreach, causing legal headaches, and embarrassing lies out of his mouth and social media posts.

See Also:

HuffPost: Inside Trump's Second-Term Torrent Of Chaos

[sw5w]

Anakin and Obi-Wan Head Down

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:17:01

[coriihanniee]

WE'RE GONNA BE TIMELESS — ⋆˚𝜗𝜚

𓂃۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : boynextdoor reincarnated in present time, their connection remains unbroken

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x f!reader

𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : historical romance, reincarnation, contemporary romance, angst to comfort, fluff, slow burn, soulmates, second chance romance

𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of war, violence and death, emotional distress, subtle themes of grief, trauma and healing

𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 1.7k - 2.5k words / member

𓂃۶ৎ A/N : several of you wanted a continuation to my we would've been timeless fic so here it is! this is a birthday special post since today is my birthday~ as a present and to express my gratitude, I decided to give all members the happy ending they deserve!

strongly recommended to read first :

WE WOULD'VE BEEN TIMELESS (part 1)

SUNGHO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : world war II (1939 - 1945)

˖➴ PAIRING : nursing major!sungho x uni student!reader

The university café thrummed with its usual Monday mayhem—orders barked over the grind of beans, chairs dragged impatiently across tile, the sharp tang of espresso clinging to the air like a second skin. You moved through it with quiet focus, a delicate balancing act of textbooks, a slipping laptop bag, and a paper cup filled too close to the brim with hot americano.

You were nearly at the lone empty table when the impact came—sudden and clumsy, a shoulder brushing yours hard enough to tip your center. Coffee sloshed over the edge, searing against your wrist and bleeding into the fabric of your sleeve. You sucked in a breath, startled.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry,” a voice stammered, low and laden with genuine remorse.

You turned.

A boy stood before you—tall, slightly out of breath, brow creased in concern. He blinked as though stunned by the collision, or perhaps by something more. Before you could speak, he reached instinctively for a stack of napkins, moving with quiet urgency as he began blotting the spill with a care that bordered on reverent.

“I didn’t see you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “God, I wasn’t watching—”

His touch, though brief, was light. Thoughtful. Not the careless fumbling of someone desperate to fix a mistake, but something gentler, more deliberate.

You opened your mouth to assure him it was fine, that no harm was done—but the apology caught in your throat when your eyes met his.

Something shifted.

The room did not fall silent, yet the clamour faded into distance. He stared at you with a peculiar stillness, his expression caught between apology and awe. There was a flicker of something behind his gaze—something quiet and ancient. Not recognition, not quite. But familiarity. The kind that runs deeper than memory.

As though, in that brief moment, he’d stumbled into something forgotten. As though he had known you once—not here, not like this—but across time.

And in the space of that glance, you felt it too.

Something in you stilled.

“Do I… know you?” he asked, the words tentative, like they surprised even him.

You shook your head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

But the moment lingered. Like two ghosts brushing shoulders in a life they no longer remembered.

He introduced himself—Sungho, a final-year nursing student. His voice was steady but warm, with a trace of shyness that made you feel oddly at ease. When he offered to buy you a new coffee, you hesitated, not because you needed one, but because there was something in his gaze—something quiet and steady—that made it hard to say no.

As the two of you stood waiting for your drinks, the conversation unfurled easily—too easily, like you were remembering rather than meeting. He asked your name, made you laugh with a joke about caffeine being the only thing holding students together. And even when silence fell between you, it didn’t feel awkward. Just… natural.

Comfortable, in a way that didn’t make sense.

After that day, you started noticing him everywhere.

At first, you thought it was coincidence—catching a glimpse of him by the reference shelves in the library, his nose buried in a tattered anatomy textbook. Then again in a lecture hall, sitting alone in the back row, headphones in, eyes scanning the screen with quiet focus. Another time, waiting under the same bus stop you used every Thursday night, hands in his pockets, staring out at the rain like he was remembering something just out of reach.

Each encounter felt like stumbling into a conversation you’d never quite started—but somehow already knew how to finish.

One evening, as rain tapped against the windows of the quiet study hall, Sungho glanced up from his notebook. His voice broke the hush, low and almost hesitant. “I had the strangest dream last night. I was a soldier. And there was this nurse—she kept me alive. She had your eyes.”

You froze, pen pausing mid-word.

Something in the way he said it—soft, like he didn’t quite understand it himself—sent a shiver down your spine.

Because just hours earlier, you’d woken in a cold sweat, heart racing. A dream still clinging to your skin like the scent of smoke. You’d been in a field hospital, walls groaning as explosions rang out nearby. Dust rained from the ceiling, cracks splitting through concrete like veins. And in that dream, there’d been a soldier—his uniform torn, eyes wild with fear—as he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it hurt. As if the building was collapsing and you were the only thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

And those arms… were his.

You couldn't manage to say anything at first.

But then, during a casual conversation, he reached for your drink and his sleeve pulled back. A scar, jagged and pale, marred the inside of his forearm.

Without thinking, your fingers reached for it.

“Shrapnel,” you murmured. “I mean—how did you get it?”

Sungho blinked. “Bike accident. When I was twelve. But…” He looked down at your hand. “When you touched it—it didn’t feel like the first time.”

His brows furrowed as though trying to summon something long buried. “It was like… muscle memory. Like my skin knew your touch before my mind could catch up.” He shook his head softly, almost in disbelief. “I haven’t thought about that scar in years, but when your fingers grazed it, something just… shifted.”

The air between you changed. Not dramatic, not loud. Just quieter. Denser. Like a page had turned in a book you hadn’t realized you were reading.

You didn’t know what to say, only that you felt it too—something ancient and echoing, stirring beneath your skin.

Days passed. Neither of you brought it up again, but it lingered, unspoken and undeniable. Something had cracked open between you.

A week later, he sent a text.

> Found an antique shop. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to go.   > Will you come with me?

The shop was dim, musty, and hidden in a forgotten corner of the city. Dust clung to the air like a memory, and the shelves sagged beneath the weight of relics long abandoned. Time seemed slower here, suspended in the quiet hush of things left behind.

Sungho drifted through the aisles as if pulled by an invisible thread, until he stopped at a glass display filled with war memorabilia. His gaze fixed on a rusted pocket watch. Slowly, his hand rose toward it, fingers trembling.

“This watch,” he whispered. “I’ve seen it before. I don’t know how—but I have.”

From behind the counter, the shopkeeper—an older man with tired eyes and a voice softened by years—watched you both. “That came from a field hospital in Gangwon,” he said. “There's something else from that collection. Wait here.”

He disappeared into a back room and returned with a weathered envelope. Inside, wrapped in tissue like something sacred, was a photograph.

A field hospital. A line of nurses and injured soldiers.

And at the center—him.

Sungho, or someone who wore his face, one arm in a sling. And beside him, a nurse. Her hand rested protectively on his shoulder, her eyes hauntingly familiar.

Yours.

You couldn’t breathe.

Sungho turned the photo over. Written in faded ink: 

"Nurse L/N and Pvt. Park. Found in rubble after bombing. 1944.”

The shopkeeper’s voice softened. “Witnesses said they never ran. When the building collapsed, they were still holding each other.”

Sungho’s hands trembled as he cradled the photograph, his gaze anchored to the faces frozen in sepia. There was a flicker in his eyes—something ancient, aching, as though a door had cracked open inside him, letting in a memory too heavy to bear.

“They found this watch in his hand,” the shopkeeper said softly, nodding toward the tarnished timepiece in the glass case. “It stopped the moment the bomb struck. In his pocket, they found a letter—unfinished. He wrote that amidst all the ruin, she was the only peace he had ever known.”

Silence gathered around you, thick and fragile. It clung to your skin, to the photograph, to the aching quiet between heartbeats. You felt it in your bones—that this wasn’t grief for strangers, but something buried deep within you, long-lost and long-mourned.

The shopkeeper’s gaze lingered. “You two… you resemble them quite closely. It’s uncanny. Almost as if…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Sungho didn’t hesitate when he bought the watch. No one spoke of how his hands shook as he handed over the bills, or how your eyes refused to leave the image of the nurse and the wounded soldier, their silhouettes etched with unspeakable tenderness. There were no questions, only the unspoken understanding that whatever this was, it mattered.

Outside, under the awning as rain whispered against the pavement, Sungho finally broke the silence. His voice was low, raw. “I keep thinking about them. About the moment they must’ve realized there was no way out.”

You swallowed around the tightness in your throat. “But they weren’t alone,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “They had each other. Even at the end.”

Sungho looked at you then, his eyes shining with something too vast for words. “Some things,” he said, “are more important than survival.” His breath caught. “If it were me… if it were us…”

He trailed off, but the rest hung between you like a vow neither of you had to speak.

The watch, now warm in your clasped hands, pulsed faintly between you, as though echoing with a heartbeat once lost to war. And in that moment, there was no past, no present—only the weight of what had always been. A tether, invisible and unbreakable.

“I don’t remember them,” Sungho whispered, rain clinging to his lashes. “But I miss them. I mourn them like I knew them. Like I loved her.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden. There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. No grand declaration. Just a quiet truth lodged deep in his chest.

And somehow, you knew he already had. In another life, in another war, he had stayed.

You reached for him. Fingers tangled with his, grounding you both in a present that felt like a continuation of something unfinished.

You didn’t notice the watch had begun ticking again—its heartbeat restored after decades of silence. 

Some bonds are stitched too deeply into the soul to be unsewn. Some loves remember even when the mind forgets.

In this life, there were no bombs. No letters left unsent. Just two strangers finding each other in the middle of ordinary chaos, tethered by a history that refused to die.

And in this life, they’d have time.

RIWOO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : victorian era (1837 - 1901)

˖➴ PAIRING : literary preservationist!riwoo × antique bookstore owner!reader

The bookstore was your sanctuary. Nestled between a cozy café and a vintage clothing shop, Bound by Time specialized in rare and antique books. As the new proprietor—having inherited it only months ago from your late grandmother—you found solace among the shelves of timeworn spines and the scent of aging paper, as if the past itself had taken refuge there.

The bell above the door chimed, its sound delicate and familiar. You glanced up from cataloging a recent acquisition of first editions. A man stood just inside the doorway, dark hair dampened slightly from the mist outside, his gaze wandering the room with the quiet reverence of someone who believed in the sacredness of forgotten stories.

"Can I help you find something?" you asked, setting your pen aside, your voice gentler than usual. Something about his presence asked for softness.

He turned toward you, and in the silence that passed, his eyes held something that startled you—recognition, confusion, then a wistful smile. "I'm looking for..." He hesitated. "I'm not sure. Something called to me from your window display."

"That's my grandmother's doing," you replied, standing slowly. "She curated the Victorian literature showcase before she passed. I haven't had the heart to change it."

He stepped further in, rainwater softly pooling beneath his shoes. "Lee Riwoo," he said, offering his hand.

As your fingers touched, a strange sensation swept over you—a flicker, like recalling a dream you had long ago and weren't sure was ever real. You pulled your hand back a breath too quickly.

"Do you collect antique books?"

"I'm a literary preservationist," he said. "I restore rare manuscripts. This is my first time here. I travel often for my work, but... this place felt familiar."

Over the next hour, Riwoo wandered your shelves with a kind of hushed wonder, his fingertips tracing the spines as though memorizing their histories. His gaze lingered longest on the Victorian section, and you watched from behind the counter, your chest aching with a curiosity you couldn't explain.

Finally, he approached with a weathered diary in hand. "I was commissioned to restore this," he said. "It's from the mid-1800s. Several pages are damaged. I was hoping you might have paper from the same era—your grandmother's collection, perhaps?"

The diary, bound in cracked leather, trembled faintly in your hands as you opened it. The ink had faded and bled from years of water damage. But the handwriting within—looped and elegant—struck you with something more than familiarity. It struck you with grief.

"This handwriting..." you murmured.

"I know," Riwoo nodded. "It feels strangely familiar, doesn't it? I've been having trouble sleeping since I received it. Dreams of places I've never been, people I've never met."

You examined the diary more closely. It belonged to a nobleman who wrote of his younger brother's scandalous love for a servant girl—a love that ultimately ended in heartbreak when he was forced to marry within his class. Many entries were water-damaged, the ink blurred beyond recognition.

"I might have some matching paper in the back room," you offered. "My grandmother collected restoration materials."

The storage room was narrow, cramped with drawers and trunks of brittle documents and parchment. As you sifted through them, Riwoo stood behind you, and the air thickened with an unspoken tension. Not the kind born of discomfort, but the kind that lives in the breath before a memory returns.

"Have we met before?" he asked, voice low. "I can't explain it, but... you feel like someone I've waited a long time to find."

You smiled without turning around. "I'd remember meeting someone who restores books like a ritual."

Over the next weeks, Riwoo returned with the diary in tow, setting up at the corner table beneath the stained glass window. Sometimes he would read aloud, his voice reverent, coaxing lost stories back to life.

The first dream came like a whisper—fragments at first, then vivid scenes that left you waking with tears on your pillow.

In them, you were someone else yet entirely yourself. A servant in a grand estate, moving through shadows, your heart aching for someone you couldn't have. And there was Riwoo—not quite him, but unmistakably him—dressed in nobleman's finery, his eyes following you with longing across crowded rooms.

"You can't have what you want, Riwoo. It's not possible."

 Your dream-self's words echoed in your mind long after you woke.

You said nothing about these dreams, convinced they were simply your imagination running wild from the diary's stories. But Riwoo grew more agitated with each passing day, his focus on the diary becoming almost obsessive.

"The pages near the end," he said one evening, voice strained. "They're different—like someone else took over the writing. More desperate. More raw."

You peered over his shoulder at the damaged pages he was carefully treating. "Can you make out what it says?"

"Fragments. The nobleman's brother—he was in love with a servant girl. His family forced him to marry someone of his station, but..." Riwoo's finger traced a line of faded text. "He never stopped loving her."

That night, your dreams shifted. You saw Riwoo standing at an altar, his face a mask of composure while his eyes screamed silent apologies. You watched from behind a pillar, your heart shattering as he pledged himself to another. Before the ceremony ended, you slipped away, unable to bear witnessing more.

You woke gasping, a physical ache in your chest. When you arrived at the bookstore, Riwoo was already waiting outside, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I can't sleep," he said simply. "I keep dreaming about them—the nobleman's brother and the servant girl. It feels like I'm remembering, not dreaming."

Something in his voice made you shiver. "What happens in your dreams?"

His eyes met yours, filled with a grief that seemed centuries old. "I lose her. Over and over, I lose her."

The air between you crackled with unspoken recognition.

Days later, Riwoo called you after midnight, his voice urgent through the phone. "I found something. Come to the store. Please."

You found him surrounded by pages on the floor, his hands trembling as he held a partially restored section of the diary.

"Look at this," he whispered.

The entry described the day after the wedding—how the servant girl had disappeared from the estate without a trace. The nobleman wrote of his brother's descent into despair, his frantic searching, his slow surrender to hopelessness.

The final pages became increasingly difficult to read—not just from water damage, but because the handwriting deteriorated, as if the writer could barely hold a pen.

"There's a change here," Riwoo said, pointing to a particular passage. "The nobleman stopped writing. These last entries are from his brother."

With painstaking care, he had revealed the final legible words:

The laudanum offers temporary peace, but I find myself increasing the dose each night. My wife suspects nothing; she has long since accepted that our marriage exists only in name. I dream of my love each night—standing in the garden where we last spoke, promising to wait for me. I have searched for five years with no trace of her. Tomorrow, I shall join her in the only way left to me. Perhaps in another life, we will find each other again, and I will be braver than I was in this one.

Your hand flew to your mouth, a sob catching in your throat. "He took his own life."

Riwoo nodded, his expression haunted. "The nobleman's final entry confirms it. He found his brother's body in the study, an empty bottle beside him, clutching something in his hand."

"What was it?" you whispered.

"That's where the diary ends. Water damage destroyed the rest." Riwoo's voice cracked. "But I found something else."

From between the leather binding and backing, he carefully extracted a small, folded piece of paper that had somehow survived intact. As he unfolded it, his hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

It was a letter, the ink faded but still legible. Addressed simply: To her, when fate allows us to meet again.

The first line made your heart stop:

My dearest, followed by your name—your actual name, written in a hand you somehow recognized.

The world tilted beneath you as you took the letter, vision blurring as you read:

By the time you read this, I will have left this world, unable to bear its emptiness without you. Know that I searched for you until my strength failed. My greatest regret is not having the courage to defy convention and claim you as mine when I had the chance.

I make this vow with my final breath: I will find you again. In another time, another place, where the barriers between us no longer exist. Where I can love you as you deserve to be loved—openly, completely, without shame or hesitation.

If your soul recognizes mine as I know it will, please forgive my weakness in this life. In the next, I will be worthy of you.

Eternally yours,

L.R 

The letter slipped from your trembling fingers. You raised your eyes to meet Riwoo's, finding them filled with tears and a recognition that transcended understanding.

"It's my handwriting," he whispered, voice breaking. "And your name."

The room spun around you as fragments of memory—not dreams but actual memories—crashed through your consciousness: standing in the shadows of a grand estate, watching him from afar, the brush of his fingers against yours when no one was looking, his whispered promise: 

"I love you. And I will find a way to make this work. I'll make it work, I swear."

A promise he couldn't keep then.

"We found each other," you breathed, the realization both beautiful and devastating. "After all this time."

Riwoo reached for your hand, his touch igniting not just the familiar flicker of recognition, but a flood of emotion so powerful it brought you to your knees. He caught you, arms wrapping around you as though he'd been waiting lifetimes to hold you again.

"I don't—I don't remember everything," he said, his voice raw. "Just feelings. Fragments. But I know it's you. I've always known it was you, from the moment I walked into this store."

You buried your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by grief for what was lost and wonder at what had been found. "You didn't have to wait for another life," you whispered. "I would have run away with you then."

"I know," he murmured against your hair. "That's why I've spent this lifetime looking for you—to make it right."

Outside, rain began to fall, washing the world clean. Inside, surrounded by the fragments of your shared past, you held onto each other as the barriers of time crumbled around you—two souls finally completing a journey that began more than a century ago.

Not every memory would return. Not every wound would heal. But in that moment, as Riwoo's tears mingled with yours, you understood that some connections were never meant to be broken—only temporarily lost, then found again when the time was right.

JAEHYUN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 1920s Hollywood

˖➴ PAIRING : actor!jaehyun x script doctor!reader

The moment you met Jaehyun on the set of Bright Silence, something ancient stirred within you. It wasn't déjà vu—it was deeper, like muscle memory embedded in your soul. 

You'd been hired as a script doctor for the troubled production, tasked with breathing life into dialogue that felt stilted and forced. The director had called you their "last hope" with the kind of desperation that made your stomach clench. This was your chance to finally make a name for yourself in the industry after years of uncredited rewrites and ghostwriting for more established screenwriters.

The first day on set, you were making notes when he walked past—casual, unhurried. Myung Jaehyun, Korea's most sought-after actor making his Hollywood crossover. His eyes met yours briefly, and something electric passed between you. He faltered mid-step, his expression shifting from polite disinterest to something unreadable. For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in an impromptu staring contest that felt weightier than it should have.

"Have we met before?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of genuine confusion.

"No," you answered automatically, though the word felt like a lie on your tongue. "I don't think so."

He nodded slowly, unconvinced. "I'm Jaehyun."

"I know." You extended your hand. "I'm the new writer."

His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and for a bizarre moment, you had the overwhelming urge to never let go. A flash of something—a dimly lit room, his face illuminated by a different kind of light—passed through your mind.

"Strange," he murmured, reluctantly releasing your hand. "I feel like I know you."

That night, you dreamed of golden sunlight and long shadows, of hushed whispers and the mechanical whir of old film cameras. You woke with a start, heart racing, the phantom smell of smoke in your nostrils.

The studio lot where Bright Silence was being filmed had history—one of the original Paramount backlots that had survived decades of Hollywood's evolution. Walking through it sometimes felt like traversing through time itself, modern equipment jarringly out of place against the backdrop of buildings that had witnessed the birth of cinema.

You found yourself drawn to the oldest section, a preserved slice of 1920s Hollywood. During lunch breaks, you'd wander there, notebook in hand, telling yourself you were seeking inspiration. In truth, you were chasing the gossamer threads of dreams that felt increasingly like memories.

One afternoon, you found Jaehyun there, standing in front of Building 8, an old soundstage rarely used now except for period pieces. He was so still he might have been a statue, staring up at the faded lettering with an intensity that made you pause.

"They used to film the silent movies here," he said without turning, somehow knowing it was you. "The ones shot in black and white."

"Yes," you replied, though you hadn't known this for certain. "Before the talkies changed everything."

He turned to you then, his eyes reflecting the same confused recognition you felt. "I keep having these dreams."

Your heart stuttered. "What kind of dreams?"

"Old Hollywood. Black and white film. A script." He hesitated. "And fire. Always fire at the end."

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Since meeting Jaehyun, you'd developed an inexplicable aversion to open flames. Yesterday, when the gaffer lit a cigarette near you, your hands had begun to tremble so violently you'd had to excuse yourself.

"I've been having dreams too," you admitted. "But they don't make sense."

Something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, at not being alone in this strange experience. "How about we head out for lunch? We have an hour before they need us back."

At the small restaurant just outside the lot, tucked away from prying eyes and eager paparazzi, you talked. Not about the dreams directly—they felt too intimate, too bizarre to articulate fully—but about everything else. How writing had always been your refuge. How he'd fallen into acting, discovered in a photography shoot when he was nineteen.

"Sometimes when I'm on set," he said, stirring his iced latte absently, "it feels like I've done this before. Not just acting, but..." he searched for the words, "...like I've lived this specific life before."

You understood completely. "Like déjà vu, but prolonged."

"Exactly." He looked at you intently. "Since I met you, it's gotten stronger."

The confession hung between you, neither willing to explore its implications further. Instead, you discussed the script, the changes you were making, how his character needed more depth, more conflict.

"He loves her," Jaehyun said suddenly, referring to his character. "That's his real conflict. He loves her but doesn't know how to tell her before it's too late."

You blinked. That wasn't in the script—not yet, anyway. But he was right; it was exactly what was missing.

"How did you know that's where I was taking the story?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze drifting out the window to the studio lot in the distance. "I just felt it. Like I've played this role before."

That night, you pulled out an old box from your closet—university projects and early attempts at screenplays. Something had been nagging at you since your conversation with Jaehyun. A half-remembered project, something about Hollywood's golden age.

Near the bottom of the box, you found it: a screenplay titled Burning Bright. Your final project for your screenwriting course. You didn't remember much about writing it—just that your professor had called it "surprisingly authentic" for a period piece and that you'd received an A.

With trembling fingers, you flipped through the pages. It was a love story set in 1920s Hollywood—a screenwriter and an actor falling in love during the production of a film. Your eyes widened as you read. The dialogue, the scenes, they felt achingly familiar yet strange in your own handwriting.

The final scene made your blood run cold. The screenwriter, trapped in a burning studio, the actor desperately trying to reach her as flames consumed the building.

You dropped the screenplay like it had burned you. There, on the last page, were the words:

FADE TO BLACK as smoke engulfs the frame. The only sound: JAEHYUN screaming her name as the building collapses.

Jaehyun. You had named the character Jaehyun.

But you'd written this years ago, long before you'd ever heard of him.

Sleep eluded you that night. When you finally drifted off near dawn, your dreams were vivid and terrifying—smoke filling your lungs, the heat unbearable, someone banging on a door you couldn't reach.

Production moved to the old soundstage the following week. The director wanted authenticity for the climactic scene, and Building 8 provided the perfect backdrop with its vintage architecture.

You arrived early, the screenplay from university tucked in your bag. You hadn't shown it to Jaehyun yet; it felt too strange, too personal. How could you explain that years ago, you'd written a story about a character with his name dying in a fire?

The building felt different today—oppressive, almost hostile. As the crew set up lighting and cameras, you found yourself moving away from the vintage heat lamps they'd brought in for the period aesthetic. Their glow made your skin crawl.

Jaehyun arrived looking exhausted, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd slept as poorly as you had. When he spotted you, he made his way over immediately.

"I found something," he said without preamble, pulling a small envelope from his jacket. "In the studio archives. I was doing research for the role and..." he trailed off, handing it to you.

Inside was a photograph, brittle with age and burned at the edges. The image showed a man in 1920s attire, standing on what was clearly this very soundstage. The man was undeniably Jaehyun—or someone who looked eerily like him, down to the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Next to him stood a woman, but her image was partially destroyed, the right side of the photograph blackened by fire. Only half her face remained visible, but what you could see made your stomach drop. It was like looking in a distorted mirror.

"Turn it over," Jaehyun said quietly.

On the back, in faded ink: Hollywood Star Myung Jaehyun and his screenwriter, 1928. The last picture before the fire.

The room seemed to tilt around you. "This has to be some kind of joke."

"That's what I thought too." His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his unease. "But I couldn't find any record of who placed it in the archives. It's been there for decades, according to the archivist."

Before you could respond, the director called Jaehyun to set. He gave your arm a gentle squeeze before walking away, leaving you with the photograph and a growing sense of dread.

They were filming the scene where his character confronts his rival. The vintage heat lamps glowed ominously in the background, casting long shadows across the set. You watched from a distance, unable to shake your discomfort.

Everything was going smoothly until one of the heat lamps malfunctioned, sparking violently. It was a minor issue, quickly handled by the effects team, but the moment you saw Jaehyun walk toward it, something inside you fractured.

"Stop!" The word tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Get away from there!"

The entire set turned to stare at you. Jaehyun froze mid-step, his expression shifting from confusion to concern as he took in your panic-stricken face.

The director called for a break, clearly annoyed at the interruption. As the crew dispersed, Jaehyun approached you cautiously.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leading you to a quiet corner away from curious eyes.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking. "I don't know. When I saw you near that lamp, I just—" You broke off, unable to articulate the visceral terror that had gripped you. "I think I'm losing my mind."

Instead of dismissing your fears, he took your hands in his, steadying them. "You're not. Something's happening to both of us." He hesitated. "Last night, I dreamt of a fire again. But this time, I remembered more. I was trying to reach someone—banging on a door, screaming..." He swallowed hard. "Screaming your name."

Your eyes met his, and in that moment, something clicked into place—not a full memory, but the shadow of one, like looking at your reflection in troubled water.

"I wrote a screenplay in college," you said quietly. "About a screenwriter and an actor in 1920s Hollywood. The actor's name was Jaehyun, and they both died in a fire."

His grip on your hands tightened. "When did you write it?"

"Years ago. Before I knew you existed."

A long silence stretched between you as you both grappled with implications neither of you wanted to face.

"Do you think we're..." he began, unable to finish the thought.

"I don't know what we are." You pulled the photograph from your pocket, studying the half-burned image. "But I think we've been here before."

The director, impatient with the delays, decided to shoot the climactic scene the next day. It called for dramatic lighting, heightened emotions—and fire elements controlled by the special effects team.

The mere thought made your stomach churn. You considered calling in sick, but the prospect of Jaehyun facing those flames alone was somehow worse.

You arrived to find the set transformed. The vintage architecture of Building 8 now prominently featured in the shot, with carefully controlled fire elements positioned strategically around the perimeter. 

Jaehyun found you before filming began, his face drawn with concern. "You don't have to stay for this."

"I do," you insisted, though every instinct screamed at you to run. "I can't explain it, but I feel like if I leave..."

"Something bad will happen," he finished for you. "I feel it too."

When filming began, you stood as far from the fire elements as possible while still maintaining a view of the set. The scene called for Jaehyun's character to make an impassioned confession, surrounded by the symbolic flames of his inner turmoil.

As he performed, something shifted in the atmosphere. His delivery wasn't just good—it was transcendent, as if he was channeling emotions from somewhere beyond himself. The crew fell silent, captivated.

"I should have told you sooner," he was saying, the scripted lines taking on a different weight in his mouth. "Before it was too late. Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

Your breath caught.

 That last line wasn't in the script.

Jaehyun's eyes found yours across the set, filled with a recognition that transcended the present moment. For a heartbeat, the decades between then and now seemed to collapse, and you weren't on a movie set in the present, but somewhere else—somewhere you'd been before.

One of the fire elements flared unexpectedly, higher than it should have. Someone from effects cursed, rushing to control it. Jaehyun didn't flinch, his eyes still locked with yours as if nothing else existed.

"Cut!" the director shouted, breaking the spell. "Effects, get that under control! Jaehyun, that was brilliant, but stick to the script."

Jaehyun nodded absently, his attention still on you. As the crew reset for another take, he made his way to your side.

"Those weren't my lines," he said quietly. "They just... came out."

You nodded, understanding completely. "It felt right, though."

"It felt like something I've spent lifetimes chasing.” 

The weight of his words settled between you—not a full confession, but the acknowledgment of something unfinished, something that had been waiting decades to be resolved.

You could almost hear the echo of a different time, of a different version of him, still trying to say what had never left his lips.

A whisper, a touch, a confession lost in the haze of fire and smoke. The burning that had taken everything from you both.

The director called for positions. Jaehyun squeezed your hand once before returning to his mark, surrounded once more by the controlled flames that nevertheless made your heart race with ancestral fear.

As filming resumed, you watched him deliver his lines—the right ones this time—but the wrong ones still lingered in the air between you.

“Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

You didn’t know what he meant. Not fully.  

But somewhere deep inside—beyond memory, beyond logic—you understood.

There were nights you still woke to the phantom scent of smoke. Moments when the touch of warmth on your skin made you flinch without reason.  

A life you didn’t remember.  

A love you had never finished.

Whatever had been left undone in the 1920s—whatever words had been swallowed by flame and fear—still pressed against the edges of your heart, waiting.  

The universe rarely offered second chances. Rarer still was the chance to recognize them when they came.

You watched him now, the set lights soft on his face, his expression too serious for the lines he recited.  

As if he remembered, too.  

As if some part of him knew there had once been a fire, and that it had cost him everything he hadn’t been brave enough to say.

The past tugged at you, quiet and merciless.

This time, you would not wait for the world to end to tell him you were already his.

TAESAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : zombie apocalypse

˖➴ PAIRING : reincarnated unaware!taesan x reincarnated aware!reader

The Gwangju subway station hums with mechanical precision and indifference. Steel carriages arrive and depart with mathematical certainty, carrying bodies from one destination to another as they have for decades. You stand on the platform, your reflection fragmented in the polished tiles of the opposite wall—pieces of yourself scattered across the surface like the memories that haunt you.

It happens when you least expect it. The scent of antiseptic and industrial cleaner. The fluorescent lights flickering twice before steadying. The distant screech of brakes against metal rails. These ordinary elements of metropolitan life shouldn't trigger anything in you, and yet they do.

Blood on your hands. The weight of a gun. His eyes—lifeless but somehow still filled with forgiveness.

You blink, and the vision dissipates like morning fog. Your therapist calls them "intrusive thoughts with vivid imagery," likely stemming from trauma or an overactive imagination. She doesn't know about the dreams—dreams so visceral, so painfully real that waking feels like dying all over again. Dreams of a world consumed by chaos, of survival against impossible odds, of him.

Taesan.

The name never leaves you. It sits on the tip of your tongue during your waking hours, burns itself into your consciousness during sleep. A name that belongs to someone you've never met in this life but somehow know more intimately than yourself.

The subway car approaches, its headlights cutting through the tunnel darkness like searchlights. People around you shift forward in anticipation, clutching bags and phones, their faces illuminated by blue light. No one else flinches at the sound of the brakes. No one else hears the groans of the undead in the mechanical whine.

Only you.

The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss. Bodies file out, others push in—the eternal dance of urban commuters. You step inside, finding an empty seat by the window. Your reflection stares back at you, features blurred against the backdrop of the station sliding away as the train pulls out. You look tired. You always look tired these days.

Three stops later, the doors open again. You don't look up immediately—there's no reason to. But something shifts in the atmosphere, something imperceptible yet undeniable, like the air pressure changing before a storm. A prickling sensation crawls up your spine, and your eyes are drawn up as if by magnetic force.

He stands there, scanning for a seat, dressed in a charcoal suit that sits perfectly on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than in your dreams, styled with modern precision. No dirt on his face, no blood on his hands. Clean. Unburdened.

Alive.

Taesan.

Your heart stutters, then races. Your lungs forget how to function. The subway car suddenly feels too small, too hot, too loud. Is this another hallucination? Another cruel joke your mind is playing?

But no—other people see him too. A woman offers him her seat. He declines with a polite smile, gripping the overhead handle instead. He looks... normal. Ordinary. A businessman on his evening commute. Not a survivor. Not a protector. Not the man who died in your arms, confessing love with his last breath.

You stare, unable to look away, cataloging the similarities and differences between this man and the one who haunts your dreams. The same sharp jawline, the same penetrating eyes. But his posture is different—relaxed, not constantly coiled like a spring ready to unleash. His hands are smooth, lacking the calluses from weapons and hard labour. This Taesan has never had to fight for his life. Never had to make impossible choices. Never had to protect you.

And yet, it's him. Every cell in your body recognizes him, calls out to him across the distance between you.

He doesn't notice you. Not at first. He's preoccupied with something on his phone, thumb scrolling with casual indifference. You wonder what mundane concerns occupy his mind. Work deadlines? Dinner plans? So far removed from survival, from the visceral reality of existence that consumed your shared past life.

The train lurches slightly as it rounds a bend, and his gaze lifts momentarily, sweeping across the car. For a fraction of a second, his eyes meet yours, and the world stops.

Something flickers across his face—confusion, perhaps. A slight furrow between his brows, a momentary pause in his breathing. He blinks, and then looks away, returning to his phone with practiced nonchalance. But you see the tension in his shoulders now, the slight stiffness in his posture that wasn't there before.

Did he feel it too? That electric shock of recognition? That soul-deep knowing?

The automated announcement chimes overhead: "Next station: Hwajeong 1-ga." His stop, somehow you know. You shouldn't know that, but you do, just as you know he takes this train every weekday at exactly this time, that he lives alone in an apartment overlooking the river, that he drinks his coffee black with just a hint of sugar.

Knowledge that isn't yours to possess in this lifetime.

The train slows, and he moves toward the doors, still not looking at you. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a wild animal seeking escape.

Say something. Do something. Don't let him walk away. Not again.

But what would you say? 

The absurdity of it freezes you in place as the doors open. He steps out onto the platform, merging seamlessly with the evening crowd. In seconds, he'll disappear, swallowed by the city, and you'll be left with nothing but dreams and fragmented memories that might be delusions.

Your body moves before your mind decides. You're on your feet, squeezing through the closing doors at the last possible moment, stumbling onto the platform. The crowd jostles you, impatient bodies pushing past on their way to exits and transfers. You scan frantically, catching a glimpse of his charcoal suit ascending the escalator.

You follow, heart thundering in your ears, unsure what you'll do when you catch up to him—if you catch up to him. The escalator seems to stretch endlessly upward, each mechanical step too slow for the urgency building inside you. By the time you reach the top, he's already passing through the ticket gates, moving with purpose toward the eastern exit.

"Taesan!" His name tears from your throat before you can stop it, echoing against tile and concrete.

He stops. Slowly, methodically, he turns around. From twenty meters away, his expression is unreadable, but his posture is rigid with surprise. For a long moment, he simply stares at you across the distance, commuters flowing around both of you like river water around stones.

Then, deliberately, he walks back towards you.

Each step he takes coils the tension tighter in your chest.

 What if you’re wrong? What if this is just some cruel twist of fate, a mirror image meant to break you? Or worse—what if it is him, but the man you loved is gone, replaced by something unrecognizable?

He stops before you, close enough to see the amber flicker in his dark eyes. Those eyes—his eyes—once so full of warmth as they watched over you through every danger, once clouded with pain as life slipped away, now look at you with nothing but uncertainty.

"Do I know you?" His voice is the same—deep, slightly rough around the edges, but missing the weariness, the weight of a world collapsed.

You swallow hard, reality crashing down.

Of course he doesn't remember. Why would he? The universe isn't that kind. It gave you these memories—this curse—and left him blissfully ignorant.

"I'm sorry," you manage, voice barely above a whisper. "I mistook you for someone else."

A lie. A necessary one.

He studies you, head tilted slightly, brows drawn together. "Are you sure? You seem... familiar."

Hope flares, bright and dangerous. "Familiar how?"

He frowns, eyes narrowing as if trying to bring something into focus. "I don't know. It's strange, but I feel like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way his gaze lingers on your face, searching for something he can't articulate. A connection he feels but doesn't understand.

"Have we met somewhere before?" he asks, the question tentative, as if he's not sure he wants the answer.

Your heart constricts with painful clarity. In his eyes, there's no recognition of shared foxholes or whispered confessions in the dark. No memory of the night he told you, 

"You don't have to carry all that weight alone. We're in this together." 

No recollection of his final words, gasped between labored breaths,  

"I love you. I never... I never said it, but I do. Always."

Just polite confusion from a stranger who might have passed you on the street once.

"I don't think so," you lie again, each word like glass in your throat. "I'm new to Gwangju."

Another lie. You've been drawn to this city for months, pulled by something you couldn't name until this moment. Some cosmic thread connecting you to him, even across lifetimes.

"Ah," he says, nodding slightly, but the furrow between his brows doesn't smooth out. "Well, I'm Taesan. Han Taesan."

The name vibrates through you like a struck bell. It's confirmation of what your soul already knew—this is him. Reborn, remade, without the scars and traumas of a world that never happened in this timeline. 

"Nice to meet you," you say, offering your name in return. It feels surreal, introducing yourself to the man whose blood once stained your hands, whose weight you felt grow cold in your arms.

An awkward silence stretches between you, filled with the ambient noise of the station. Commuters brush past, announcements echo overhead, and somewhere distant, a train rumbles into motion.

"Well," he says finally, shifting his weight. "I should probably..." He gestures vaguely toward the exit.

"Of course," you say quickly. "Sorry for bothering you."

He nods, turns to leave, then pauses. "Actually," he says, turning back. "Would you like to get coffee together sometime?"

The question catches you off guard, leaves you momentarily speechless. This isn't how you imagined this encounter going. You'd prepared yourself for dismissal, maybe even suspicion or fear. Not... this.

"You don't have to," he adds, misreading your silence. "It's just—" He stops, seemingly embarrassed by whatever he was about to say.

"Just what?" you prompt gently.

He looks at you directly then, something indefinable in his gaze. "I can't shake the feeling that I should know you. It's probably nothing, but..." He trails off with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't usually do this. Ask strangers for coffee, I mean."

“It's too late. You know it is.”  

“No!”

“You should've stayed away from me. I'm not the man you think I am.” 

You blink away the memory, forcing yourself back to the present. To this Taesan, who looks at you with curiosity rather than shared understanding.

"I'd like that," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

His smile—genuine, unguarded—makes your chest ache. You've seen that smile before, but so rarely. In another life, smiles were precious commodities, rationed like water during a drought. This Taesan smiles easily, without the weight of survival pressing down on him.

"Great," he says, pulling out his phone. "Can I get your number?"

You exchange contact information, the mundane action feeling strangely surreal. In your past life, such normal activities had been rendered obsolete—no phones, no casual meetups, no easy exchanges of pleasantries.

"I'll text you," he promises, pocketing his phone. "There's a good café near here that stays open late."

"I look forward to it," you reply, and mean it despite the storm of emotions raging inside you.

He nods, seemingly satisfied, then turns to leave again. This time, you let him go, watching as he moves through the crowd with that same casual confidence, so different from the hypervigilant man of your memories.

As he disappears around a corner, you stand frozen, trying to process what just happened. The weight of your memories presses down on you—the apocalypse, the losses, the final, brutal moments of Taesan's life in that other reality. The gun in your hand. The decision you had to make.

"Taesan,"

"I'm so sorry."

One last look.

One last breath.

One last shot. 

You shut your eyes against the memory, the weight of it sinking into your chest like lead. When you open them again, the subway station is just that—bright lights, hurried commuters, distant echoes of announcements bouncing off sterile tiles.  

No groaning bodies.  

No blood staining the ground.  

No apocalypse.

Just you, standing in the present, shackled to a past that only you remember.

Your phone chimes, its soft ping a cruel reminder that the world moves on, indifferent to the wreckage it leaves behind.  

Taesan, still keeping a promise he never made, unaware of the price you paid to survive.

> Coffee tomorrow evening? 7 PM?

You stare at the words, as ordinary as they are devastating.  

In another lifetime, you held him as his body grew cold. Felt the life slip away from his eyes. Made the impossible choice to end his suffering before the world could claim him fully.  

And now, here he is, asking you for coffee.

The reply slips from your fingers with a quiet "Yes." But beneath that simple word, your heart shatters, a crumbling, jagged thing.  

Grief lingers like the taste of ash. Hope feels like an open wound.  

A lifetime of unsaid things stretches between you—memories that you carry, but he can never know. Memories that belonged to a world that has long since crumbled to dust.

As you step into the cold night, the city alive around you, you wonder if this is your penance—or your salvation. To be the only one who remembers what was lost. To carry the ghosts of a love that never had the chance to breathe, alone.

But maybe this is it.  

Maybe memory is your only salvation.  

Not to reclaim what was shattered, but to hold on to the possibility of something new, something free from the horror of the past.

In this life, Taesan doesn’t need you to be his shield.  

He doesn’t need you to carry the weight of his death in your bones.  

He just needs you to be here.  

The you who made it through the ruins, the you who dares to hope despite the wreckage.

The night air cuts sharp against your skin, the city sprawling endlessly beneath you. The lights flicker like dying stars, far too distant, too cold.  

Above, the real stars are silent witnesses to the story that only you know.  

Tomorrow, you'll meet him—this stranger who feels like home. A man who loved you in another life, but who won’t remember a thing.  

Maybe, if the universe owes you anything, you'll hear him say those words again—  

Not as a final confession, but as the start of something whole:

"I love you. Always."

And maybe this time, always won’t just be a fleeting echo. Maybe it will stretch into forever.

LEEHAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 18th century, coastal village

��➴ PAIRING : marine ecologist!leehan x intern!reader

Leehan woke with a gasp, sheets twisted around his legs like kelp. The same dream again—drowning, but not afraid. Arms reaching for someone in murky water. A voice calling his name. And always, always that crushing sense of loss when he woke.

"Just a dream," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

But it never felt like just a dream.

The digital clock by his bed read 3:12AM—the exact time he'd woken every night this week. Outside his window, a full moon hung low over the city skyline, its light catching on the distant shimmer of the bay.

Leehan's apartment was fifteen miles from the ocean, but some days he swore he could smell salt in the air. Some days he caught himself staring at the horizon, as if waiting for something—or someone—to emerge from the waves.

His phone buzzed. A text from his supervisor at the marine research center:

> Don't forget we have a new intern starting tomorrow. I need you to show them around.

Leehan groaned. The last thing he needed was babysitting duty. He'd joined the research centre to study marine ecology, not to play tour guide. But the grant money was good, and the location—right on the coast, with its own private beach—was perfect for his research.

Even if being near the water made his chest ache with a longing so profound it threatened to hollow him from within.

The marine research facility gleamed in the morning sun, all glass and steel perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the bay. Leehan nodded to the security guard and swiped his key card, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder as he made his way to the main lab.

"There you are!" Dr. Kwon waved him over. "Our new intern is waiting in the tide pool room."

Leehan checked his watch. "They're early."

"Eager to start, I guess." Dr. Kwon handed him a folder. "Show them the basics, then get them started on cataloging the samples from yesterday's collection."

Leehan took the folder without enthusiasm and headed to the tide pool room—a sprawling space with shallow tanks mimicking the coastal ecosystem. As he pushed open the door, the smell hit him: salt water, marine algae, the particular mineral scent of shells. It usually calmed him, but today it made his heart race.

And he laid his eyes on you. 

You were leaning over one of the pools, fingers trailing in the water, completely absorbed. The morning light caught in your hair, casting a glow around you that seemed almost... iridescent.

Something ruptured inside Leehan's chest—recognition, fear, longing—so intense he nearly staggered backward. A tidal wave of emotion surging against the fragile shores of his composure.

"Hello?" you called, turning at the sound of the door. "Are you Leehan? They said you'd be showing me around."

Your voice. It was both foreign and achingly familiar. Like a melody from childhood he'd forgotten until this moment—the notes unchanged but somehow carrying the weight of years.

"I—yes," he managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "I'm Leehan."

You smiled, and the world tilted on its axis.

"Nice to meet you," you said, extending a hand. "I'm really excited to start working here."

When your fingers touched his, Leehan heard it—the sound of waves crashing against a wooden boat. The distant cry of seagulls. A laugh carried on salt-laden air.

"You were the best thing I ever found on the surface."

"Have we crossed paths before?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

You tilted your head, studying him with curious eyes. "I don't believe we have. But..." You paused, brow furrowing slightly. "You do seem familiar somehow."

Leehan released your hand, taking a step back. This was madness. He was acting like a lunatic over a complete stranger.

"Sorry," he said, trying to sound normal. "You remind me of someone."

"No worries." You smiled again, but this time, there was something hesitant in it. "I get that a lot."

Leehan cleared his throat, gesturing to the tide pools. "You seemed pretty comfortable with these already."

Your face lit up. "I've always loved the ocean. My parents say I could swim before I could walk." You laughed, the sound rippling through the room like water over stone. "I've been drawn to water my whole life. Weird, right?"

“Not weird at all,” Leehan thought, a chill racing down his spine like frost forming on glass.

"The thing is," you continued, turning back to the water, "sometimes I feel like I belong out there more than on land." Your cheeks flushed slightly. "Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous."

Leehan stared at you, unable to look away. Because it didn't sound ridiculous—it sounded like the words had been pulled from his own soul, a confession he'd never dared make aloud.

The tour of the facility took twice as long as it should have. Leehan couldn't explain the way he kept finding excuses to show you one more room, one more exhibit. Couldn't rationalize why talking to you felt like speaking a language he'd forgotten he knew.

By the time they reached the lab's private beach, the sun was high overhead, casting diamond-bright reflections across the water's surface.

"And this is where we do most of our field collection," Leehan said, his voice steady as he gestured to the pristine stretch of sand and tide-polished rocks. "The currents here carry in some unusual specimens—things you wouldn’t expect to find."

But you weren’t listening.

The wind had already tugged at your curiosity, the sea drawing you forward like it recognized you. You slipped off your shoes and stepped onto the sand, the grains cool beneath your feet, the scent of salt and sunlight filling your lungs as you walked—almost trance-like—toward the water’s edge.

"Be careful," Leehan called after you, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. A flicker of unease coiled in his chest. "The tide rises fast here. It catches people off guard."

You turned to look back at him, eyes glinting with mischief beneath the low afternoon light. A smile curved your lips—playful, knowing.

 "Relax, marine ecologist. I wouldn’t last a day without the sea."

The words hung in the air, too familiar.

“Relax, fisherman. I wouldn’t last a day on land.” 

Leehan stiffened.

They echoed somewhere deep in his bones, brushing against a memory that didn’t quite belong to this lifetime. A shoreline not unlike this one. A voice like yours, laughter caught on the wind. Those almost exact same words——spoken in another time, maybe even another world.

He couldn’t explain it, but they landed in his chest with the weight of something once lost and almost remembered.

For a moment, he just stared at you. And though he didn’t know why, something in him whispered: You’ve said that before.

"You should be careful. If anyone sees you—"

"They'll try to kill me? I know. Humans are predictable."

"Not all of them."

"No. Not all of them."

The memory—was it a memory?—vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Leehan disoriented and unsteady.

You had reached the water's edge, letting the waves lap at your feet. You closed your eyes, face tilted toward the sun, and for a moment—Leehan could have sworn he saw something shimmer around you, like scales catching light.

"Are you alright?" your voice broke through his daze. You were looking at him with concern, still standing in the shallow water. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Leehan blinked, trying to clear his vision. "I'm fine. Just... the sun."

You frowned, unconvinced, and started walking back toward him. But as you took a step, your foot caught on something beneath the surface, and you stumbled.

Leehan moved without thinking, crossing the distance between you in seconds, catching you before you fell.

Time ceased to exist.

Your eyes met his, wide with surprise. His arms were around you, holding you steady, and every point of contact burned with a strange familiarity that threatened to consume him whole.

"I would have chosen you."

"Do you hear that?" you whispered, not moving from his embrace.

Leehan swallowed hard. "Hear what?"

"I don't know. It's like..." you shook your head, struggling for words. "Like someone's singing, but far away. A lullaby, maybe."

Leehan listened, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the steady rhythm of the waves—a rhythm that seemed, impossibly, to match the beating of his heart.

"I don't hear anything," he said softly.

You stepped back from his arms, a flash of embarrassment crossing your face. "Sorry. That was weird."

"It's okay," Leehan assured you, though nothing about this felt okay. Nothing about this felt normal.

You bent down, reaching into the water where you had stumbled. "Look at this," you said, straightening up with something in your palm. "I think this is what I tripped on."

In your hand lay a small, weathered piece of metal. It looked ancient—green with patina and crusted with sediment. But as you turned it over, a shape became clear.

A crude, handmade harpoon tip.

Leehan's vision blurred, the edges of reality softening. For a heartbeat, he was somewhere else—somewhere cold and dark and desperate. He could feel rough wood beneath his palms, hear the screams of men, taste blood and salt on his tongue.

And arms—strong, unyielding—wrapped around his chest, dragging him back. He fought against them with everything he had, throat raw from shouting, but the grip only tightened. They were holding him down, keeping him from leaping into the chaos. From saving someone.

"It was always going to end like this, Leehan."

"Leehan?" Your voice pulled him back, anchoring him to the present. "You look pale. Maybe we should go back inside."

He nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat. As you guided him away from the water, your hand gentle on his arm, he noticed you were still clutching the harpoon tip.

"You should throw that back," he said, his voice rough with emotions he couldn't name. "It's just trash."

You looked down at the object in your hand, then back at him, a strange expression crossing your face. "I don't think I can," you admitted quietly. "It feels... like it's important somehow. Like it's been waiting for me."

Leehan wanted to argue, wanted to grab the rusted metal and hurl it far into the ocean where it belonged. But he couldn't explain that impulse any more than you could explain why you wanted to keep it.

As you walked side by side back to the facility, the sun glinting off the water behind you, neither of you noticed the way the tide had changed, pulling back unusually far from the shore—as if the sea itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Waiting for a story, centuries old, to finally find its ending.

Or perhaps its beginning.

You paused at the edge of the beach, turning back to gaze at the water one last time. The wind picked up, carrying salt and memories that belonged to someone else.

"By any chance…” you asked softly, "Have you ever grieved for something you don’t recall losing?"

Leehan looked at you, at the way the sunlight caught in your hair, at the yearning in your eyes that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to voice the ache that had followed him through endless nights of drowning dreams.

"Every day," he whispered. "Every single day of my life."

Something passed between you then—understanding, recognition, the first fragile thread of a connection that spanned lifetimes. As you turned together to walk back to the world of science and logic and things that could be explained, Leehan felt it—the subtle shift in his heart, like the turning of a tide.

Something lost was finding its way home.

WOONHAK 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : present day, with a twist of supernatural

˖➴ PAIRING : fighter!woonhak x highschool student!reader

The first time you met Woonhak, you had no idea just how much your life was about to change. It was late at night, and you were walking home from a study session, streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. That's when you saw them—three figures in the distance, their postures aggressive as they surrounded someone against the wall of a building.

Your instinct told you to walk away, to mind your own business, but something pulled you closer. As you approached, you could make out a man—tall with broad shoulders—facing down the group. Despite being outnumbered, he seemed oddly calm.

"Just hand over your wallet," one of them demanded, voice echoing in the empty street.

The surrounded man—Woonhak, though you didn't know his name yet—simply shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, his voice steady and controlled.

What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One of them lunged forward, but Woonhak moved with a precision that was breathtaking—a fluid sidestep, a redirection of momentum, and suddenly the attacker was on the ground. The others rushed him at once, but Woonhak's movements were practiced, efficient. He didn't even seem to be striking them so much as using their own force against them.

Within moments, all three had backed away, cursing as they retreated down the street.

You stood frozen, your legs barely holding you up as you watched him straighten his jacket. The silence that followed felt deafening.

Finally, you managed to speak, your voice betraying your awe. "That was... Where did you learn to do that?"

Woonhak turned to you, seeming to notice your presence for the first time. His expression softened as he met your gaze. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though there was something unreadable in his eyes—something that made your heart skip a beat.

"Just someone who knows how to handle himself," he said with a lightness that didn't quite match the intensity of what you'd witnessed. Then, his voice softened, his gaze never leaving you. "Are you okay? You shouldn't be out here alone this late."

You felt strangely drawn to him, despite the circumstances of your meeting. "I'm fine. I was just heading home when I saw... all this." You gestured vaguely at the now-empty street.

"I'm Woonhak," he said, extending his hand.

When your hands touched, something electric passed between you—a jolt of recognition that made no sense. His eyes widened slightly, and you knew he felt it too. For an instant, your mind was flooded with images: the two of you running through darkness, the gleam of silver weapons, creatures with glowing eyes, and blood—so much blood.

You gasped and pulled your hand away, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"Are you alright?" Woonhak asked, concern etching his features.

"I—" you started, then stopped, unsure how to explain. "Did you feel that?"

His expression shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, maybe—passing through his eyes. "Feel what?" he asked carefully, but something in his tone suggested he might know exactly what you meant.

"Nothing," you said quickly. "I should go."

You hurried away, heart pounding, but couldn't shake the feeling that something momentous had just occurred—like pieces of a puzzle you didn't know you were solving had suddenly fallen into place.

A few days later, you were working the closing shift at the campus library when you looked up to find Woonhak standing before your desk, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

"I need to talk to you," he said without preamble. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about our meeting."

As you walked together after your shift ended, he finally spoke the words that had been weighing on him.

"When we touched," he began hesitantly, "I saw... things. Things that couldn't be real, but felt like memories." He looked at you intently. "You saw them too, didn't you?"

You nodded slowly. "It was like remembering something I never experienced," you admitted. "You and me, but in some kind of... fight? Against creatures that couldn't possibly exist."

Woonhak stopped walking, his eyes serious. "What if they were real? Not here, not now, but somewhere else? Another life?"

"You mean reincarnation?" you asked skeptically, though the word felt right somehow.

"I've been having dreams since I was a child," he said. "Fighting monsters, protecting people. I always thought they were just nightmares, but lately they've been getting more vivid." His voice dropped. "And since I met you, I've been seeing you in them."

Over the following weeks, as you spent more time together, the visions became more frequent, more detailed. They always followed the same pattern—you and Woonhak fighting side by side against creatures of darkness. In these visions, he moved with the same precision you'd witnessed that first night, but with weapons that glinted silver in the moonlight. And you were there too, not as a bystander but as a fighter, your movements synchronized with his as if you'd trained together for years.

One evening, as you sat together in a quiet corner of a park, watching the sun set, a particularly vivid flash overtook you—a memory of standing in a dimly lit room, surrounded by ancient texts and weapons.

"We were hunters," you whispered, the realization settling over you. "In another life. We hunted... supernatural things. Together."

Woonhak's hand found yours, and instead of pulling away from the visions that contact triggered, you both leaned into them, allowing the memories to surface.

"We were good at it," he said with a small smile that felt both new and achingly familiar. "A team."

But as the memories became clearer, so did the shadow that seemed to hang over them—a sense of impending tragedy that coloured each recollection.

The final piece fell into place during a thunderstorm weeks later. As lightning cracked across the sky, you both experienced the same vision simultaneously—the moment when it all ended.

You were in an abandoned church, cornered by a creature more terrible than any you'd faced before. Its eyes glowed red in the darkness, its form shifting between human and something decidedly not. You remembered the fear, the certainty that this was an enemy too powerful to defeat.

Woonhak stood before you, his silver blade catching the moonlight as it filtered through the broken stained-glass windows. His silhouette looked too small against the monster looming in the dark, but his voice didn’t waver.

“Run,” he said, calm and certain, like it was the only answer. “I'll hold it off.”

You shook your head, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “No. No, I can't leave you.”

Your hands trembled around your weapon. But his didn’t. His never did.

“You’re safe,” he had once whispered in a world that no longer existed, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so tender it made your chest ache.  

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

That memory hit like a scream in a quiet room—loud, unwanted, real.  

The creature lunged.

But it didn’t go for him. It went for you.

Claws, long and gleaming with death, carved through the air.

And Woonhak moved.

Not like a soldier. Not like a hunter.

Like someone who had loved you across lifetimes.

“No!” you cried, the word torn from your throat too late.

He stepped in front of you, without hesitation, like he had always known he would.

The sound—the sound of claws meeting flesh—was wet and final. His body jerked. You saw the blood before you even understood where it came from. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even falter.

With the last of his strength, he drove his blade into the creature’s heart. They fell together—his body folding to the ground like paper, like it was never meant to hold that much pain.

You dropped beside him, hands reaching, grasping, praying.

“Please—please, stay with me—Woonhak—”

“Then we’ll fight together,” he had said before, firelight dancing in his eyes.

"You and me. Together.”

You pressed your hands to his wounds, but there were too many. Too deep. You couldn’t stop the bleeding. Couldn’t stop time.

His eyes, half-lidded and fading, still found you. Still managed to hold everything he’d never gotten to say.

“Live,” he breathed, voice barely a whisper.

"Find me again." 

Your fingers clutched his as his hand began to go slack in yours.

And in that moment, as his grip faded, another memory surfaced—soft and slow, like the last warmth before winter.

“Because... I don’t want to lose you,” 

“I don’t know when it happened, or why... but I think I’m falling for you.”

You blinked, but this time, your tears fell onto his bloodied skin.

 There was only silence.

A stillness so loud, it split your heart open.

In the present, you both sat in stunned silence as the memory faded, rain pounding against the windows.

"You died for me," you said, your voice barely audible above the storm. "In that life... you sacrificed yourself."

Woonhak's expression was solemn as he reached for your hand. "And I'd do it again," he said with quiet certainty. "In any life."

The realization of what you had been to each other—what you might be again—hung between you, too vast to fully comprehend.

"Do you think that's why we found each other?" you asked. "Some kind of cosmic second chance?"

Woonhak considered this, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I don't know if I believe in fate," he said finally. "But I do know that when I saw you that night, something in me recognized you. Not just from dreams or visions, but from somewhere deeper." His eyes met yours, and in them you saw the echo of countless shared moments across time. "Whatever we were then, whatever brought us together now—I'm grateful for it."

As lightning illuminated the room once more, you both understood that some connections transcended ordinary explanation—that souls could recognize each other across the boundaries of life and death, time and space.

"So what happens now?" you asked.

Woonhak smiled, that same reassuring smile you'd seen in both your present and your shared past. "Now we write a new story," he said simply. "One where neither of us has to say goodbye.”

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

perm taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh