#genuinely i want to know if the name of the fic was like. a coincidence

[loud-whistling-yes]

I suddenly very, very deeply relate to the undertale stronger than you discourse back in 2017

[harrysfolklore]

grumpy - op81

summary: oscar is always grumpy, never smiles and claims not to want any friends. yn is determined to crack his armor no matter how much he tries to push her away word count: 8.4k + social media posts

folkie radio: NEW LONG FIC !! i wrote the first bit of this fic a while ago and i picked it up and this was the result, i really hope you like it. let me know your thoughts

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Oscar didn't want to be at this party. The pulsing music, the crowd of unfamiliar faces, and the overwhelming sensory assault of flashing lights and laughter grated on his nerves. He stood in a corner, nursing a drink he hadn't really wanted, wondering how long he needed to stay before he could politely excuse himself.

Lando had been excited about this joint birthday celebration for weeks. He'd explained to Oscar that he'd reconnected with an old childhood friend who, by some cosmic coincidence, shared his exact birthdate. Oscar had been surprised when Lando told him about it; he'd never heard of this friend before. But then again, there was a lot about Lando's life outside of racing that Oscar didn't know.

Oscar's eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. He spotted Lando in the center of a laughing group, his arm slung casually around a girl Oscar assumed must be the co-host of this ridiculously extravagant party.

He couldn't recall if Lando had ever shown him a picture of this mysterious childhood friend. The invitations Lando had sent out mentioned her name - YN - but Oscar had paid little attention to the details. Racing consumed most of his thoughts, and social events like this were far from his priority list.

The girl standing next to Lando was pretty, Oscar noted absently, with an easy smile that seemed to light up those around her. She laughed at something Lando said, throwing her head back in genuine laughter. Oscar found himself wondering if this was the famed YN, but he couldn't be sure. There were so many people here, and Lando seemed to know them all.

Lost in his observations and internal musings, Oscar didn't notice someone approaching until a voice piped up beside him. "Not much for parties, huh?"

Lost in his observations and internal thoughts, Oscar didn't notice someone approaching until a voice piped up beside him. "Not much for parties, huh?"

He turned to find another girl standing next to him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She was attractive too, he couldn't help but notice, with flowing hair and a smile that seemed genuine rather than the forced pleasantries he was used to at such events.

Oscar shrugged, not particularly in the mood for small talk. "Not really my scene," he replied, his tone cooler than the drink in his hand.

He glanced back at Lando and the girl he was with, then back to the newcomer. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if this might be YN, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Surely, the birthday girl would be at the center of attention, not chatting up grumpy partygoers in the corner.

The girl, not minding his frosty response, leaned against the wall next to him. "I get that. These big bashes can be overwhelming. But hey, the night's still young, right? Maybe it'll grow on you."

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Doubtful. I'm only here because Lando insisted."

"Oh?" the girl prompted, seeming genuinely interested despite Oscar's clear lack of enthusiasm. "You're friends with Lando then?"

"Teammates," Oscar corrected, taking a sip of his drink. "In Formula 1."

"That must be exciting!" the girl's eyes lit up, "I've always been fascinated by racing. The speed, the strategy, the teamwork… it's like a high-stakes chess game on wheels."

Despite himself, Oscar felt a flicker of interest. It wasn't often he met someone outside the racing world who seemed to genuinely appreciate the sport. But he squashed the feeling, determined to maintain his grumpy demeanor.

"It's just a job," he said flatly. "Not all it's cracked up to be."

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" the girl laughed, the sound warm and melodious. "Do you know the birthday girl, by the way?"

Oscar's frown deepened at the mention of the birthday girl.

"No, and honestly, I couldn't care less," he said bluntly. "I'm just here for Lando. In fact, I'm seriously considering leaving already. This whole thing is just… too much."

The girl's eyebrows raised slightly, but her smile didn't falter. "Oh? What makes you say that?"

Oscar, emboldened by the anonymity he assumed he had with this stranger, decided to let loose. "Where do I even start? First off, this music is atrocious. It's just noise. Who even picked this playlist?"

"Not a fan of pop, I take it?" the girl chuckled, shaking her head.

"Not when it's blasting at eardrum-shattering levels," Oscar grumbled. He gestured around the room. "And look at all these people. Half of them probably don't even know Lando or this girl. It's just a crowd of random people here for the free drinks and the chance to rub elbows with a Formula 1 driver."

The girl nodded, her eyes twinkling with what Oscar failed to recognize as suppressed laughter. "I see. Anything else bothering you?"

Oscar was on a roll now.

"It's probably all because of this other girl who thought it would be a brilliant idea to have a joint birthday party with a Formula 1 driver. I mean, who does that? It's like she's using Lando for the publicity or something, because I've been Lando's teammate for a year and I've never heard of her util now. This whole thing is over the top. The decorations look like a McLaren gift shop exploded in here. And don't get me started on that ridiculous cake I saw earlier."

Throughout Oscar's rant, the girl beside him simply listened, nodding occasionally and biting her lip as if trying not to laugh. When he finally paused for breath, she said, "Wow, you've really given this a lot of thought. It must be tough, being surrounded by all this… excess."

Oscar sighed, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish about his outburst. "I just… I don't get it, you know? Why make such a big deal out of a birthday?"

The girl's smile softened. "Maybe because birthdays are worth celebrating? Especially when you can share them with friends – old and new."

Before Oscar could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise of the party. "YN! There you are! It's time for the cake!"

Oscar's head snapped up to see Lando weaving through the crowd, heading straight for them. His eyes widened as realization dawned, a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief washing over him.

The girl – YN – turned back to Oscar, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Duty calls," she said with a wink. "It was nice chatting with you, Oscar. Thanks for your honest feedback on my terrible music taste, my excessive decorations, and my 'brilliant' idea to share a birthday party with my childhood friend. Maybe next time you're at a party, try to enjoy it a little? You might be surprised."

As YN walked away to join Lando, leaving Oscar rooted to the spot, he couldn't help but feel a wave of mortification wash over him. He had just spent the better part of an hour criticizing various aspects of the party to one of the hosts herself. And not just any host – Lando's childhood friend, the girl whose birthday they were also celebrating.

Oscar watched as YN and Lando made their way to the center of the room, where the enormous cake he had mocked earlier was being wheeled out.

As YN and Lando took their places in front of the extravagant cake, the crowd began to gather around them to sing Happy Birthday. Oscar, still reeling from his embarrassing revelation, found himself shuffling closer to the center of the room, trying to blend in with the crowd.

As the song concluded, Lando stepped forward, raising a hand to quiet the crowd. He cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice filled with warmth and excitement.

"Thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate with us," Lando started, grinning widely. "YN and I have known each other since we were kids, and it's always been a bit of a joke between us that we share a birthday. Who would've thought we'd end up throwing a joint party like this years later?" He paused as the crowd chuckled. "YN, you've been an amazing friend all these years, and I'm so glad we reconnected. Here's to many more birthdays together!"

The crowd applauded as Lando raised his glass in a toast. Then, to Oscar's mounting dread, Lando handed the microphone to YN.

YN took the mic with a smile, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Oscar. He swallowed hard, wondering if she was about to call him out in front of everyone.

"Thanks, Lando," YN began, her voice warm and filled with amusement. "And thank you all for being here tonight. It means so much to see so many familiar faces… and some new ones too." Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at Oscar again. "You know, planning this party was quite an adventure. We wanted to make sure everyone would enjoy themselves… well, almost everyone."

Oscar felt his face grow hot as a few people near him chuckled, clearly not realizing the jab was directed at him.

"And now, let's cut into this 'ridiculous' cake I picked out. After that, feel free to enjoy more of our apparently ear-shattering music. Who knows? It might just grow on you!"

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liked by landonorris, lilymhe and 109,847 others

yourinstagram when you share your birthday with your childhood bestie who happens to be an f1 driver… you go BIG or go home! thank you @/landonorris for the most incredible joint celebration ever! from the "atrocious" music to the "ridiculous" cake, every moment was perfect 😉 and thanks to everyone who came - even those who stayed in the corner judging my party planning skills. here's to another year of chaos!

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username1 SLAAAAY

username2 omg lando celebrated BIG this year

landonorris Best joint birthday ever! Thank you for being one of my best friends ever

charles_leclerc The music was actually great! Don't listen to the haters

username3 I NEED TO PARTY WITH LANDOOOO

username4 imagine being lando's childhood friend and sharing your birthday with him THE DREAM

iamrebeccad That cake was anything but ridiculous! Still dreaming about it 🎂

username6 why do I feel like there's a story behind those quotation marks…

username7 Still can't believe you pulled this off! Best birthday party ever!

username8 there's an inside joke we're missing

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Oscar was making his way through the paddock when he spotted her. YN was chatting with Lando near the McLaren garage, wearing team merchandise and looking completely at ease in an environment that was supposed to be his territory. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip - a reaction he immediately attributed to embarrassment from their last encounter, nothing more.

He quickly turned around, hoping to avoid another interaction. The last thing he needed before qualifying was to be reminded of how he'd made a complete fool of himself at that party. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

"Oscar!" Lando's voice called out. "Come here, mate!"

Oscar suppressed a groan, plastering what he hoped was a neutral expression on his face as he approached them. YN turned to face him, that same amused smile from the party playing on her lips. He hated how his heart skipped a beat - clearly just residual embarrassment, he assured himself.

"Hey, grumpy," she greeted cheerfully. "Ready for qualifying?"

Oscar's jaw tightened. Something about her easy demeanor, the way she seemed so unfazed by their previous interaction, irritated him. Or maybe what really irritated him was how much he'd thought about that interaction over the past two weeks.

"Just focused on the session," he replied curtly, trying to ignore the way her eyes seemed to see right through his cold exterior.

"YN's going to be hanging around this weekend," Lando explained, either oblivious to or ignoring the tension. "I thought it'd be cool to show her around."

Great, Oscar thought. Just what he needed - another distraction. He'd caught himself checking her Instagram more times than he cared to admit since the party, telling himself he was just curious about what she'd posted about that night. The fact that he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at her other photos was something he refused to analyze.

"How exciting," Oscar deadpanned. "The glamorous world of Formula 1. I'm sure you'll love all the noise and chaos."

YN's smile didn't falter. "Oh, I don't mind noise when it has a purpose. Race car engines are quite different from 'atrocious' party music, wouldn't you agree?"

Oscar felt his cheeks warm at the reference to his party complaints. The memory of that night had been replaying in his head for two weeks - how she'd stood there letting him rant, those knowing eyes twinkling with amusement. How different would things have been if he'd known who she was from the start? Would he have actually tried to enjoy himself? Would he not think about his ex for half of the night?

Because that was his reality, he thought about his ex more than he cared to admit that he did.

"I should go prepare for qualifying," he muttered, turning to leave, trying to escape both her presence and his confusing thoughts.

"Wait," YN called after him. "I actually wanted to apologize."

This made Oscar pause, turning back with a confused frown. "Apologize?" His heart was doing that annoying skipping thing again.

"Yes," she nodded. "I should have introduced myself properly at the party instead of letting you vent. It was a bit mean to let you go on like that without telling you who I was."

Her sincerity caught him off guard. He'd spent two weeks convinced she must think he was a complete jerk, and here she was apologizing to him? It didn't make sense. None of this made sense - including the way his pulse quickened when she smiled at him.

"Right. Well, no harm done. If you'll excuse me…" He needed to get away. Now. Before these unwanted feelings got any more confused.

"I made you a playlist," YN continued, her eyes twinkling. "All non-atrocious songs, I promise. Thought it might help with your pre-race preparation."

She held out her phone, showing a Spotify playlist titled "For Grumpy F1 Drivers Who Hate Fun." The fact that she'd taken the time to make him a playlist, even as a joke, did something strange to his chest.

Lando burst out laughing. "Oh mate, she's got you there!"

Oscar stared at the playlist, his expression hardening. The championship battle was too tight, the pressure too intense for these kinds of distractions. They were so close to securing the constructor's championship. He couldn't afford to let anything break his focus, especially not some girl who seemed determined to get under his skin.

"I don't need a playlist," he said, his voice sharper than before. "What I need is to focus on qualifying. We're fighting for a championship here. This isn't some game."

YN's smile faltered slightly, but she maintained her composure. "Right, of course. The championship."

"Yeah, the championship," Oscar continued, his tone cold and professional. "Something that requires actual focus and dedication, not parties and playlists. So if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Oscar, mate," Lando started, looking uncomfortable, but Oscar cut him off.

"No, Lando. You might be comfortable mixing your personal life with racing, but I'm not. I'm here to win, not to socialize." He turned to YN, his expression neutral but his eyes hard. "Enjoy your weekend at the track."

He turned and walked away, his steps quick and purposeful. Behind him, he could hear Lando apologizing to YN, but he forced himself not to care.

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Oscar sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his phone illuminated with photos he should have deleted months ago. Lily's smile beamed back at him through the screen - holidays in Melbourne, race weekends, quiet moments at home. Four years of memories he couldn't seem to let go of.

"This is pathetic," he muttered, tossing his phone aside. The Vegas skyline glittered beyond his window, a stark contrast to his dark mood. The text from Lando about the drivers' party at some upscale club sat unanswered on his phone.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling the familiar weight of loneliness settle in his chest. Lily had ended things right before the season started, claiming she couldn't handle the distance anymore. The truth was, she'd found someone else - someone who wasn't away racing cars most of the year.

The thought of sitting alone in his hotel room on a Saturday night in Las Vegas, scrolling through old photos of his ex, made him cringe. Even Alex, who usually preferred quiet nights after races, was going to the party.

"Fuck it," he declared to his empty room, standing up abruptly. He'd rather feel uncomfortable at a party than feel sorry for himself.

The club was exactly as he expected - loud, crowded, and dripping with excess. He spotted several drivers immediately: Lewis holding court in a VIP section, Max and Kelly laughing with Charles, Alex and George arguing about something while Franco watched in amusement.

Then he saw her. YN was wearing a silver dress that caught the light, making her look like she belonged among the glittering Vegas lights. She was chatting with Lando and Carlos, her head thrown back in laughter at something Carlos had said.

Oscar ordered a drink and found a quiet corner, trying to ignore the way his eyes kept drifting back to her. Their last interaction in the paddock hadn't been great - he'd been cold, dismissive. Yet here she was, seemingly unbothered, lighting up the room with that easy smile of hers.

"Didn't expect to see you here," her voice suddenly came from beside him. He hadn't noticed her approach.

"I live to surprise," he replied flatly, taking a sip of his drink.

YN leaned against the wall next to him, mirroring their positions from her birthday party. "You look about as thrilled to be here as you did at my party."

"If you've come to mock me again-"

"I haven't," she cut him off, her voice gentle. "I actually came to see if you're okay. You seem… different tonight."

Oscar tensed. Was he that transparent? "I'm fine."

"You know, it's okay not to be okay sometimes," she said softly. "Even Formula 1 drivers are allowed to have bad days."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. There was no trace of mockery in her expression, just genuine concern. It made something in his chest ache.

"I don't need your pity," he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

"Good, because I'm not offering any," YN replied. "I'm offering friendship. Or at least a dance partner who won't judge your moves too harshly."

Despite himself, Oscar felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "My moves are fine."

"Prove it then," she challenged, pushing off the wall and holding out her hand.

Oscar stared at her outstretched hand, feeling the weight of his phone in his pocket - the one still full of photos of Lily. He thought about his empty hotel room, about scrolling through memories of a relationship that was long over.

"I don't dance," he said finally, his tone cooling again. "And I'm not interested in whatever this is."

YN's hand dropped slowly, but her eyes remained kind. "Okay," she said simply. "But if you change your mind about either - the dancing or the friendship - I'll be around."

She turned to leave, pausing only to add, "You deserve to be happy, Oscar. Even if you don't believe it right now."

Oscar watched her disappear into the crowd, his drink suddenly tasting bitter in his mouth. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his photo gallery. After a moment's hesitation, he opened his settings instead.

"Delete all photos?" the prompt asked.

He pressed yes before he could change his mind.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

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liked by username1, username2 and 12,958 others

f1gossip SWIPE to see Lily Zneimer (Oscar Piastri's ex) hard-launching her new relationship! 👀 After 4 years with the McLaren driver, she's officially moved on. Lily shared multiple pics on her Instagram with the caption "Finally found my perfect match ❤️"

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username1 the way she waited until oscar had a good race weekend to post this… calculated af 💀

username2 "perfect match" girl you dated an f1 driver… downgrade much?

username3 anyone else notice she limited her comments? 👀 guilty conscience maybe??

username4 oscar deserves better anyway, he's so focused this season!

username5 well this explains why oscar's been in his villain era all season

username6 her loss tbh oscar's having his best season yet

username7 the way she's trying to make it seem like they just met… girl we all saw you commenting on his posts since last year 🙄

username8 imagine breaking up with oscar piastri… couldn't be me

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The Monaco streets were quieter than usual at 6 AM, which was exactly why Oscar had chosen this time for his run. His feet pounded against the pavement in rhythm with the aggressive beats flooding his headphones, trying to drown out the thoughts of Lily's Instagram post that had been haunting him since last night.

Perfect match. The words echoed in his head, mocking him. Four years, and she'd replaced him so easily.

He pushed himself harder, taking the hill towards Casino Square at a punishing pace. The physical exertion wasn't enough to quiet his mind, but at least-

"Oscar!"

He ignored the voice, assuming it was meant for someone else.

"Oscar! Hey!"

The voice was closer now. Persistent. Familiar. He yanked out one earbud, turning around with an irritated scowl that only deepened when he saw who it was. YN was jogging towards him, wearing running gear and looking annoyingly fresh despite the steep incline.

"What the fuck?" he snapped when she caught up. "Are you following me now?"

YN raised an eyebrow, barely winded. "Don't flatter yourself, Piastri. I was already running when I spotted you."

"You don't even live here." His heart was racing, and he told himself it was just from the run.

"Staying with Lando," she shrugged, falling into step beside him despite his obvious displeasure. "He's got a spare room."

Oscar stopped abruptly, turning to face her. The morning sun caught her face in a way that made her eyes look impossibly bright. He pushed that observation away immediately. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Running?"

"This," he gestured between them, frustration evident in his voice. "Being… nice. Showing up everywhere. Trying to talk to me. I don't like you, okay? I don't want to be friends. I don't want whatever this is."

YN studied him for a moment, completely unfazed by his hostility. "You know, for someone who doesn't like me, you spend an awful lot of energy trying to convince me of that fact."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she said, stretching her arms above her head casually, "that if you really didn't like me, you wouldn't care enough to tell me repeatedly. You'd just ignore me."

The logic in her statement irritated him more than her presence. She had a point, but he'd rather run up this hill ten more times than admit it.

"I prefer running alone," he said flatly, trying to ignore how his stomach did a weird flip when she smiled at him.

"Cool. Me too, usually." She grinned. "But sometimes life throws you unexpected running partners. Kind of like unexpected friendships."

"We're not friends."

"Not yet," she agreed cheerfully. "Race you to the casino?"

Before he could protest, she took off up the hill, her ponytail swinging with each stride. Oscar stood there for a moment, torn between irritation and something else he refused to name. The morning light cast long shadows across the street, and he watched her figure getting smaller as she climbed the hill.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, but his feet were already moving, chasing after her up the winding street.

He told himself it was just his competitive nature, that he couldn't let her win. It had nothing to do with how her presence somehow made his chest feel lighter, or how the morning felt less lonely with her there.

They reached Casino Square nearly neck and neck, both breathing hard. The square was empty except for a few early morning workers, the famous casino building looming above them in the soft morning light.

"Not bad, Piastri," YN panted, hands on her knees. "But I totally had you on that last corner."

"You cut me off," he accused, trying to catch his breath.

"Did not! I took the racing line," she grinned, mimicking his Australian accent on the last two words.

Despite himself, a laugh escaped Oscar's lips before he could stop it.

YN's eyes lit up triumphantly. "There! You laughed!" She pointed at him accusingly. "You actually laughed! Quick, someone alert the press - Oscar Piastri has emotions other than grumpy and grumpier!"

Oscar immediately tried to school his features back into their usual scowl, but he could feel the corners of his mouth fighting to turn upward. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

"Make me," she challenged, starting to jog backwards. "Come on, one more lap around Monaco? Unless you're scared I'll beat you again…"

Oscar felt something shift in his chest, a crack in the walls he'd built so carefully. He blamed it on the endorphins from running, on the early morning air, on anything but the way her smile made him want to smile back.

"In your dreams," he called out, already moving to chase after her.

And if he was smiling as they ran through the empty streets of Monaco, well, there was no one else around to see it anyway.

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YN burst through Lando's front door, still riding the runner's high from her morning excursion. She found him in the kitchen, bleary-eyed and hunched over a cup of coffee, his hair sticking up in every direction.

"Morning, sunshine," she chirped, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

"Why are you so… awake?" Lando groaned, squinting at her. "It's inhuman."

"Guess who I ran into?" She hopped onto the kitchen counter, grinning. "Your grumpy teammate. And - wait for it - I actually made him laugh!"

Lando's spoon clattered against his mug. "Oscar? Laughed?"

"I know, right? I mean, it was more like a surprised laugh that he tried to take back immediately, but still. Progress!" She took a long drink of water. "I don't get why he's so… intense all the time. Like, I know F1 drivers are serious, but he takes it to another level."

Lando's expression shifted, something like concern crossing his face. "Ah, right. You don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"About the breakup."

YN stopped mid-sip. "Breakup?"

Lando set his coffee down, suddenly looking more awake. "His girlfriend - well, ex-girlfriend now - Lily. They were together for four years. She ended things right before the season started."

"Oh," YN said quietly, her earlier enthusiasm deflating. "I had no idea."

"Yeah, it was…" Lando ran a hand through his already messy hair. "It was pretty rough. They had this whole life planned out, you know? She moved to Monaco for him when he got the McLaren seat. They were talking about getting married eventually."

"What happened?"

"She met someone else," Lando said grimly. "Some business guy in Sydney or something. Oscar found out when he got back from winter training. She'd already moved her stuff out."

YN felt her stomach sink. "That's horrible."

"Yeah. And the worst part? She posted about her new relationship yesterday. All these loved-up photos, calling the guy her 'perfect match' and everything." Lando shook his head. "Oscar saw it last night. That's probably why he was out running so early."

"Shit," YN whispered, remembering how she'd teased him about being grumpy. "I feel awful now. I've been giving him such a hard time about being antisocial."

"You didn't know," Lando assured her. "And honestly? You getting him to laugh is kind of huge. He's been… different since it happened. Throws himself into racing, barely socializes. The only time I see him smile is on podiums."

YN thought about Oscar's surprised laugh in Casino Square, how quickly he'd tried to hide it. "Four years is a long time."

"Yeah," Lando agreed. "And they were good together, you know? Or we all thought they were. She was at every race, knew everyone in the paddock. When she left…" He trailed off, taking a sip of coffee. "Let's just say there's a reason he keeps people at arm's length now."

YN slid off the counter, her earlier victory feeling hollow now. "I should probably back off then. Give him space."

Lando looked at her thoughtfully. "Actually… maybe don't?"

"What?"

"It's just…" Lando set his mug down, choosing his words carefully. "That was the first time you've mentioned him laughing since January. Maybe what he needs isn't more space. Maybe he needs someone who won't let him push them away."

YN thought about Oscar's determined scowl that morning, how it had softened just slightly when she'd challenged him to another lap. "I don't know, Lando…"

"Just… be yourself," Lando suggested. "You've already cracked the grumpy exterior once. And Oscar… he's a good guy. He just needs to remember there's more to life than proving his ex wrong."

YN nodded slowly, her mind going back to their morning run. She thought about the way Oscar had tried not to smile, how his eyes had lit up during their race to the casino despite his best efforts to remain stoic.

"Okay," she said finally. "But if he murders me for being annoying, I'm haunting you first."

Lando grinned. "Deal. Now please tell me you're making those pancakes you promised yesterday."

"Only if you tell me more about this grumpy teammate of yours."

"Oh, I've got stories," Lando laughed. "Let me tell you about the time he got lost in Singapore…"

As YN moved around Lando's kitchen gathering pancake ingredients, she couldn't help but think about Oscar, wondering if he was still running through the streets of Monaco, trying to outrun memories of a relationship that had shaped the last four years of his life.

She understood his coldness better now, but somehow, that only made her more determined to break through it.

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liked by username1, username2 and 10,983 others

f1gossip SPOTTED: Oscar Piastri jogging around Monaco with mysterious girl ! Sources say they were laughing and racing each other around 👀

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username1 OHHHH

username2 WHO IS THIS

username3 oscar healing era we love to see it

username4 isn't this lando's friend? the one he shares the same bday with

userame5 THIS IS YNNNN lando's bday twin

username6 OSC BOYFRIEND ERA AGAIN??

username7 cry lily zneimer

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Oscar stared at his phone screen, the message he'd sent to Lily still showing just one gray checkmark. Not delivered. He'd blocked her months ago, but last night, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps too much room service wine), he'd unblocked her number.

"I hope you're happy," he'd texted. Four simple words that made him feel pathetic now in the harsh light of day.

Of course she'd changed her number. Of course she hadn't responded. What had he expected? That she'd suddenly remember all their plans, their shared dreams, their life in Monaco? That she'd realize her Sydney finance dude wasn't her "perfect match" after all?

He tossed his phone onto the hotel bed, disgusted with himself. Four years of his life, and here he was, still orbiting around her like a satellite that didn't know its planet had disappeared. The worst part was, he wasn't even sure if he still loved her or if he was just haunted by the future they'd planned.

The Qatar paddock was already buzzing with activity when he arrived, the air conditioning doing little to combat the oppressive heat. He had an engineering briefing in ten minutes, and he needed to focus on the race weekend, not on unanswered texts to ex-girlfriends.

Then he spotted her. YN was chatting animatedly with Carlos near the Ferrari garage, wearing a McLaren team shirt that he suspected was Lando's. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she was gesturing enthusiastically about something, making Carlos laugh. She looked so at ease, so comfortable in this world that had taken him years to navigate.

Oscar immediately turned around, hoping to duck into the McLaren hospitality without being noticed.

"Oscar!"

No such luck.

He kept walking, pretending he hadn't heard her. The sound of quick footsteps behind him told him his escape attempt had failed.

"Hey, grumpy!" YN fell into step beside him, seemingly unbothered by his obvious attempt to avoid her. "Still maintaining your daily scowl quota, I see."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he asked coldly, not slowing his pace.

"Probably. But bothering you is much more fun." She grinned, matching his stride effortlessly. "You know, most people say good morning when they see someone."

"I'm not most people. We're not anything."

"Still stuck on that 'we're not friends' thing? Even after our romantic morning run in Monaco?"

He tensed, acutely aware of the heads turning in their direction. Since their morning run in Monaco, social media had been buzzing with speculation. F1 fan accounts had somehow gotten hold of a blurry photo of them running through Casino Square, and the paddock rumor mill had been working overtime. The last thing he needed was more fuel for those fires, especially not when his embarrassing text to Lily was still fresh in his mind.

"Stop," he cut her off, pulling them both to a halt in a quieter section of the paddock. "This needs to stop."

"What needs to stop?"

"This. You. Being everywhere." His voice was low, controlled, but inside he was a mess of conflicting emotions. The ghost of his unanswered text message haunted him, making him feel vulnerable and defensive. "People are talking. They saw us in Monaco."

YN's smile faltered slightly, but her eyes remained kind. "And? We went for a run. Last I checked, that wasn't a crime."

"You don't get it," he said, frustration seeping into his tone. "I don't need this right now. I don't need people speculating or making assumptions." I don't need to feel things I'm not ready to feel, he added silently.

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Are you afraid your ex might see?"

The question hit too close to home, especially after his pathetic attempt at reaching out to Lily. His jaw clenched. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're letting someone who left you control your life," YN said quietly, her words cutting through his defenses with surgical precision. "I know you're so afraid of getting hurt again that you'd rather push everyone away."

"Don't," he warned, his voice sharp. "You don't get to analyze me. You don't get to act like you understand anything about my life just because Lando told you some story." The fact that she could read him so easily only made him more defensive.

"I'm not-"

"We're not friends," he continued, his words precise and cutting. "That morning in Monaco was a mistake. I was…" Vulnerable, lonely, weak. "…it doesn't matter. Just stay away from me."

He turned to leave, his phone feeling like a lead weight in his pocket, the unanswered text message a reminder of everything he was trying to forget.

"You know what I think?" YN called after him, her voice carrying across the paddock. "I think you're not actually afraid of what she might see. I think you're afraid of what might happen if you stop letting her ghost rule your life. And you know what the saddest part is? You're so focused on pushing people away, you don't even notice who's trying to stay."

Oscar didn't turn around, but his shoulders tensed. Her words hit home with devastating accuracy, making his chest tight. Without another word, he walked away, leaving YN standing alone in the sweltering Qatar heat.

But as he headed into the briefing, YN's words kept playing in his mind: "You're so focused on pushing people away, you don't even notice who's trying to stay."

The worst part was, he was starting to wonder if she was right.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The private jet hummed quietly as they crossed over Saudi airspace. Oscar kept fidgeting with his phone, refreshing Instagram for the tenth time in as many minutes. Another photo of Lily, another glimpse of her perfect new life without him.

"If you stare at that screen any harder, it might actually burst into flames," YN's voice cut through his thoughts.

Oscar locked his phone quickly, jaw tightening. "Mind your own business."

From across the aisle, Lando pretended to be absorbed in his game, but Oscar could see him watching their interaction from the corner of his eye.

"Want to talk about it?" YN asked softly, closing her book.

"No."

"Want to keep brooding dramatically while pretending you're not stalking your ex's Instagram?"

Oscar's head snapped up. "I'm not-"

"You've refreshed that page twelve times in the last hour. I've been counting."

"Why are you even watching me?"

"Hard not to when you're sighing like a sad protagonist in a period drama."

Despite himself, Oscar felt the corner of his mouth twitch. YN caught it immediately.

"Was that almost a smile? Quick, Lando, document this rare occurrence!"

"Leave me out of this," Lando mumbled, though he was clearly fighting back a grin.

Oscar tried to maintain his scowl, but YN's theatrical gasping was making it difficult. "You're ridiculous."

"And you," she pointed at him, "are coming out with me tomorrow night."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you need to get out of your hotel room, and I know for a fact you don't have any plans besides rewatching her stories and making yourself miserable."

"I don't-"

"You know what?" YN continued, leaning forward in her seat. "We're going to that new rooftop bar at the W. You're going to wear something that isn't team gear, you're going to have at least two drinks, and you're going to remember what it's like to actually enjoy yourself."

"And if I say no?"

"You won't," she said confidently. "Because deep down, you know I'm right. Also, I've already told Lando he's coming too."

"Traitor," Oscar muttered at his teammate.

Lando shrugged. "She's very persuasive. Also, slightly terrifying."

"So?" YN raised an eyebrow at Oscar. "What's it going to be? Another night of Instagram stalking, or actually living your life?"

Oscar looked between her determined face and his phone, still dark in his hand. The thought of another night alone with his thoughts was suddenly exhausting.

"Fine," he said finally. "But I'm not dancing."

"We'll see about that," YN grinned triumphantly. "Now, hand over your phone."

"What? No."

"Yes. Consider it confiscated until we land. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"No, but I am your friend, whether you like it or not. Phone. Now."

Maybe it was the altitude, or the way she said 'friend' so matter-of-factly, or just the sheer exhaustion of maintaining his walls, but Oscar found himself holding out his phone.

"Just until we land," he warned.

"Of course," YN agreed, tucking it into her bag. "Now, want to hear about the time I accidentally locked Lando in his own garage?"

"That was YOU?" Lando's head shot up from his game.

"In my defense, I thought you were already at the track…"

As YN launched into the story, Oscar felt something in his chest loosen slightly. He wasn't ready to admit it yet, but maybe - just maybe - she had a point about living his life again.

"…and that's why Lando now triple-checks every door before closing it," YN finished, making Lando groan.

"I knew it wasn't a 'random malfunction,'" he accused.

Oscar found himself actually laughing, the sound surprising even himself.

"There it is," YN said softly, her eyes meeting his. "That's the guy I'm taking out tomorrow night."

And for once, Oscar didn't argue.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between lando and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Oscar stood in front of his hotel mirror, already regretting the black button-down shirt he'd chosen. His phone buzzed with a message from Lando: "Sorry mate, stomach's not great. Going to skip tonight. You two have fun ;)"

The winky face made Oscar's jaw clench. He immediately typed back: "Not going if you're not."

Lando's reply was instant: "Yes you are. YN will murder me if you bail."

As if on cue, there was a knock at his door. Oscar considered pretending he wasn't in, but-

"I can hear you overthinking from out here, Piastri!" YN's voice carried through the door. "Open up!"

Sighing, he opened the door to find her leaning against the frame, wearing a simple black dress that made him suddenly very aware of his heartbeat.

"Lando's not coming," he said immediately.

"I know, he texted me." She stepped into his room uninvited. "We're still going."

"I don't think-"

"Nope," she cut him off. "You're not bailing. You're dressed, you look nice, and I'm not letting you spend another night hiding in your room."

"I don't hide-"

"Your Instagram search history would disagree." She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the door. "Come on, one drink. If you're still miserable after that, you can come back and brood in peace."

Something about the way she said it - teasing but kind - made it hard to argue. "One drink," he conceded.

The rooftop bar at the W was busy but not crowded, the Abu Dhabi skyline glittering around them. They found a quiet corner with a view of the water.

"See? Not so terrible," YN said, sliding into her seat.

Oscar had to admit the view was spectacular. "It's alright."

"Such high praise! Should I alert the media?"

He tried to maintain his scowl but failed. "You're impossible."

"Yet here you are," she grinned. "Now, what are you drinking?"

Two hours later, they were walking along the waterfront, their earlier drinks having taken the edge off Oscar's usual guardedness. The night air was warm but pleasant, and the city lights reflected off the water like stars.

"No way," Oscar laughed - actually laughed - at YN's story. "You did not steal Lando's car."

"I didn't steal it! I borrowed it. There's a difference."

Oscar shook his head, still chuckling. "You're chaos."

"Better than being predictable," she shrugged, bumping his shoulder playfully. "Speaking of which, you know what I noticed?"

"What?"

"You haven't checked your phone once tonight."

Oscar realized she was right. He hadn't even thought about Lily since they'd left the hotel. "I guess I was… distracted."

"By my sparkling personality and amazing stories?"

"By your criminal tendencies, apparently."

YN stopped walking, turning to face him. "You know what else I noticed?"

"What?"

"You're smiling. Like, actually smiling. Not that fake media smile you do, but a real one."

Oscar felt his defenses start to rise, but YN continued before he could retreat.

"And the world didn't end," she said softly. "You had fun, you laughed, and somehow life went on."

He looked out at the water, processing her words. "It's not… it's not that simple."

"No, it's not," she agreed. "But it's a start." She turned to face the water too, standing close enough that their arms brushed. "You know what your problem is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You're so afraid of getting hurt again that you're missing out on all the good stuff. The random nights like this, the unexpected friendships, the moments that make life worth living."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "I thought I had all that figured out," he finally said. "The whole future planned."

"And now?"

"Now…" he looked at her, really looked at her, illuminated by the city lights. "Now I don't know anything anymore."

"Good," she smiled. "That's where all the best stories start." She pulled out her phone, checking the time. "Come on, one more stop before I return you to your cave of solitude."

"Where?"

"There's a gelato place around the corner that's still open. And before you say no, just remember - I've already seen you smile tonight. Your reputation is already ruined."

Oscar found himself following her without argument, watching as she practically bounced down the sidewalk, chattering about the best gelato flavors. He thought about what she'd said about missing out on the good stuff.

Maybe, just maybe, she had a point.

"Hey YN?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks. For… you know."

She turned back to him, her smile soft. "I know." Then, because she was YN, she added, "But if you try to go back to being grumpy tomorrow, I'm telling everyone about how you sang along to Taylor Swift in the bar."

"I did not-"

"The security cameras would disagree!"

Their laughter echoed off the buildings, mixing with the sounds of the city, and for the first time in months, Oscar felt like maybe, just maybe, there was life after Lily after all.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, lilyhme and 102,648 others

yourinstagram turns out mr grumpy does know how to smile 😌 (he's gonna kill me for posting this last pic but it was worth it)

view all comment

username1 AWE THIS???

username2 weird plot twist but i love it

username3 YN AND OSCAR???

landonorris my stomach miraculously feels better seeing this 😇

↳ oscarpiastri I trusted you norris

↳ landonorris you'll thank me later mate

↳ username1 is there an inside joke we’re missing?

alex_albon WHO IS THIS MAN AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OSCAR

↳ oscarpiastri Delete this immediately

↳ yourinstagram no ❤️

↳ username2 WHATS GOING ON

yourinstagram for someone who "hates" this post you sure are commenting a lot @/oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri ...i know where you live

↳ yourinstagram no you don't

↳ oscarpiastri Lando does

↳ landonorris leave me out of this 😂

username4 hear me out… oscar and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The McLaren garage had erupted into absolute chaos the moment Lando and Oscar crossed the finish line, securing the Constructors' Championship for the team. Zak was crying, Andrea was hugging everyone in sight, and Lando had already lost his voice from screaming.

Oscar's head was buzzing pleasantly from the multiple champagne showers and whatever drinks had been pressed into his hands during the celebrations. His race suit was stained and sticky, his hair a mess, but he couldn't stop grinning.

"WORLD CHAMPIONS!" Lando screamed for the hundredth time, jumping on Oscar's back.

Through the crowd of celebrating team members, Oscar spotted YN chatting with some of the engineers. She was wearing a McLaren shirt (definitely stolen from Lando's collection) and had champagne dripping from her hair.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the high of winning, or just the way she'd been beaming at him from the pit wall when he crossed the finish line, but Oscar found himself moving through the crowd toward her.

"YN!"

She turned, her smile growing wider. "Well, if it isn't the man of the hour-"

Before she could finish, Oscar had wrapped her in a tight hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. YN froze for a moment, clearly shocked by this uncharacteristic display of affection from him.

"Oh my god," she laughed, hugging him back. "Are you drunk or just really happy?"

"Both," he admitted into her hair, still not letting go. "We did it."

"You did it," she corrected, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Though I have to say, I'm a little concerned. First you're smiling in public, now you're initiating hugs? Who are you and what have you done with Oscar Piastri?"

"Shut up," he grinned, finally releasing her. "I'm allowed to be happy today."

"Quick, someone record this! The evidence that Oscar Piastri has emotions!"

"I take it back, I hate you again."

"No you don't," she sing-songed, poking his cheek. "You just hugged me in front of the entire paddock. Your reputation is ruined forever."

Oscar's eyes widened slightly as he looked around, suddenly aware of the knowing looks and smirks from nearby team members. Lando was practically vibrating with glee.

"I can still blame the champagne," he muttered.

"Sure you can," YN patted his cheek condescendingly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, champ."

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

"Not a chance. I'm having this moment framed. 'The Day Oscar Piastri Showed Human Emotion: A Historical Event.'"

Despite himself, Oscar laughed. "You're impossible."

"Yet you hugged me anyway," she grinned triumphantly. "Face it, Piastri, you actually like having me around."

Maybe it was the champagne, or the victory high, or just the way her eyes were sparkling with mischief, but Oscar found himself saying, "Yeah, maybe I do."

YN's teasing smile softened into something more genuine. "Careful there, that almost sounded like admitting we're friends."

"Don't push it."

"Too late!" She called out to the garage. "Hey everyone! Oscar just said-"

Oscar quickly covered her mouth with his hand, both of them laughing now. "You're the worst."

She licked his palm, making him snatch his hand back. "And you love it."

Before he could respond, Lando crashed into both of them, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. "GROUP HUG! WORLD CHAMPIONS!"

As more team members joined the huddle, Oscar found himself pressed close to YN again. She caught his eye and mouthed "softie" at him with a smirk.

He rolled his eyes but couldn't stop smiling. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did like having her around.

But he was definitely blaming the champagne for that hug.

(He wasn't.)

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 104,759 others

yourinstagram to the boy who "doesn't smile" and the guy who "never shuts up" - you just made history. beyond proud to watch you two achieve this. thank you for letting me be a small part of the journey (even when one of you claimed to hate me 😌)

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username1 MCLAREN CHAMPIONSSS

username2 AHHH HAPPY OSC

landonorris MY FAVOURITE HUMAN ❤️

↳ oscarpiastri Excuse me?

↳ landonorris …my favourite humans*

↳ username1 THIS TRIO

username3 the grumpy one and the chaotic one

username4 I SHIP OSCAR AND YN

username5 she's lando's coolest friend

oscarpiastri Never hated you btw

↳ yourinstagram i know, you were just a grumpy boyy

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between lily and oscar

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The McLaren Technology Centre had been transformed for the end-of-year celebration. Music thrummed through the usually pristine halls, and fairy lights twinkled everywhere. YN was nursing her second glass of champagne, watching Lando attempt to convince Zak to try some viral TikTok dance.

She found herself on one of the balconies overlooking the lake, enjoying the crisp December air. The door clicked behind her, and she didn't need to turn to know who it was – she'd recognize those footsteps anywhere.

"Escaping your own party, world champion?"

Oscar leaned against the railing beside her. "Needed some air."

"Too many people trying to hug you?" she teased. "I know how you hate showing emotion in public. Though after that champagne shower in Abu Dhabi…"

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Never," she grinned. "It's my favorite memory. The day Oscar Piastri admitted he had feelings."

He was quiet for a moment, fidgeting with his glass. "Speaking of feelings…"

"Ooh, are we having a heart-to-heart? Should I record this rare moment?"

"Lily texted me." He blurted it out almost defensively.

YN's smile faltered for a split second before returning. "Oh! That's… that's great! You must be over the moon. I mean, you've been waiting for her to-"

"I blocked her number."

"You… what?"

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she'd come to recognize. "She wanted to meet for coffee, talk about getting back together, but I just… I couldn't."

"Why not?" YN asked softly, even as her heart picked up speed.

"Because I think I'm falling for someone else," he said in a rush. "Have been for months, actually. Someone who never gave up on me even when I was being an absolute dick. Someone who somehow got past all my walls and made me laugh again. Someone who steals Lando's hoodies and makes terrible puns and calls me out on my bullshit and-"

She kissed him.

It wasn't a grand, dramatic kiss like in the movies. It was soft, quick, almost shy – but it shut him up immediately.

She pulled back, watching his stunned expression with amusement. "I always liked you, you idiot. You were just too busy being grumpy to notice."

"I… what?"

"The guy I've been telling Lando about for months? The one he keeps teasing me about? That's you, dummy."

"But you're always making fun of me!"

"Because you're cute when you're flustered! And it was the only way to get you to actually interact with me at first."

Oscar stared at her, processing. "So all those times you were 'accidentally' showing up wherever I was…"

"Lando might have helped with that," she admitted. "Though in my defense, you were being very stubborn about the whole 'I don't need friends' thing."

"I was an idiot, wasn't I?"

"The biggest," she agreed cheerfully. "But you're my idiot now. If you want to be, that is."

Instead of answering, Oscar pulled her closer and kissed her properly this time. She could feel him smiling against her lips.

"Finally!" Lando's voice made them jump apart. He was standing in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear. "Do you know how exhausting it's been watching you two dance around each other?"

"How long have you been standing there?" YN asked.

"Long enough to know I was right all along," he beamed. "My best friends are in love!"

Oscar groaned. "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Never ever," Lando confirmed cheerfully. "Now come on, there's a party inside and I want to see everyone's faces when they find out!"

YN turned back to Oscar, who looked like he was contemplating murder. "Well, at least we don't have to worry about how to tell everyone?"

"I'm going to kill him."

"No, you're not," she said, pulling him closer. "You're going to kiss me again, and then we're going to go inside and face the music together."

"Or," he suggested, "we could stay here and kiss some more."

"Look who's being soft now," she teased.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

So he did.

(Inside, Lando was already planning how to work this into his best man speech – not that he'd tell them that just yet.)

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 219,048 others

yourinstagram 2 months of making mr grumpy smile (and yes, there's photographic evidence of the smiles now). who would've thought all it took was stealing his hoodies and annoying him until he fell in love with me 😌 ps: thanks @/landonorris for being the world's most obvious wingman

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username1 THIS IS SO CUUUUTE

username2 i’m crying. they’re the most adorable couple ver

username3 this is what osc deserves!!!

landonorris MY WORK HERE IS DONE

↳ oscarpiastri You're the worst best friend ever

↳ landonorris you're welcome mate 😘

↳ yourinstagram thank you for your service

charles_leclerc The grumpy one's gone soft

↳ yourinstagram he really has 🥰

↳ oscarpiastri I hate both of you

↳ yourinstagram no you don't x

↳ oscarpiastri ...no i don't ❤️

alex_albon aremember when he used to pretend he couldn't stand you

↳ yourinstagram look how that turned out

↳ oscarpiastri In my defense she was very annoying

↳ yourinstagram still am, you just think it's cute now

↳ oscarpiastri ...no comment

username4 BEST COUPLE IN THE PADDOCK

username5 the day oscar piastri used a heart emoji. historic.

oscarpiastri Fine. You win. 2 months of pretending to be annoyed by the most incredible girl who somehow sees past my "resting grumpy face" (your words, not mine). Thanks for not giving up on me even when i was being difficult. ps: that's my favorite hoodie you're wearing in the last photo, i want it back.

↳ yourinstagram no you don't, it looks better on me 😌

↳ oscarpiastri ...yeah it does

↳ landonorris Get a room you two 🙄

↳ yourinstagram says the guy who took half these photos without us knowing

↳ landonorris SOMEONE had to document the enemies to lovers arc

↳ yourinstagram i love you, grumpy ❤️

[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

[mayearies]

✰ DRAMA KING

‘not to be dramatic or anything, but i’d die for you.’ -miles g. genre: fluff

warnings: just the mention of the reader having a brother a/n: alright no cause i contemplated this name for a while 😭 (@moonpiies would know also ty for her for this idea mwah mwah) and ill probably end up changing it later if i think of a better one also this is a pretty lazy fic

e42 miles had lost one of his airpods while over your house, around 6 months ago. he was devastated and remained pretty sad for the next few hours. hearing him whine about it was pretty funny though. but now, he was at your house again for a little study date to brush up on some subjects together. but there wasn't much studying going on cause, y'know.

—"i just remembered you wanted me to come over to study." "okay, but this is more fun? stickers now, study later."

you were both dolling each other up by putting random stickers on each others face and arms. for what reason? i don't know the idea just kind of came out of the blue. but you both were enjoying it. "so, how's the one airpod life treatin' ya?"

"shut up." "i mean genuinely." "so do i."

you knew he wasn't being serious. you two play a lot to know the difference between serious and playful. but that playful tone switched to a rather serious one when you both realized you were out of stickers. "there should be more in my brother's room. he's started liking hello kitty, strangely."

miles pointed to your pillows and sheets which were littered with hello kitty. "is it 'cause of you and all this?"

"i mean it might be. you never know for sure."

♡ rummaging through your brothers room, you stumbled upon more stickers, mission accomplished. maybe you were influencing him into your interests a little. 'maybe'? tell that to the 5 pages of stickers in his drawer.

♡ the thing is, you coincidently ran out of drinks. on the way to the kitchen you went, grabbing two cups and filling them to the brim with soda. on your way out, you stepped on something and heard a light pain in your foot. well, miles was gonna be happy for sure.

"i have a surprise." "oh no, i'm so interested." "don't play with me, you'll like it this time."

you pulled the missing airpod out your pocket and miles' face lit up with a mix of surprise and joy. "like you're sure-"

"yes, i'm sure. i'm the only one with airpods in this house and i keep track of them, unlike someone i know."

miles brought his lips to the back of your hand and kissed it all the way up to where you elbow was. then he hugged you. he doesn't do this unless he wants something. it was cunning, but sweet in a way or two. "would it be an exaggeration to say i'd die for you?"

"yes, actually." "what if i said i'd kill someone for you?" "thats not that much of an exaggeration. you've probably tried to do it once." "eh, maybe. possibly, even."

[flowersandmiel]

Theory on what's about to destroy the Narrator's world

Okay so i'm not sure if it counts as a theory if it's what's said in canon but i've seen nobody talk about it.

I'm writing a new fic, where three voices get thrown into the Narrator's world, the thing is, this world cannot be a normal world, as it's supposed to be about to end, since that's why the Narrator wants us the kill shifty so it doesn't.

SO. yk this trophy?

to me it's a sun that's red, and it's referencing the theory/idea that one day the world will end bc the sun will get too closer or explode i don't remember BUT ITS SOMETHING ALONG THE LINES (if i've imagined this idk what to say but im like 80% sure i've heard something like that when i was a child)

SO. In my head i was like "okay so im gonna imagine that the narrator's world is about to be ended because of a red sun! mhmm, i should probably go back the the mirror scene to listen to all the narrator's lines! maybe he says something about it!"

AND THEN.

"To rid the world of suffering, to save untold trillions from being lost forever to the cosmic wind?"

(also if anyone knows what 'untold trillions' means pls tell me. i can't tell if it means, trillions of people don't know they're about to die, and only the narrator knew, or if he's saying trillions of people that he doesn't know personally)

I was about to make a post asking if anyone's got any idea what cosmic wind might represent, bc i thought it was a metaphor or something BUT THEN I WENT TO GOOGLE AND ITS A REAL THING

so im like?? but i think! "nahh its probably something else" but i still click on pictures AND

AND I SEE THIS. And yes it's named 'solar' wind here but DOES IT NOT LOOK LIKE SOMETHING WEVE SEEN BEFORE??? MHM????????

im genuinely asking btw. Maybe this is all a coincidence idk??

or am i the only one who realised this super late, is this something obvious about the game? like, that everybody knew??

Which is why idk if i should call it a theory? I'm not sure how to search if too much cosmic/solar wind could destroy earth but yeahhh it would explain why the narrator is so desperate. Stopping time, stopping change from happening does sound like the only way to stop something like cosmic wind

[mysadcorner]

Hii! I just saw that your asks are open, and that you write for Kingsman. Yesterday I discovered the two Kingsman movies and I watched them both, and now I'm obsessed with both Harry and Merlin.

I wanted to ask you for a Merlin or Harry fic (whichever you want) of angst and the grovelling trope. Like, maybe he has a terrible day and the reader tries to confort him, but he ends up snapping at her and telling her some real hurtful things and so he has to grovel *a lot* to earn her forgiveness or something like that :)

If you don't want to write it or you're too busy I completely understand :)

Also, if you do write it, please tag me, I don't want to miss it for the world <3

Ps: My name is Leyla and I'm also 20 lol what a coincidence haha

Harry Hart Grovelling For Reader Headcanons

- Credit to the gifs owner - Please be specific about characters wanted in headcanons and read request rules -

Masterlist Navigation

• Harry would never mean to offend you or snap at you in any way, so when he does it’s just as much of a shock to him as it is to you afterwards. He’s usually very calm and polite, even in stressful situations, so he must have been under a severe amount of stress to even snap at you unintentionally.

• Despite what others may think of him, he would absolutely grovel to you in private if you’re truly not willing to forgive him. It only takes one bad look for him to start trying to get on your good side again and will beg if he feels like he’s not getting through to you in private.

• It would get quite emotional for him, mainly due to him not being used to being vulnerable or exposing his deeper feelings quite often. He’s extremely reserved, so when his emotions do come out they’re quite powerful which shows how genuine his grovelling for forgiveness is.

• Not only is he going to grovel, but he’s also going to do things for you that may win back your favour or your forgiveness for him snapping at you. Small acts of service would be his way of expressing his affection, much easier than him showing emotion in various ways, so this would be one of the first things he would resort to if he can’t get through to you.

• The guilt would be visible on his face whenever he sees you, even if you have forgiven him. So, even if he’s done with the grovelling and begging for your forgiveness, he’ll still make it very much known that he’s sorry for whatever he said for you for quite a while after the incident.

• His behaviour is never reckless, but for you it can be in subtle ways. As a part of his grovelling he may put himself into more dangerous positions for you, or go out of his way to prove how much he cares for you while others may only suspect that he had a small slip up while in action or getting a job done, mainly because everyone knows how capable he is. It’s only after you forgive him that his small reckless actions end.

[igaveuponoriginality]

will solace would attract moths: part 2

i occasionally do write solangelo / pjo fan fic... (@j10writes on wattpad..) so since i made that post anyways, i wanted to elaborate...

Nico POV

Night was creeping over the horizon, and I was sat next to Will, waiting for the campfire to light. Most people weren't around yet, except for a small group of newer campers that arrived last week. This would be their first big campfire, ha.

I recalled faintly my first time at the fire, and then again, after the wars. Each had felt very different, one anticipatory and strange. The second time, I was surrounded by friends? and it had been genuine fun. This was my first campfire, however, since Will became my boyfriend.

Not that anyone else knew that, since I had coincidently run off for urgent business at Camp Jupiter not long after.

But tonight, right now. Karaoke and charades were on the schedule and I saw Percy, Annabeth, alongside Piper and Leo headed for the fire. Annabeth looked up first, shooting me and Will a wave. I smiled back, seeing Will wave, then look to me.

He bobbed back and forth on the bench, maybe from anticipation, maybe cold. You would never know with demigods.

"Excited?" He asked with a pensive smile. I smiled faintly back, nodding.

"Yeah," I chuckled, looking up to see Leo running over.

"Can I light it?!" He asked excitedly. Simultaneous shouts of approval hit the air and Leo threw his hand out, striking up a big flame in the fire pit. The fire blazed to life, wafting a blast of heat and light into our faces.

Will smiled into the fire, looking expectantly as the rest of our friends sat down among the pile of other campers accumulating. Karaoke was about to start. Jumping up first, Percy had something in mind. The Little Mermaid's soundtrack rang throughout the night, as singer after singer went up to have some fun with there own addition. Slowly, fewer and fewer people raised hands until it seemed worthwhile to switch to other games. Namely, charades, which I actually chose to participate in.

The Athena cabin won, though Aphrodite cabin came close. This didn't surprise anyone -- the theme was pop culture.

My first pull was "Stitch" from "Lilo & Stitch", which as someone showed me later, was a strange little demon creature from a movie... something I did not know. When I picked up the card, all I could really do was stare at it, -- how was this pop culture? I barely knew what pop culture was. And then...

Well, I acted out someone sewing. No one could connect my sewing gestures to an alien. Apparently, pop culture requires a bit more… context... They guessed "sewing" eventually, but no one said stitch. When the round was up, and I told them what it was, a roar of laughter rang into the air. I asked again, how that could be pop culture? And finally, Percy got up and explained Stitch didn't mean A stitch... I also decided the character stitch sounds strange.

Next I pulled "Darth Vader" which I knew from Will making me watch every single movie in the Star Wars franchise the second I gave him the chance. That surprised people more than my lack of disney knowledge. That I knew Star Wars. I won't pretend I loved it, but... it was like, 10 hours or something insane with Will. And it wasn't awful... Not to mention, for Darth Vader? I just breathed heavily, he got it eventually!

But after so many games, and so many songs, the night was winding down and I could feel sleepiness drifting over each camper -- not that it was anything supernatural, the Hypnos cabin had already gone to bed. Most campers had trickled out and gone to bed, aside from a few stragglers, me and Will included. Tucked safely into the dark of night, I pressed closer to him against the evening's cold air. Will turned to me, smiling.

"Leaving?" He asked softly. I nodded, picking my head up. Before I got up, I pressed my lips to his, getting ready to go just as quickly. Will smiled again, and then I saw the air brighten. Just around the edges, Will was glowing faintly -- and getting brighter, laughing a little as he noticed.

Not that he couldn't notice -- his skin was fluorescent.

Before I could get a word out, I saw wings fluttering nearby. Moths.

The light Will was putting off was enough to attract moths. By the time the moths caught on, so had the campers still around the first -- including Percy and Annabeth, who watched on laughing quietly.

"Will, they like you!" Annabeth smiled, chuckling. I laughed, smiled, and said goodbye as I headed to my cabin.

The memory of Will's glow, strong enough to draw moths stayed in my head even as I tried to fall asleep. The memory of the night stayed in my mind. I had learned to enjoy the campfires, but had that been fun, even? Even not knowing what Stitch was or getting stuck acting out Darth Vader (which, supposedly, "fits me very well"? Really, Percy?) was fun.

It was new, and it was nice.

wordcount: 845

sidebar: i (author) have NEVER seen star wars so if the watchtime and personality of darth vader are completely wrong to my impressions... whoopsie. haha. i have seen two of the movies, but kind of forget all of it. also saw them out of order :p

i've never written on tumblr btw.. or any fanfic in awhile so this might totally suck, idrk! it's shorter than my usual too. soo.. yeah. hope it was okay if u read lol

[fushiglow]

Aaaaaah I loved reading your thoughts on the new sleep token album!!! I love music but I'm not very knowlegeable about it, so getting to read thoughtful and well-informed critique about it is always such a treat, especially from someone who's also a gifted writer like you (looove the fics too)! All of this to say, if the whim ever takes you to talk about music in depth in any capacity, please know I for one will be seated and tuned in! Thank you and have a lovely rest of your day <3

This makes me so happy, ahhhh! Thank you so much, I love talking about music so much, but I haven't done a lot of it on here because... Well, once I start yapping about music, I can't stop!

I've thought about sharing some analysis before, because there are one or two things hidden in the JJK soundtrack that I think fellow fans might be interested in learning about. The problem is, they're pretty difficult to illustrate in writing so I'm not sure how I'd go about it without making a video, which I'm not keen on doing. I really want to talk about the various reappearances of Gojo's leitmotif throughout the season 2 soundtrack, because only last year I became aware that plenty of people aren't even aware why the 'three years of youth' scene hits like a ton of bricks! Ahhh a well-written score supports visual storytelling in ways that most people don't even realise and it makes me froth at the mouth to think about.

I also want to yap about the fact that if you layer Gojo and Sukuna's themes together, the melodies create a counterpoint [please turn to chapter 8 of Over the Threshold]. I would like to think Yoshimasa Terui deliberately composed them to fit together with a view to employing that counterpoint in their one day fight scenes, but it could be coincidence. Artists in general tend to fall into stylistic patterns, but they're more noticeable in music since we've given ourselves a finite number of note and rhythm combinations to work with. Still, the fact you don't even have to transpose the tracks? I am noticing, Yoshimasa Terui.

All that said, I have to temper myself a little (heh. Like tempering a piano. All my friends just rolled their eyes affectionately. Do not get me started on the Well-Tempered Clavier and the harmonic series again. Actually I might talk about this a little in a few Over the Threshold chapters' time perhaps. Doing a great job at tempering myself here!) otherwise I'd never write anything else. I wrote over 2k words about Sleep Token in response to that ask the other day, which @hugbin kindly reminded me could have been 2k words written for chapter 14 instead... (I love bean so much lmao)

So yeah, going into enough depth to ensure it's enjoyable reading for the average person is a big commitment. You can't talk about leitmotifs without first talking about musical motifs and why we use them and how they're constructed (although Over the Threshold readers are already familiar with 'leitmotif' and other music theory terms). Clearly, I already suck at prioritising and stopping once I start, so we'll see! For now, here's my mini HI/PD soundtrack review from 2023 (I never got round to my Shibuya Incident follow up) and my STUNNER yap fest which contains quite a bit of music analysis, but I think that's your lot. Just in case, I guess I'll also create a tag for these posts, suitably named #glo's infodumps!

I'll also reblog @80hd-selkie's gorgeous artwork inspired by my post about STUNNER because I think it's genuinely amazing that it actually moved someone to create (the fact that Selkie specifically drew on the musical analysis for encouragement blows my goddamn mind)! Please also await @detta-pica's incredible upcoming kaiju fic which takes a little bit of inspiration from my aforementioned infodumping about the harmonic series. Music is just maths, guys, and it's really, really cool.

(God, I really cannot shut up, huh? I like music a lot.)

Thanks for the lovely ask, anon, and yet another opportunity to yap yap yap about music! You guys indulge me far too much ♥

[red-riding-wood]

I’m so sorry about what happened to you and so many others. Disgusting misogynistic behavior. You all deserve so much better ):.

Also sending this bc I do believe he has made two new accounts. Drcranessweetestdoe and monsterfromthewoods. I have no proof these are him ,but it just strikes an absurd resemblance to his writing and he seemed to interact with both of them a few weeks ago. The first one hasn’t blogged in weeks either. Just seems strange. Once again though, I could be wrong. Just something for everyone to stay weary about. Stay safe ❤️

Thank you for the well wishes, anon! I really do appreciate you reaching out. <3

From my conversations with @drcranessweetestdoe, she does not behave like Kill (nor does her writing style compare to his), and I am pretty positive he is incapable (or at least very bad) at taking on different personalities since I believe I witnessed his attempt with the second account you mentioned. Aurora is very sweet, and she used to be a fan of Kill's writing and mine. I don't want people to be suspecting her of foul play because I do believe she is genuine. Kill has a pattern of reblogging fics as a way of seeing what victims he can latch onto and I see that as a coincidence with his reblog of Monster's.

As for @monsterfromthewoods... I was hesitant to make a callout, mainly because no one has actual solid proof that he is Kill. But, there is too much evidence for me to ignore, and I wanted to give my honest opinion and observations. Monster, if you are not this person, feel free to reach out and vouch for yourself, and if I am wrong, I am deeply sorry.

Fuck that. As I was typing this message up, I decided to check my DMs and noticed that my friend had said that he gave her the same name that, as of this morning, was revealed to me as his actual name along with his real picture and Facebook profile. That really sealed the deal for me. Here is the rest of my evidence to prove that this is "Kill":

Monster followed my friend around the same time that she blocked Kill.

Monster followed me the same day that I sent Kill a confrontational message, calling him out for his lies and pleading with him one last time for medical treatment and answers.

From the posts on Monster's account, and the one comment I know he made on my friend's post, his personality exactly fits Kill's. This is why I said I do not think he is capable or likely to be able to craft a believable persona.

Monster made a post about suicide, and a pro-Palestine post, the former of which Kill discussed with me a lot and the latter my friend pointed out as suspicious since Kill was also very strongly pro-Palestine. Seeing as Monster doesn't have that many posts yet on his blog, this isn't irrefutable evidence but it is very coincidental.

Lastly, I actually did my best to analyse and compare Kill and Monster's writing, since I had recalled a few things that stuck out to me when I read Kill's writing. Him and Monster share many similarities with their writing habits/consistencies. They are as follows (the examples listed are from 18+ content so please do not view if you are a minor):

Use periods and exclamation marks -- but never commas -- as punctuation to end dialogue tags.

Starter dialogue tag always facing outward. Like: ”So... Tight”

Tend to each use a snapshot style of writing, favouring incomplete sentences with frequent use of periods. Examples: K: "His mind, usually so sharp. Focused and organized like the most expensive machines. A killing machine, that worked in perpetual motion, living off killing, adrenaline used like a drug." M: "Your dear, understanding doctor. Doctor Jonathan Crane, who laughed out loud suddenly a couple moments ago. The dark colour covering his exotic looking eyes as he revealed his real nature to you."

Similarly, they both tend to avoid using possessive pronouns and determiners. Examples: K: "_ Pale, little pussy peaked from between her thighs." M: "The scars covering _ man's pale skin," _ = absence of "her, that, the," etc.

Often use adverbs after verbs in a way that feels out of place.

Capitalise after ellipses, always.

"Y/n" always has a lowercase "n".

Sometimes use three ellipses, often use only two.

Use "pants" but never "trousers".

Yeah, so, I may have spent way too much time on this. And I think most of this is redundant, now, especially after the name revelation, but still, I put work into it and didn't want it to go to complete waste lmao. I also had no idea until I was tagged today that apparently there are programs that do this sort of thing for you. Oops.

[bardofavon]

Sorry for the long text ahead !

At the beginning of January, I finally started my definitive reread of A Good Myth Is Hard to Kill, which also meant, for the first time, reading the ending (the last 100 pages or so).

I had been postponing it for so long, waiting for the right moment, wanting to give it the attention and space it deserved. In the end, I decided it would be the first book I read this year. I spent hours formatting it into a proper book-style document so I could upload it to my reading app, to highlight passages, and annotate freely. By the time I was done, it came out to exactly 1,000 pages.

It’s strange to think about who I was when I first started this fic in 2021 and who I am now, reaching its conclusion. I am not the same person, and yet, in so many ways, this story has been a constant—a touchstone, something I kept returning to, something that has shaped me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

When I finally reached the end, finished reading—completely by coincidence—in the early hours of Valentine’s Day, I had made 235 annotations and highlights. Some of them are just a single word, scrawled out in a desperate attempt to capture the moment. Some are paragraphs, as if I could hold onto a feeling by dissecting it. Some are just exclamation points or keyboard smashes. I don’t think I’ve ever needed to react to something so much. After following this work since 2021, it was almost surreal to finally arrive at its conclusion.

I hesitated before writing this because no words could ever fully capture what this story has meant to me. I remember so vividly the thrill of waiting for updates, the way I completely lost my mind when I first read Chapter 20—barely minutes after it had been uploaded. So many moments from my previous readings remained etched in my memory, and yet, this time, everything felt different. I laughed, I chuckled, I cried—not just from sadness but from sheer distress. I genuinely don’t think I had ever cried out of stress because of a book before. Probably the most I’ve ever felt while reading anything, honestly.

I read it, kind of, alongside with a friend—someone who had known about this fic for a long time because I’ve talked about it to literally anyone who matters. Reading it with her meant sending live reading reactions, screenshots of paragraphs or even entire pages, voice messages of me losing my mind at varying levels of intensity. Without her, my number of annotations would have been soooo much higher. It was incredible to have someone to share this with. She quite literally knows A Good Myth inside and out because of me without having ever actually opened the fanfic on AO3. We talk about A Good Myth Is Hard to Kill Kaz more than we talk about canon Kaz—we even call him A Good Myth Kaz, as if it’s his actual name. We reference the fic so often that we’ve shortened it to just A Good Myth. Somehow, she ended up joining me in this experience despite being a very firm Darkling hater (who we, infamously, only ever referred to as “the man”—or, in Spanish, el sujeto—throughout the entire reading).

But my point is this: this fic means so much to me that I had to share it with someone—otherwise, I think I would have exploded. I’m usually more reserved about the things I love, especially for fear of coming on too strong, but at this point, I genuinely don’t care. I am unapologetically obsessed with A Good Myth Is Hard to Kill. It truly—and I say this with no exaggeration—changed my life in ways I don’t even know how to put into words.

Kaz Brekker from A Good Myth means more to me than I can possibly express. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so attached or seen by a character before. This fic helped me understand so much about myself, forced me to confront things I hadn’t before. I feel like I owe your Kaz so much, and by extension, I owe you so much.

I don’t think I’ll ever find the right words to express just how grateful I am for having found this fic. I genuinely can’t imagine what my life would have been like without it. I think about it every single day—and that is not an exaggeration. It is, without a doubt, one of the most impactful things I have ever read. I will never forget it.

You are a brilliant writer.

Thank you for, quite literally, changing my life.

I know I’m a writer but I feel like even if I tried all morning I wouldn’t be able to perfectly encapsulate how this makes me feel or what it means to me. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. 

People always say “oh write for yourself write for yourself” and I do— to a certain extent, but do think most writers really dream of being able to have any sort of impact with the things that they want. 

Some mornings it’s harder to get up than others, especially when the weather gets cold, so thank you for reminding me this morning that I have a purpose and the things I do matter. Thank you for loving this story like I love it, for sharing it with others, and for sharing with ME how it made you feel. 

Also, if you ever WERE inclined to share those annotations I’d sell my kidney to see them. But no pressure though 😂 

[d8nielaa]

randomly had this idea for maybe a brody fic - you guys "meet" cause one of you texts the wrong number but you just keep talking for a long time before nervously meeting up and discovering hes really cute :)

Authors Note: yes omg-this is the best

Wrong Number

Brody Grant x fem!reader

It was late, or maybe early—hard to tell when you were staring blankly at your phone, a bit lost in thought. You’d been meaning to text your friend Lexi about the weekend plans, but you were too tired to properly focus on anything. Fingers slipping across the screen, you fired off a quick message, not double-checking the number before hitting send.

You: "Hey, I was thinking we should grab lunch on Saturday. I know you’ve been busy, but we haven’t hung out in forever!"

You stared at the screen, a small smile on your face as you imagined Lexi’s response. She’d been super caught up with work lately, so a lunch date sounded perfect. But when you saw the three dots pop up in response, your smile faded.

The number that popped up wasn’t Lexi’s.

Unknown Number: “Uh… I think you have the wrong number.”

You blinked at the message, trying to figure out what just happened. It took you a few seconds to realize you’d texted someone completely random. You quickly started typing a reply to apologize, but before you could hit send, another message came through.

Unknown Number: “But hey, no worries. What’s this about lunch? Sounds nice, even if it’s not for me.”

Your brow furrowed as you hesitated, then laughed a little. Was this some kind of weird coincidence? You shrugged, fingers hovering over the keys.

You: "Oops, sorry about that. It was meant for a friend. But, uh, since you’re here—what’s your name?"

You didn’t expect a response to come quickly, but less than a minute later, you got one.

Unknown Number: "Brody. And you’re the one with lunch plans for some reason, so I feel like you should be the one telling me what’s going on."

You grinned at his cheeky reply, feeling oddly comfortable despite the situation.

You: "Fair enough, Brody. I just wanted to hang with my friend. But hey, now that we’re texting, what about you? What’s your deal?"

For a while, you and Brody just casually texted back and forth, mostly about random things—nothing too deep, but enough to pass the time. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, and he seemed to enjoy poking fun at your over-enthusiastic texts. It became one of those weird, unexpected, but entertaining conversations. You got into a routine of talking after work, some small chats during the day, and by the time the weekend came, you were genuinely curious about the guy behind the phone number.

After a few days of texting, Brody dropped a suggestion.

Brody: “Okay, so how about this? We’ve been texting for a while. Maybe it’s time we actually meet up and see what all this texting is about.”

You hesitated, biting your lip as you read the message. Nervously, you typed a reply.

You: "Are you sure? I mean, we don’t actually know anything about each other, and this could be super awkward…"

Brody: "Could be awkward, could be fun. Who knows? I think you’ll find I’m pretty charming in person."

You rolled your eyes but felt your pulse quicken a little. He seemed confident, but you couldn’t deny there was a part of you that was curious to meet him, too.

You: "Alright. I guess we can give it a shot. But just so you know, I’m not responsible if this turns into the weirdest thing ever."

Brody: "Trust me, I’m prepared for weird."

A few days later, you found yourself standing outside a coffee shop, nervously fiddling with your phone. You’d decided to meet at a casual place, thinking it would be less awkward. But now that you were standing there, you could feel your heart rate picking up. What if he wasn’t as cool in person? What if he was a total disaster?

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and smiled when you saw the text.

Brody: "I’m here. Where are you?"

You quickly shot back a message.

You: "I’m standing outside by the door. Don’t judge me if I’m awkward."

Moments later, you saw a figure approach, and your stomach flipped. Brody was taller than you expected, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, his hair tousled in a way that looked effortlessly cool. His smile was wide when he saw you, a mix of confidence and nervousness in his eyes. You could tell he was just as uncertain as you were.

"Hey," he greeted with a slightly crooked grin, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Hi," you said, your voice a little shaky. You felt your cheeks flush but quickly cleared your throat. "So, uh, this is happening."

Brody laughed, and that was enough to break the ice. “It’s definitely happening. Sorry, I might be a little awkward, too.”

You both shared a look, the kind of glance that said you were both in this together. Slowly, you stepped inside the coffee shop, and the conversation flowed more easily than expected. You found yourself getting lost in his eyes, in the way he made you laugh, and in how comfortable you felt around him. He was charming, but not in an obnoxious way—more like the kind of person you could easily talk to for hours without it feeling forced.

“So,” he said, his voice teasing as you both sipped your drinks. “How do you feel about the fact that we texted for like a week and still hadn’t met until now? It’s kind of funny.”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. “I don’t know. I think it was kinda cool. Kind of like… we got to know each other in this weird, no-pressure way.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening. “I like that. Plus, you’re actually cute, so that’s a bonus.”

You blinked, surprised at the compliment. “Well, thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

Brody chuckled, and the tension melted away. After a few more hours of talking, you both realized the connection was real—maybe even stronger than you thought.

When it was time to leave, you both stood outside, lingering awkwardly for a moment. Brody glanced down at his phone and then back at you. “So… would it be crazy if we did this again sometime?”

You laughed, feeling the nervous energy dissipate. “No, it wouldn’t be crazy. I think I could be convinced.”

“Well,” Brody said, flashing that adorable grin again, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

And just like that, what started as a simple text to the wrong number turned into something you didn’t expect: a connection. A real, live connection.

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

Authors Note: Nutella please send me a PR package I love your work

[togament]

Hi Bibi, i just want to say you’re doing amazing and your post are literally ADDICTING. I was a little worried because I didn’t know if Wind Breaker would get a lot of attention on Tumblr yk? (Just because it’s new) AND YOU CAME AND SAVED ME. I love you, your brain, and your page. Please keep going and I WOULD LOVE to hear your thoughts on new episodes/chapters (only if you want). Thank you for feeding my delulu brain. Hugs 🫂

OH YOU SWEETHEART COME HERE YOU!!!! 🫂 I’M NOT CRYING I SWEAR.

thank you for the kind words dhdjkd i don’t know if i’m worthy of such praise too like—everyone leaving cute (and unhinged ofc) stuff in the tags and in my inbox gets me all giddy and blushy and!!!!!! Seeing you guys enjoying my stupid ramblings means the absolute world to me (i see you guys in the tags and i read every single one. Love you you freaks 😏) fun fact, I only started writing fics on this account and only for windbreaker so all the interactions and thirsty feedback I get genuinely, genuinely makes my heart do the boom boom. So smooches to every one of you!!!!!! (only if you want them. you could exchange it for a headpat if you want ig)

ok enough of the sappy stuff. WINDBREAKER TIME!

windbreaker blowing up on tumblr is so so so well deserved. i was genuinely shocked because it took a little bit for the hype to catch on???? the seiyuus are literal legends (in my eyes hehe), the animation’s SO FUCKING GOOD LIKE HELLO!??, the op and ending song aren’t ass??????? I’m super excited for what’s to come for our fandom and the anime. ALSO fun fact, I have the fattest crush on Umehara Yuichiro so him voicing Togame literally brought me to my god damn knees, bro. I’m expecting Eguchi Takuya to secure a character too bc ofjfkdkd his voice would be perfect for a villain.

also may or may not have picked windbreaker up bc I saw a character named Kiryu and an eyepatched character and I 😮👈😮👈 YAKUZA REFERENCE!!!!! (probably not but the coincidence is silly to me)

I’m not super caught up on the anime (on episode 7 atm!) I wanna savor every episode and binge them back to back (also bc my hubby’s got so much screentime I wanna savor that him EVEN MORE YUM YUM YUMMY). Caught up on the manga though and I Have Thoughts.

(spoilers under the cut)

the endo fight’s scaring me, man. also super fucking worried about ume bc WE HAVEN’T SEEN HIM FOR SO LONG??? the chair throw spooked me. also worried about ume’s vegetable garden. I know it’s getting trampled to shit. also very worried about sakura. he’s getting all banged up by endo, his nose is probably broken now wtf he was bleeding SO MUCH.

chika’s scary too. both him and endo. i honestly don’t know what’s gonna happen next like, they’re both so unpredictable and unhinged that my butthole’s clenching in sheer terror.

I’m also very concerned about suo. WHY HAVE WE NOT SEEN HIM EATING (or maybe I’ve missed a panel lol) but with every food offer he’s ever been given, he turns them down. also the fact that we only know him on a surface’s surface level even when he’s one of the main boys is scaring me. we’re 140+ chapters deep and not one single suo morsel for us to nibble on. I don’t want a betrayal thing happening ok lol that would be my tipping point i fear.

OKAY I WAS RAMBLING TOO MUCH AHDHSHAHHA

if you guys want me to yap about a chapter or an episode or potential seiyuus for other characters or if you just want my thoughts on things (i am a Certified Yapper), i am directing you to the askbox! This was super fun!! Extremely forgetful too so this could help me remember all the stuff that’s happened so far.

thank you so much again for sending over an askkskfnnxnx heaven knows i needed a little pick me up today. you delivered and made my entire day, sweetheart!!!!! Ily!!!!!!! 🥹

[decepti-thots]

for the director's cut ask meme, if you fancy it: the bit in ch 3 with Thundercracker. (If you don't fancy it, anything you do want to do would be cool...)

(This is the fic in question- as Jariktig says, the scene in question is the second of chapter three!)

So I really wanted to get Senator Shockwave in that fic, which I assume is obvious from the fic itself, lmao. Because, well, I think the idea of Mesothulas knowing him pre-Shadowplay is great, and just very funny in general. So I knew I was going to be somehow tying Mesothulas to the academy, not as a student but in some way.

Anyway, one of the things I really like that rarely comes up in fandom is that Thundercracker and Skywarp were students at Shockwave's like… X-Men ripoff school- and it really does not sound as fun from Skywarp's perspective as it looked in Shadowplay, huh? Skywarp believes that a) the primary interest was in 'poking and prodding' them, not helping them, and b) that there was as much prejudice against them as fliers as there was anywhere else. Which, sure, he might himself be biased towards negativity, but I thought that was interesting, the contrast between the very rosy view Shadowplay presents versus what Skywarp, who doesn't get to be the main character, finding it unpleasant. So I wanted to nod at that underappreciated bit of canon, and I knew I'd have Mesothulas interact with SOMEONE in the lab as a cameo, and that gave me two options.

…I couldn't see Skywarp giving a shit about science tbh, so I gave it to TC, haha. He's not really there to 'study', or anything; actually, I think I noted he was probably there making deliveries somewhere in my outline? (Skywarp mentions they were used, as fliers, for 'transport' a lot.) He hangs around talking to people, was the idea, asking people about what they're doing out of genuine if somewhat under-educated curiosity.

Anyway, I wanted to establish Mesothulas as a very clear outsider who is just sort of constantly worming his way into spaces he doesn't really belong in, and demonstrate that for all Shockwave is affable in private towards Mesothulas, he would much prefer nobody come into contact with his little side project, and why. And so: the Thundercracker cameo.

Bitstream is, of course, a real character; the name given to the not-quite-Thundercracker blue seeker character in the intro to the G1 series. Thundercracker's not really being fair, is he- telling them apart is possible (solid blue torso vs grey torso), but let's be real. I enjoy bringing up Hasbro's tendency to turn EVERY tiny background G1 generic into a named character in their desperate ongoing quest to justify releasing 3763585 seeker toys; it's my favourite hobby. (One thing that was a total coincidence; in IDW2, he does in fact work for Shockwave, a fact that totally slipped my mind- but I suppose in this fic he must do too, if Mesothulas knows of him!)

[jshkconfessions]

Platonic dynamics over romantic ones any day. While yes, the romantic relationships between characters are insanely well-written, I've personally never found myself too interested in them, (with the exception of Terukane because it's funny) and it sucks to watch people toss amazing platonic dynamics to the side because the majority in this fandom only cares for the romance. I genuinely want more content with the platonic dynamics in the manga. So yes, prepare for me to talk about my favorite dynamic.. MINAMOTO BROTHERS 🎉

They make me so sad, devestated even. The way Teru knows the supernatural world is a threat, while Kou is oblivious to it, barreling into the fray with a naive mindset. Then that creates conflict between them, Teru only wants to protect his little brother, who could easily end up severely injured due to his weak and kinder nature, the likelihood of something horrible happening to Kou because he showed mercy or decided to trust someone (ahem, Natsuhiko) is relatively high. But Kou doesn't understand that, and like he said, how could he understand if he was sheltered from it his whole life? Of course he's going to be the way he is, he quite literally does not know as most of his experiences with supernaturals have been full of whimsical adventures, (minus anything related to Mitsuba,). I find it funny how both brothers don't understand each other fully; always disagreeing, never on the same boat, yet their dependency on each other is incomparable to most characters. Teru said it himself, he quite literally does not want to live in a world without his siblings. I don’t think it's a coincidence that Kou's name translates to light, while Teru's is shine; the moon cannot shine without the sun's light.

Personally, I side more with Teru, Hanako proved to be a dangerous supernatural by killing Aoi, and he was also right in the end regarding Kou's safety, (I mean.. just look at what happened to Kou in the alterated timeline.) But, I also find it unfair for him to be upset with Kou for not understanding his point of view when he never allowed him the chance TO understand. And that's what makes Teru such a complex and well-written character, he's going to do things that aren't always right, but if you delve deep into his character, you understand as to why he is that way. He sacrificed his youth for his siblings, and yet, Kou pointed his weapon at him as if he was a villain.

But to Kou, Teru was attacking his friend, someone he created memories with, so he defended him. From both of their point of views, their reasoning is justified.

Anyways this is just me screaming from the trenches and begging for more Minamoto brothers content, this fandom starves me, I am like a rat eating bread crumbs since one fic is posted about them once every two months. Please, give me more silly minamoto bros ☹️

〜 📻

[real-total-drama-takes]

As someone who has recently started posting Aleheather fics on AO3, I've got a bit of a dilemma in my hands and I don't know what to do. I'm looking for some advice/guidance because I may be overthinking things but I still can't shake off my suspicion so, if this isn't appropriate to ask, I get it and I'm sorry.

I posted an Aleheather angst fic recently and got an odd comment (something like "Al brought it on himself, am I expected to sympathise with him?" which is completely tame but it struck me as odd because it wasn't really a positive comment and there were no tone indicators used but, to be clear, I don't think the user meant it maliciously) from a user who writes TD fics as well so I chalked it up to poor phrasing and responded by explaining how the fic was meant to convey the complexity and intricacy of Aleheather's relationship and how it wasn't meant to portray a specific character as the villain or the victim.

Maybe I'm looking too deeply into this but that exact user then wrote an Aleheather angst fic which was a little too familiar and I'm going to list some reasons as to why but I genuinely don't think they're trying to do any harm, it just bothers me a little and I'm new to TD fanfic writing so I may be overreacting and if so, please let me know!!

My fic was written to focus on Aleheather and one of the competitors he had flirted with in TDWT, that user's fic was also centered on Aleheather and that specific competitor. I had written something like "[Character's name] meant nothing to Alejandro" and that user's fic also explicitly stated that. My fic was part of my angst series and I had started it awhile ago. That user created an angst series that was titled with exactly the same series title. Each word had an upper case letter to begin with and everything. I really don't want to add this last bit as it may give away my AO3 username but it's kind of important. In my fic's notes, I stated that the title of my fic was supposed to be the last line of it but I changed it and simply made it the title as it felt right to me. That user's fic title is the last line of their fic. The series title, the fic title, the storyline, the comment; they could simply be coincidences but I'm not sure. I don't know what to do because, while fic writing is supposed to be lighthearted and a way to gain inspiration from another's work, this doesn't feel like a coincidence and I feel like the user is basically copying my fics and I'm not sure if I'm being dramatic or if I could be right???

I'm sorry if this was too long, I just really need an opinion on this :((

.

[pinewoodpipit]

One thing I’ve noticed across many of your fics is that Fade/Hazal seems to relate a lot to wolves- it pretty evident with ur Dark Materials au art and her Daemon (?) being in the form of a Wolf (forgive me I haven’t read the series / know much about it)

But anyways; I’ve noticed in quite a few she seems to be connected or associated with wolves. Like being a literal Werewolf in Bloodwritten Silver, the wolf daemon, the wolf attack in Cowboy AU

Is it a coincidence in that Wolves Are Cool (I agree) and you just want to include that kind of thing- especially the werewolf vibe? Or is it relating to something else, like how she tends to be a “lone wolf” kind of person? Or even kind of a funny bit with how Neon is a dog person?

Just curious as her motif in Val is all about cats and I can be totally reading too much into this lmaoooo

Haha you're right, and this has been pointed out to me before privately! It's a little of both reasons you've listed - genuine reason with story-based intent, combined with me just liking wolves.

In Bloodwritten Silver, I knew I wanted to write a werewolf au and Fade just seemed to fit the storyline best. Fade's the type to hide away her problems, keep to herself, and probably hide until she eventually snaps and lashes out, which fit a werewolf pretty well, I think. It would lead into her being such a loner; distrustful of herself and her lack of impulse control, hating herself for her anger issues, and also it made for fun added angst since, as you put it, with her family gone she's now a "lone wolf", which would be a pretty terrible thing for any social creature to deal with.

In cowboy au, I chose wolves for a few reasons - namely just because I like them, but also they're a common enemy in RDR2 (a large inspiration for this fic). John Marston in that game is attacked by wolves and I thought it would be a nice tie-in to that, and I could justify why the wolves would be desperate enough to attack both her and her brother, because with the world rapidly expanding, wolves would be being choked out of their hunting territories and going hungry very quickly. It makes sense that a starving pack of wolves would be desperate enough to try and hunt a human living out in a tent in the woods.

In HDM AU, I chose a wolf daemon for her because they're sly hunters, like her, and also wolf daemons in HDM are usually associated with a band of mercenaries in the books so I wanted to show a wolf character who isn't from that group. I had a few other options for a daemon for her - I did think about a cat, but I actually thought it'd be more fun to make Neon's daemon feline (hence the cheetah) since it's a string that could start pulling them together. She likes cats, Neon's daemon is a cat; it's something small, but small things can be meaningful, too. Another option for her daemon could have been a crow, which I liked for the "bad omen" symbolism and how easily they could spy on people, but other characters already have quite a few bird daemons (like Jett with a gyrfalcon and Deadlock with a snowy owl), so I wanted something a little different for her. I like that a wolf and cheetah are pretty similar in size, too, so they can more easily snuggle (and yes, there WILL be daemon snuggles in this fic).

Grey wolves are also Turkiye's national animal, which is a coincidence which I only learned about after I was already deep into writing Bloodwritten Silver, but I think it's a fun one.