#Unt: Until next time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ginnsbaker · 11 months ago

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (16/17)

Part Summary: You and Leigh cling to each other, counting down the days until she leaves next year for Matt's book tour.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5.300+ | Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strap-on usage (r receiving), oral (r receiving), sex in public | Author's note: Just R and Leigh being all over each other before we wrap up this series :)

Your internal clock kicks in at five in the morning, even though it feels like you and Leigh only just fell asleep, exhausted after hours of chasing each other to the brink and back. You’ve long since stopped counting the times you’ve brought each other over the edge, a relentless pursuit of pleasure that left both of you gasping, spent, yet craving more.

Was it possible to share an orgasm that stretched into what felt like hours? If so, how were you not just a tangle of bliss-wrecked limbs, dead to the world?

You vaguely remember a drowsy conversation as you were both drifting off, your sweaty bodies tangled in the sheets. You’d managed a murmured question about the future, about what happens when Leigh hits the road for the comic tour. But she’d just pressed a lazy, silencing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “What if tomorrow an asteroid hits Los Angeles?” she’d teased, nosing the length of your jaw, pressing a kiss here and there.

You tried to frown, your mind foggy with sleep. “Be serious,” you muttered.

“I am,” she whispered back, her lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’m dead serious about sucking every drop of now, not wasting a second on what-ifs.”

You’re not entirely sure what happened next, only that when Leigh said the word suck, you felt a tingling sensation that surged down to your core. Before you knew it, you were on your back again, with Leigh skillfully coaxing out the final, shattering orgasm of the night from you.

Stretching your back, you hear a few satisfying pop, reminding you how sex with Leigh was nothing short of a workout, your muscles pleasantly sore from it. The first pale light finds Leigh beside you, her back turned, skin bare, and just a whisper of the sheets covering her. You realize you’ve monopolized the covers throughout the night.

You carefully pull the sheet over her, tucking it around her exposed shoulder. She’s still out, peaceful, her breathing even and deep. You can’t help but slide closer, wrapping an arm around her waist, her skin so soft and warm. You kiss the back of her neck lightly, her scent—a mix of sweet sweat and the faint floral of her shampoo—fills you up.

Soon enough, the gentle rhythm of Leigh's breathing lulls you back into sleep.

When you wake up again, hours later, the bed beside you is empty. The covers are tucked around you, forming a comforting cocoon, undoubtedly Leigh’s thoughtful doing.

There’s no rush to throw on clothes; you relish the comfort of the sheets against your bare skin as you slide out of bed. It's not your first time being in Leigh’s room, but the last time you were here, you barely made it a foot inside before being overtaken by the fight you were having. Last night was different. In the darkness, nothing mattered except Leigh’s cries of pleasure, the slick heat between her thighs, and the taste of her lips, completely consumed by the wonders of her body. With the slow start to your morning, you realize you now have all the time in the world to explore Leigh’s room.

Though, quite literally, there’s not much to unpack here.

In one corner near the windows, stacks of cardboard boxes are still wrapped in tape. They are remnants, you guess, of her life with Matt. Drifting over to Leigh’s desk, you notice a notebook sitting there, its pages shut tight. The temptation to peek is there, but you respect her privacy, leaving it untouched. Above the desk, a small shelf is lined with books—classics you recognize and, surprisingly, a few romance novels by Emily Henry. You're not usually into romance, but you make a mental note to check out this author on your next visit to a bookstore.

Exploring Leigh’s room reveals a charming minefield. Clothes are draped over chairs, pooled on the floor, or spilling from drawers. The dresser is a jumble of lotion bottles, perfume, earrings, and hair ties. It's all quintessentially Leigh—somewhat untamed. Your self-guided tour brings you inevitably back to the doorway. Just as you’re turning to give one last look over the room, the door bursts open. It's Jules, and the moment she sees you, her eyes widen in horror.

“Jesus, Y/N!” Jules shrieks, throwing her hands up to shield her eyes. “What the hell?”

Scrambling, you grab a throw pillow off Leigh’s bed and hold it in front of you. “Jules! I, uh, didn't think anyone would be coming in,” you stammer, cheeks heating up.

“Why are you naked in my sister's room?” Jules demands, her voice muffled by her hands, still covering her face. The question sounds ridiculous even to her ears—everyone knew you and Leigh had a date last night.

Of course, you're naked in her sister's bedroom the next morning. Where else?

“I—We were just—” Every explanation sounds more absurd as you try to find the words.

“Just—don't. Please, just get dressed,” Jules interrupts, still not looking at you.

Nodding, you quickly grab the first clothes you can find, not bothering to check if they’re yours or if they’re clean. Within seconds, you're awkwardly pulling on a white shirt featuring a pickle wearing aviators, captioned Dill With It, and squeezing into lime shorts that are definitely a bit too snug and short for your taste.

“I'm decent,” you announce, hoping your voice doesn’t betray how flustered you feel.

Right then, Leigh emerges from downstairs, looking bewildered by the commotion. “What’s going on?” she asks, eyes darting between her flustered sister and you in your bizarre outfit.

Jules lowers her hands slowly, peeking out with one eye before fully facing you. Her irritation is palpable as she glares at Leigh.

“You said I could borrow your charger from your bedroom!” Jules exclaims, her finger quivering slightly as she points it at her sister.

Leigh blinks, her lips twitching as she fights the urge to laugh. She sneaks a glance at you, your face now resembling a ripe tomato from embarrassment, and mutters almost absentmindedly, “I assumed she'd still be asleep.”

Jules huffs, “Whatever.” She strides over to Leigh's desk, grabbing the charger with a dramatic flourish. You stand frozen, barely breathing. As Jules heads for the door, she pauses, crinkling her nose as if a new thought has just occurred to her. She turns, eyes narrowed slightly in disgust.

“And open a window, would you? It smells like a brothel in here. Gross.” With that parting shot, she's gone.

Leigh lets out a breath and shakes her head. She steps closer and wraps her arms around you, her laughter bubbling up. “Well, that was something,” she says, coming over to wrap you in a hug. She gives your shirt a playful tug. “You kind of rock the pickle look, though.”

“It's a new trend,” you joke, pulling her a little closer. As you do, you lean in to kiss her cheek softly, whispering, “Good morning.”

Leigh smiles and leans in to kiss you on the lips, but you instinctively bring up your fingers to your mouth, mumbling, “I haven’t brushed yet.”

Unfazed, Leigh simply pries your fingers away and presses her lips firmly against yours. It's a quick but solid peck, leaving you both smiling.

“Morning breath doesn't scare me,” she murmurs, tracing a finger down your throat to your clavicle. “Besides, after last night, I think a little morning breath is nothing we can't handle.”

Grinning, you dive back in for another kiss, deeper this time, as Leigh starts steering you backward towards the bed. Just as the back of your knees hit the mattress, a rumble from your stomach interrupts the moment—loud, untimely, and embarrassingly intolerant.

Leigh chuckles, her forehead resting against yours as she catches her breath. “Guess that's my cue to feed you something other than kisses,” she says with a smirk, pulling back and offering her hand to help you up. “Come on, Jules made breakfast.”

Gratefully, you take her hand, letting her lead you out of the bedroom.

“Forget that research gig, I'm heading straight to America's Got Talent,” Suzie jokes, staggering back to the table after a spirited, if slightly wobbly, rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart. She's already half-drunk but radiates happiness, her performance having drawn cheers and hearty sing-alongs from the crowd at the karaoke bar.

She flops down in her chair, cheeks flushed and grinning, as your group erupts in cheers and claps. Tomorrow is Suzie's last day, and you had her pick the venue for her farewell party. Knowing how much she loves to sing during downtime at the clinic, a karaoke bar was an obvious choice.

“Here's to Suzie!” you shout, trying to be heard over the sound of a couple belting out a ballad on stage. “For the longest time, you've been the clinic's backbone and heartbeat. We never would've made it without you. You'll be terribly missed, but remember, our door is always open for you.”

The table erupts in cheers before everyone empties the glasses they're holding up. You drop back into your seat, feeling a little dizzy after that round. It's a small group—just you, Suzie, Foreman, Sara, and your maintenance guys, Joey and Mike.

Suzie suddenly leaps to her feet, glass raised high. “And a huge shout-out to the hottest boss I've ever had the pleasure of working ‘under’!” she yells, punctuating her words with a devious wink. Your team bursts into laughter, their uproar drawing whistles and applause from some folks at nearby tables. Sara chimes in with a spirited “Hear, hear!”, while Foreman simply rolls his eyes, a hint of envy in his expression—he's already made a pass at Sara and was swiftly rejected.

You wave your hands dismissively. “Alright, alright, let's not give everyone the wrong idea,” you say, your cheeks reddening a bit from both the attention and the alcohol. Just as you're about to retake your seat, feeling the room sway slightly with your tipsiness, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fumble it out to see Leigh's name lighting up the screen. You’d texted her this morning inviting her to join the farewell, but her busy schedule had made her confirmation uncertain.

You excuse yourself and stumble slightly as you rise, steadying your hand on the back of your chair. Weaving through the tables, you find a quieter spot near the entrance of the bar to answer the call.

“Hey,” you say, pressing the phone to your ear, your voice dropping as you move away from all the ruckus. “Everything okay?”

“Hey,” Leigh's voice cuts in, a bit choppy and barely audible over the blaring speakers. “I'm outside of the... Brass Gibbon? Am I at the right place?”

You miss the last part of her sentence. “Sorry? Can you say that again?”

Strangely, you catch Leigh's deep sigh perfectly. “I said I'm outside,” she repeats.

“Oh! Hang on, I'm coming out.”

You dash out of the restaurant and spot Leigh leaning against the wall. You can’t help but rush over and wrap her in a tight bear hug. It’s only been two days since you woke up in her bed, but you’ve already missed seeing her, smelling her, feeling her in your arms.

She laughs and returns the hug. As she tries to pull away, you tighten your grip, holding her for a few more precious seconds. She relents with a soft chuckle, patting you lightly on the back. When you finally let go, her eyes roam fondly over your face, taking in your slightly flushed cheeks and dreamy stare. Seeing this, her smile only widens.

“Someone's had a few too many,” she teases.

You hiccup and try to defend yourself, “I’ve just had three—no, four!”

Leigh smirks and shakes her head. “Four, huh? Must've been some party,” she says, taking your hand. As Leigh leads you back toward the bar, you find yourself gazing down at your intertwined hands, a goofy grin spreading across your face. You giggle softly to yourself, slightly buzzed and thoroughly enchanted by the simple act of holding her hand.

Upon reaching your table, Suzie waves enthusiastically to get Leigh's attention. Leigh responds with a bright, “Hello, everyone!” as you both approach the group. There’s a moment where everyone looks expectantly at you, waiting for an introduction. Momentarily distracted by Leigh's presence, you get a nudge and a whisper from Suzie sitting next to you, “Introduce her, you goof!”

Quickly regaining your composure, you turn slightly, still holding Leigh’s hand. “Everyone, this is Leigh,” you announce, proud and slightly nervous. Everyone takes turns shaking her hand and introducing themselves. You watch anxiously as Sara stands up to greet Leigh, but Leigh's smile never fades, and a wave of calm washes over you as you observe your team warmly interacting with your—

“Is she your girlfriend?” Foreman asks overtly. The room goes quiet. Everyone's eyes swing between you and Leigh, waiting.

You're stuck, words lodged somewhere in your chest, not sure what to say or how to say it.

And then Leigh beats you to it.

“Yes.”

You blink, staring at Leigh, flooded with relief and suddenly feeling very, very horny. When Leigh notices your dazed look, her face switches to concern. “You okay?” she asks. Before you can answer, she’s already grabbing your hand, turning to everyone, “Excuse us, Y/N's not feeling great.”

You're still reeling from her bold affirmation and too captivated by Leigh to piece together a coherent thought. The next thing you know, you're being guided—rather roughly—into one of the bathroom stalls, your back pressed against the door as Leigh locks it behind you.

Leigh leans in close, her breath hot against your ear. “You shouldn't be wearing your white doctor's coat out like this,” she murmurs.

You open your mouth to explain—it was chilly, and beneath the coat, all you had on was a skimpy black strappy dress. But as Leigh slides the coat from your shoulders, her lips find your earlobe, gently nibbling. The words die in your throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Leigh pushes you harder against the door, her body pinning yours with surprising force. That's when you feel it—the unmistakable hardness of a strap beneath her pants. A deep, needy moan spills from you as she starts grinding against you.

How did you miss the pronounced bulge in the tight jeans she wore to meet everyone? Was this part of her plan? The nerve of it—meeting everyone, introducing herself so confidently and casually, all while planning to take you here, in a public bathroom. It's almost as if she was silently bragging to your team, “Yeah, I’m about to fuck your boss in a public bathroom. Nice to meet you.”

The thought alone makes you soak your panties. Despite the thrill, the risk of getting caught in public makes you hesitate. “Leigh, they’re waiting for us,” you protest weakly.

Leigh just grins against your skin. “But I'm not done making you feel better,” she whispers slowly, making you clench your thighs together from how hoarse her voice has gotten. Her hands are deft as she bunches your dress around your waist and begins to unzip her pants. All the while, she deposits open-mouthed kisses along your neck, leaving a trail of saliva in their wake.

“Leigh…” you whine, unsure if you're trying to make her stop or urging her on out of impatience. She just smirks, that knowing look in her eyes telling you she’s got you right where she wants you. Before you can protest again, she pulls you into a deep, toe-curling kiss that melts your doubts away.

Then, you see it. Leigh pulls out a seven-inch strap-on, its girth substantial. Her hand barely fits around it as she spits into her palm and coats the silicone with deliberate strokes, preparing it.

You're teetering on the edge, mind spinning, when Leigh switches things up on you. Suddenly, she’s on her knees, and before you know what’s happening, she’s tugged your panties down. You’re about to react when her tongue hits you, slick and warm, tracing up your pussy.

“Oh my god!” you cry out.

Leigh’s tongue works magic, and she hums against you. “You taste sweeter every time,” she murmurs, just before her tongue dives back in for more. You can only moan in response, words failing you completely as pleasure builds. Just when you’re about to peak, Leigh pulls away, leaving you hanging on the brink. She stands quickly, grabs the strap-on, and steps closer. Her grin is wicked as she rubs the toy against your slick folds, coating it with your arousal. When the thick head nudges your clit, you can’t help but curse out loud.

“Leigh! Fuck!”

Leigh clamps a hand over your mouth, her eyes widening slightly as she hears someone enter the bathroom. She gives you a quick, commanding look, silently instructing you to wrap your legs around her. As you comply, the toy squeezes tighter in your folds, making you shudder.

“Put your arms around my shoulders, hold tight,” she murmurs, breathless from the effort she’s exerting to hold you up. She guides the tip of the cock to your entrance. “Ready?” she asks softly. You nod, pressing your face into the crook of her neck to drown out any sounds. Without another word, Leigh thrusts into you in one swift motion. The size is a shock, and you bite down on her neck to stifle a cry, the slight pain mingling with deep pleasure. Sensing your need to adjust, Leigh holds back, her body taut yet patient, giving you a moment. Once you give a slight nod against her neck, Leigh starts moving again, slowly at first.

She continues thrusting into you, speeding up just a little, her lips just inches from your ear. “I've been thinking about this, fucking you like this,” she whispers.

Dumb with pleasure, you gasp out, “H-Here?”

“Not here, silly,” she breathes out, her rhythm faltering slightly as a particular thrust grazes her clit just right. The strap-on drags tantalizingly against your walls as she pulls out, then sinks back in deep, hitting spots that light you up from the inside. Leigh’s fucking you like the strap is a true extension of hers. For a second there, you wish it were.

“Ideally, I'd have you in your bed, where you can scream your l-lungs out,” Leigh whimpers as her movements grow more and more out of control. She drives into you relentlessly, each stroke making you slicker, drawing moans from deep within you. “S-Seeing you tonight... I couldn’t w-wait.”

You've never been so wet, so ready, and every time she pulls back, you feel the absence of her deeply, desperately not wanting this to end.

Leigh changes her approach, drawing back slowly until only the head of her cock remains inside you, before surging forward, slamming into you. Each powerful thrust pins you harder against the door, the sound of your bodies smacking together rocking you into a lust-filled haze. The sheer strength of her movements turns you on even more, making you more slippery, and soon you can practically hear the sound of her fucking you—wet, squelching noises that you're sure anyone nearby can hear.

True enough, you catch the sound of hurried footsteps and the door slamming shut as someone rushes out, likely realizing what's happening.

With the coast clear, she carefully lowers your legs from her waist, sensing that you’re close but knowing you need more. Just when you think you might lose it, she suddenly pulls out. You barely have time to gasp, ready to curse her for stopping, when she swiftly turns you around and positions you over the toilet, making you brace yourself on the seat.

Without warning, she enters you from behind, the angle allowing her to go deeper. Leigh drags your dress further up your body, her hands roaming over your smooth back before digging into your hips. Your breathing becomes shallower as she continues her unforgiving pace, but you crave more.

Sensing your need, Leigh sneaks a hand in front of you, her fingers finding your swollen clit. She circles it tightly with three fingers, massaging the engorged nub. “Look how big it's grown,” she whispers huskily in your ear. “You're so ready. Practically dripping everywhere.”

You whimper helplessly, tears forming behind your eyelids from the amount of pleasure you’re receiving.

“I wish I could come in you, fill you up.”

That does it. Your body tenses, and a powerful orgasm crashes over you, making you cry out. Leigh tries to hold you up, supporting your weight as you lose all sensation in your legs.

“Fuck, Leigh!" you moan, trembling. “That was... oh god…”

Leigh doesn't stop, her own need for release driving her forward. Despite your pleas about how sensitive you are, she continues relentlessly, her fingers expertly working your clit again. “Leigh, please,” you whimper, your body overstimulated and trembling. “I can’t—”

“Just one more, baby,” she groans. “I-I’m close.”

At Leigh’s plea, your body, still reeling from the first orgasm, starts building up again. “Oh god, Leigh,” you gasp, feeling the pressure mount once more, your body trembling uncontrollably. Within seconds, you're hurtling toward another peak, your legs shaking as she drives you over the edge. A second, even more intense orgasm rips through you, your cries echoing in the small stall. Leigh finally lets out a low, guttural moan, her own release hitting as she keeps you bent over, her fingers never stopping their assault on your clit until every last wave of pleasure has wracked your body.

Shortly thereafter, Leigh finally slows, her thrusts easing until she stops completely, still buried deep inside you. She pinches your ass appreciatively, then tests how sensitive you are with a small thrust that has you hissing. She chuckles at your reaction, taking pity on you. Bending over, she kisses your cheek and whispers, “I'm gonna pull out now, okay?”

You nod weakly, still catching your breath. Leigh begins to withdraw slowly, her eyes fixed on the junction of your bodies. She watches, fascinated, as she draws back, the wet tendrils stretching and finally snapping from your pussy to her cock.

“Look at you,” she murmurs in awe, half to herself, as she finally frees herself completely and tucks the strap back inside her pants.

“Are you okay?” she asks, noticing you’ve been in the same position longer than usual.

“Yeah, just give me a minute... or five,” you reply with a breathless laugh.

She laughs softly too, then helps you pull your panties up from your ankles. Once you're somewhat decent, she sits on the toilet lid and pulls you into her lap, resting her forehead on your chest, eyes closed, her breath steady on your sternum. You weave your fingers into her hair, massaging her scalp gently. Leigh sighs contentedly, but then her voice turns apologetic.

“I'm sorry for… I literally lost control. It's just... I keep seeing you and thinking of February, when I have to go and I—”

“I know what you mean,” you interrupt softly, tilting her head towards you with fingers under her chin. “I don't want to waste a single moment.”

Leigh nods, then quickly buries her face in your chest to hide her watery eyes, her head nestled comfortably against your breast.

For a while, you just hold each other without saying anything, content even in the cramped space of the stall. After a while, you gently suggest, “We should get back. Don’t want to give the staff any ideas.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Leigh says, lifting her head to meet your eyes.

She helps you to your feet, both of you adjusting your clothes, sharing a quiet, knowing smile. With one last kiss, you step out of the stall together.

When you and Leigh return to the group, it's clear they're more inebriated than when you left. Except Suzie. The smirk that spreads across her face as soon as she sees you gives away that she's pieced together what happened between you and Leigh. Your cheeks flush immediately, providing Suzie all the confirmation she needs. Without missing a beat, she guides you both back to the booth and strategically sits between you and Leigh, still smirking.

“Thanks for coming, Leigh,” Suzie says, offering Leigh a beer.

Leigh accepts the drink, taking a large gulp before saying, “Sorry for crashing your party.”

“No, you’re not,” Suzie says with an impish grin. “I told Y/N to invite you. I wanted to meet you properly before I go.”

“Oh?” Leigh looks up from her drink. “Why’s that?”

“Suzie—” you try to interject.

Suzie holds up a finger to shush you. Leigh's eyebrow arches at the gesture, clearly feeling provoked by your former receptionist's antics. You tense up for a moment, worried Suzie might say something offensive to Leigh.

Instead, she grins and says, “I wanted to meet the reason my boss stares into space half the time.”

You shoot Suzie a deathly glare, but she just laughs.

“Really?” Leigh asks, amused. “That bad, huh?”

Suzie nods, enjoying every second. “Oh, yeah. It’s been fun watching her daydream.”

The rest of the group laughs and then Foreman accidentally spills his drink down his shirt, drawing everyone’s attention. Taking advantage of the distraction, Suzie leans in closer to Leigh, her expression becoming earnest.

“I might not be Y/N’s best friend,” she tells her, “but consider this a friendly warning from someone who cares about her just as much. Don’t break her heart, okay?”

Leigh meets her gaze head on and says, “I don’t plan on it.”

“Good,” Suzie says, rising from her seat. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick off the second set of my concert tonight.”

Leigh doesn’t mention Suzie’s little warning to you, choosing to keep it to herself. Yet, as she spends more time with you, those words linger in the back of her mind, subtly coloring her perceptions and the way she observes your interactions. It’s not something she dwells on openly, but it’s there, quietly guiding her along the way.

You don’t tell Leigh how she’s been everything you could ever ask for these past few weeks, but you've noticed. You see her thoughtfulness in the small things—like how she always brings you your favorite coffee just the way you like it, or the way she listens, really listens, giving you her undivided attention when you talk about your day, no matter how trivial the details. And it's clear she's not holding back; she's refreshingly candid. Leigh shares everything that's on her mind, effortlessly expressing how your words or actions impact her, for better or worse—a true companionship.

The sex gradually tapered off, but your longing for Leigh has only grown—not just in a sexual sense. You miss her in the mornings when she's makeup-free, leaving a small mark of drool on your pillow. During the day, you wish you could grab lunch with her or talk about the new book you spotted in a shop window, especially after deep discussions about its author. You long to share every detail of your day with her, to hear her take on the little things, to see her in your dreams.

Simply put, you find yourself wanting her around all the time.

It's risky to find yourself wanting her even more than you already do, but you've long since surrendered control over your own heart. It feels like being a prisoner on death row, helplessly waiting for the inevitable moment she leaves LA for her tour.

One evening, Leigh surprises you with a picnic dinner at the park. She finds the perfect spot under a massive oak tree and lays down a cozy blanket. From her basket, she pulls out a homemade lasagna that’s still warm and a grazing box loaded with your favorite cheeses and cold cuts.

As you settle down, Leigh pulls out a bottle of wine and two glasses. She winks, assuring you she definitely got permission to take it from her mom’s cellar.

You smile, watching her pour the wine. “So.. what’s the occasion?”

Leigh shrugs as she hands you a glass of wine, her smile easy. “I just wanted to do something nice for you,” she says simply.

You take a sip, enjoying the flavor, but there’s a nagging feeling you just can’t seem to shake off.

“You've been going all out for me lately,” you quip, keeping your tone light. “What's this really about?”

Leigh’s smile fades just a touch, though her eyes remain hopeful. She takes a deep breath.

“I spoke with Matt's publisher,” she starts cautiously. “I’ve officially agreed to go on the tour. They've sorted out all the details—the itinerary, the places, everything.”

The news doesn't surprise you. You've been expecting this; neither you nor Leigh can keep avoiding the inevitable, hiding behind the rush of desire you have for each other, the comfortable days that are, you both know, numbered.

You fall silent for a while, simply lying down with your head in Leigh's lap. She seems taken aback at first, but quickly adjusts to make you more comfortable. You look up at her, smiling, finding her face and the night sky an unbelievably stunning match.

Leigh gives you a funny look, her brow furrowing slightly. “Did you hear what I said?” she asks.

“Yeah, I heard you,” you mumble, still distracted by her face. Then, as an afterthought, you whisper, “You were always going to go.”

She nods, looking upward, her eyes glistening as she tries to blink back tears.

“Are you going alone?” you ask.

Leigh takes a moment, then shakes her head slightly. “Danny might come too,” she admits. “But with his new job in Vegas, I doubt he’ll be able to.”

As you absorb her words, you realize why you asked. Maybe part of you had sensed it, maybe you needed the confirmation. Regardless, you know you have no say in the matter. If Danny is there, at least someone can look out for Leigh.

You hadn't noticed you'd voiced your thoughts about Danny possibly joining her until Leigh says, “I can handle myself just fine, you know.”

“Of course, you can,” you reply quickly, “but that won’t stop me from worrying.”

She gives you a soft smile and starts toying with your hair, gently pulling strands and braiding them. The slight tugs as she twists your hair into braids lull you into an almost sleepy state. You're drifting on the edge of dozing off when her voice, soft and tender, pulls you back.

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap open. Leigh’s refrained from saying it during sex, and not that you’ve been counting, but it’s the third time. It takes you a few seconds to process, your heart catching up with your mind, and then you notice Leigh's amused smile.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back. You can sense that your statement simultaneously makes her both happy and sad. You wish you could make it all joy, all the time.

But that’s not how life works.

Leigh bends down, her lips brushing softly against yours before she pulls away, her breath warm on your face. “Do you think this would be easier if we hadn't said those three words to each other?” she whispers, her eyes searching yours for an answer.

You sigh, mulling over her question. “I honestly don't know,” you say, voice soft but certain. “But I couldn’t have kept it to myself, not with how I feel about you. All I know is I love you, whether you’re leaving or staying.”

Leigh's eyes well up again, but this time she lets the tears fall. She leans in, her forehead resting against yours. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“For what?” you ask curiously, sitting up.

Leigh wipes her tear with a dainty finger, then traces the line of your jaw before pecking you on the lips.

“For being you,” she whispers. “And for showing me that life can go on in any number of ways.”

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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fayesia · 1 year ago

Note

Hii, can you write some Coriolanus Snow smut? Maybe where the reader get trapped woth coryo in dr. Gaul’s lab and they accidentally both breath sex pollen in?

Sex Pollen — Coriolanus x reader

a/n: hello everyone!! thank u so much for the insane amount of request i’ve been getting as a response to my recent post. i will be getting to them do not worry i apologise if i’m slower than some of you were expecting. like i’ve said i’m not used to this and got followers A LOT quicker than i expected but again thank you all, lots of love Faye xx 💋

warnings: nsfw 18+, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, coriolanus is a munch, fingering, cum play? (legit like a sentence at the end), lmk if i missed anything!

“woah what do you think this does?” you asked Coriolanus scanning the rack of vials containing numerous colours of liquid.

“i don’t know but let’s just get the medicine and leave”

“hmph fine” his response was much less daring but you simply assumed the pains he was getting medication for were getting to him.

You watched Coryo search through cupboards and shelves, meanwhile you found interest in a vial holding golden powder. Picking it up you observed the contents, the million specks of gold dust shined in the vial, it released a sweet smell, similar to maple syrup and honey.

“come look at this Coryo”

“give me a second. just gotta grab these…GOT IT!!”

his sudden outburst shocked you, the vial slipped from you hands smashing onto the ground, particles floated in the air, the room filling up with it as it wafted onto you and Coriolanus.

“what is this, what was in the vial?!”

“i don’t know okay you just scared me i’m sorry i don’t know why i dropped it”

Noticing your frenzied state he rushed over next to you.

“hey hey it’s ok, it was an accident, i shouldn’t have yelled at you, i apologise”

“we have to get out quickly” grabbing the medicine you’re both about to leave until Coriolanus stumbles, you rush to him grabbing him by the arm. An action supposedly to support him but rather resulting in you falling on top of him. Scrambling up the two of you rush out of Dr Gauls lab with barely any time to spare before her return. playfully winking at him you turn around mouthing the words “mission accomplished”. The triumph causing a rush of adrenaline you believed to be the reason behind the heating up of your body, little did you know the truth was far from that.

Back in your room the full effects of what seemed to be contained in that vial were effecting you, sharp pains assaulted your body while the heat only rose in your lower stomach.

Lying spread eagle face down on the bed you could barely move your head to hear the door to your room open. Coriolanus came rushing through standing by the side of your bed.

“what was in that vial. tell me you feel it too. tell me i’m not going crazy” you’re at a loss for words at this point simply nodding your head as a no in response to him questioning his sanity.

Your eyes finally focus enough to take notice of Coriolanus’ clothing — or rather lack of — his muscular physique is sculpted in a clean white wife beater and a pair of boxers. Your lower region only seems to get hotter and this sight, the first gush of liquid releasing from you, a sudden sensation shocking you as a small gasp left your mouth.

“what happened… oh” Coriolanus looks down as your thighs rub together, the embarrassment you should’ve felt seemed to have been taken over by the overwhelming need to be filled by something, a feral hunger only he could fill. A few seconds of silence pass by until you hear a loud sigh “fuck this” reaching forward Coriolanus lips capture your soft ones.

Both of your tongues fight for dominance, in the end Coriolanus wins unsurprisingly thanks to his ferocity, his hands resting on your hip slowly sliding up your shirt. Calloused hands squeeze your breast over your bra while your fingertips brush across his hard chest, no crevice of his abs left unexplored.

Clothes start piling up on the floor until Coriolanus is fully undressed staring down at you with you legs spread, a simple white lace underwear covering the one place he wants more than ever, a small oval stain of your need increasing his sense of urgency.

Pulling your hips closer to the edge, he kneels on the floor dragging your panties off and throwing them somewhere to join the rest of your clothes

“you’re so fucking beautiful”

you nervously smile down at him

“do you want this too?”

“please i need you, fucking hurts please do something, anything”

he breathily laughs at your response getting to work quicker than you expected, the feeling of his mouth sucking at your pussy while his tongue flicked back and forth over your clit leaves you a writhing, your loud moans echoing around the room. While his mouth is busy working on you, one of his hands is jerking off his cock, the tip bright pink and glistening from pre cum.

Coriolanus’ hands flip you over, pushing your back into a deep arch you’re more than compliant to, his hand forcing your cheek against the sheets while his other one positions his cock against your dripping hole. Sliding the length of his dick against your pussy he coats it with your arousal, which he uses as lube, slowly entering your pussy.

“Tell me when to keep going, god you’re just so wet for me”

Your pussy perfectly wraps around his cock and as you start getting used to his girth you began pushing back against him, more inches entering you, stretching you out more than your fingers ever could.

“Please keep going coryo hmm” you beckon him to began thrusting.

The noises of Coriolanus’ hips smacking against your ass from his hard thrust are the only things heard around the room, wet noises of your leaking pussy join soon, the volume of your moans increasing even more once two of his fingers rub at your clit.

You whine when Coriolanus pulls out, the empty feeling causing the pain from earlier to return.

“wanna look at your face when you come” you hear him whisper before he flips you over.

He roughly pushes your thighs against your shoulders, the action squishing your breast together, as he quickly slides himself back into you. His actions almost a whole one eighty compared to how sweet and gentle he was at first. However you’re not going to complain right now, staring into his blue eyes, the pair covered in a glossy shine with how dazed he is from pleasure, he moves his cock in and out at a pace that has you ready to come.

“Not yet baby”

“Hngh I’m gonna come please let me come”

“Wait for me, you’re not coming until I do, together”

You’re basically clinging onto the edge of your climax, the warm and wet walls of your pussy tighten around him cock, releasing more animalistic noises from his throat. He almost growls out the word ‘come’ and of course you’re more than happy to do exactly that. His hips stutter and with one more thrust Coriolanus’ cum shoots deep into your pussy, the feeling of your walls tightening, milk more and more cum out of him.

As he slowly pulls out, a mixture of his thick load and your cum pours out from your hole, the two of you watching it leak it. Unexpectedly Coriolanus drags his middle and ring finger through the mess, collecting a decent amount he pushes it back into your pussy, twitching a little after having such a stimulating orgasm.

Coriolanus kisses your forehead, his arms wrapping around your curdled body pulling you close, pressing yourself against him. The two of you falling into a peaceful rest.

~unedited~

#smut #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes smut #young!coriolanus snow

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feelbokkie · 3 months ago

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L♡VE IN F♡CUS | Chapter 22

WARNINGS: swearing, mention of food and eating, depiction of an anxiety attack

PAIRING: idol!Changbin x fem reader

GENRE: smau, crack, angst, fluff

P♡V: 1st/2nd person (depending on how you view it)

SUMMARY: Amateur concert photographer Y/n has recently been promoted to junior music journalist. Her first assignment? An exposé on the popular Kpop boy group, Stray Kids. Spending an entire tour doing in depth interviews with eight men seems simple enough, but one member isn't exactly open to the idea. Will Y/n be able to break down the walls around his heart, or will her big break turn into a big disaster?

TAGLIST: ♡PENED

W♡RD C♡UNT: 2,972

SCREENSH♡T C♡UNT: 21

A/N: I wasn't planning on writing this chapter so soon but on of you sent me a ko-fi and it kinda motivated me to get this chapter done and out.

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

You flip through the menu for the fifth time trying to figure out what to eat. Hyunjin and Wonseok happily chat along in their own little world about some art movement—you lost the plot of their conversation ages ago when they started about a specific type of paint and technique that you’re not even going to try to pronounce. Changbin sits across from you, absent-mindedly fiddling with his menu and nodding to the ongoing conversation.

“Are we boring you so much that you’re just going through the menu? Again?” Wonseok asks suddenly.

“I don’t know what to eat,” You grumble quietly.

Wonseok reaches over and turns a few pages in your menu. When he finds the page he's looking for he traces the page with his finger until he lands on one of the menu items. "They have fish and chips right here."

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd take us to an actual restaurant. I can't order fish and chips while the three of you order...whatever you're going to order. It's like if I went to a restaurant back home and just ordered tteok-bokki...or if we were in the States and I got chicken tenders and fries." You gently push Wonseok's hand away from you and roll your eyes.

Wonseok pulls back his hand and brings it to his temples, almost as if he's starting to get a headache. "This is probably the only time I'm going to get to treat professional idols to a meal, I'm not just going to give them street food. Just order what you really want to eat because you're not going to be able to order fish and chips for dinner at the place we're going to. I don't want to hear you complain about not eating what you wanted for the rest of my life."

You huff out a 'fine' as you close your menu and set it to the side. Your eyes land on Changbin who is quietly scribbling something on a piece of paper that seems to have materialized. You quietly shake your head and turn your attention to Hyunjin who is looking between you and Wonseok, thinking hard about something.

"You know, Wonnie, Hyunjin is an amazing artist." You pull up your broken arm from resting on your lap. "He's the one who drew all over my cast. He posts some of his stuff on his Instagram. He's probably even carrying around his sketchbook in that tote bag of his..."

"Ah, noona..." Hyunjin's voice trails off as he scratches the back of his neck. You can't see his ears under his hat but you can almost imagine how red they're getting.

Wonseok takes your broken arm and carefully examines the doodles and drawings on your cast. Most of them are flowers and plants. Occasionally, there are little characters like the BbokAri he drew next to Felix's message and the puppy next to Seungmin's. There's hardly any room left for anyone else to write anything. Before you forbade any of the members from hanging out with you without someone else there, Hyunjin would find his way to you when he was bored and draw on your arm.

"Wow, these are amazing, Hyunjin! Do you mind if I look at your sketchbook?"

Your arm is returned to you as Wonseok and Hyunjin get wrapped up in yet another art-filled conversation. Changbin is still focused on his piece of paper, scribbling away. Part of you wishes you could pull out the small tablet you brought with you so you could work on editing photos on the ride to the gallery. But you know that'll only cause Wonseok to scold you for working when you're not supposed to. If you could offer more thought to Wonseok and Hyunjin's conversation that isn't just regurgitated garbage from your first-year introduction to art history course that you took back in university, then you could easily join in their conversation.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat and rest your chin in your good hand. "What are you so focused on writing there Changbin?"

There's a moment of silence between the two of you. He pauses writing but you're not sure if he heard you or is thinking of what to write.

"Lyrics," He mumbles so softly that you almost miss it amongst the noise that is Wonseok and Hyunjin chattering loudly beside you.

"Did you get an idea just now?" You perk up in your seat a bit. "Can...can I see? I won't write about it. It's all off the record."

Changbin's head stays low, focusing on writing his lyrics. It's only now that you're reminded of his inability to focus on more than one thing at a time. The fact that he answered you earlier is strange and probably the most he can do.

You watch him silently as he works. You take note of all of the little things you see. Like the way his brows twitch as he tries not to furrow then while he scribbles something out. Or how the fingers on his nondominant hand dance on the table while his head subtly bops along to a rhythm only known to him. Whether he's simultaneously creating a beat in his head while he works or he's remembering a song that one of the other members of 3racha made is another unknown factor that you wish you knew the answer to. You notice the way he mouths out the words he's writing to himself and how quickly he presses his lips together and shakes his head when it appears to not flow correctly. You can only imagine that this is what it was like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel; hypotonic.

You only break out of your trance when your server comes to the table and takes your order, something that neither you nor Changbin noticed until Wonseok and Hyunjin told you. And that's when Changbin finally looked up and caught you staring at him, forcing you to look away as heat rose to your face. Wonseok took advantage of the situation and ordered your food for you before you could change your mind.

After lunch, the four of you decided to walk around London for a bit. When you were working with Han and Seungmin yesterday, you made sure to avoid the more populated and obvious tourist areas, only capturing notable landmarks in the distant background. With more freedom to explore, you all head to the more touristy areas so Hyunjin and Changbin can blend in more seamlessly.

As you walk along the crowded streets, the earlier pain you felt inside the art galley quickly comes back. You're paying less attention to the conversation between Wonseok and Hyunjin and more to your surroundings. Despite the cool day, you feel suffocatingly hot. Almost like something is sucking all of the air out of your lungs.

"...Y/n!"

You snap out of whatever daze you're in at the sound of Wonseok's worried voice. You glance up to meet three concerned faces watching you carefully.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" Your voice is thick is unsteady as you're unable to meet any of their eyes.

"Are you okay? You're walking slowly. I thought we lost you in the crowd for a moment there."

You swallow hard as you try to settle your rapidly beating heart. "I think I ate too much earlier. My stomach hurts."

"You look kind of pale, noona," Hyunjin chimes in. "Maybe we should head back to the hotel?"

You wave Hyunjin off quickly. "N-no, it's okay. I just need a moment."

"I'll go get you some water." Wonseok's voice softens with a gentle tone as he looks around for a shop.

Hyunjin places one hand on Wonseok's shoulder, stopping him from trying to look through the crowd. He pulls his bucket hat off with his other hand, gaining a clear view of the area. "We've been here a few times. I think I know where there's a shop nearby. I'll help you find it, hyung."

"Okay, thank you. Changbin, are you okay watching Y/n?" Wonseok asks the younger man.

Too focused on the unsettling feeling growing through your body, you don't notice that Changbin's already watching you. He's been silently keeping an eye on you since you started to fall behind on your walk. Had Wonseok waited a second longer to notice you, Changbin would have said something to bring their attention to you.

"I got her," He says simply.

With that, Hyunjin tosses something at Changbin and leads Wonseok forward through the crowd. Changbin quietly pulls you off to the side away from the crowd, under the shade of a tree. You mumble out what you hope is a 'thank you,' and focus on Changbin's shoes. They're white sneakers a blue stripe going through them. Subconsciously, you start to count the small holes near the end of the shoe while you place your hand on your chest. You feel your heart beating rather quickly like it's beating a little too hard and might give out at any moment. You apply as much pressure with your hand and take deep, unsteady breaths as you try to calm your heart.

You feel something cover your head, partly obstructing your vision and muffling the outside noise. You look back up at Changbin who is now adjusting Hyunjin's bucket hat that he put on your head.

"Professional idol secret," His words come slowly as he continues to fix the rim around the hat. "A lot of us don't do well in crowds so we wear bucket hats to block out the noise and the view a bit. Fans think we wear them to hide our hair for comebacks, but most of the time it's to protect our sanity."

You swallow dryly, unable to wet your suddenly parched throat. "I go to concerts and fan signs for a living. I do well in crowds."

Changbin crouches down so you can see him under the protection of the bucket hat, a tender smile warms his whole face. It's the first time you've seen him smile since the gallery. "In the past, yeah, but...you have the same expression on your face that you've been getting when we're at the airport lately. You kind of look like Hannie when he's having an anxiety attack."

"I don't have anxiety attacks," You're not sure if you're telling Changbin or reassuring yourself. You can't remember a single moment in your life where you've had an anxiety attack. So why would you start now?

"Okay," Changbin nods before standing up straight again, your view of him is once again obstructed by the hat. He gently takes your hand off of your chest and places it on his own. "At the very least, match my breathing. You sound like you just ran a marathon and I can't help you if you pass out. I don't know cpr."

The two of you stand there for a moment. Changbin's hand is firmly on yours as he keeps it on his chest. You have no choice but to match his breathing by following the steady rising and falling of his chest. You can feel the subtle, yet rapid thuds of his heart beating in his chest despite how calm he is.

Slowly, but surely, your own breathing falls into its own steady rhythm and the strange feeling in your body dissipates. You're not exactly sure how long the two of you stand like that, but eventually you drop your hand from his chest and Changbin let's you.

"Better?"

You slowly nod your head. Most of your discomfort is gone, but you still feel jittery. Almost as if you injected straight caffeine into your bloodstream. "Yeah, I just need to sit down."

Changbin doesn't ask further questions and instead leads you to the small grassy area near the tree and urges you to sit. He joins you on the grass, falling back into silence. Now that you're relatively back to normal, you can't help but avoid looking at Changbin. You're more thankful for the hat now that it can help you avoid his gaze.

The two of you sit there in silence for a few more minutes before Wonseok and Hyunjin find you. Hyunjin is about to question why you're wearing his hat before Changbin stands up and pulls Hyunjin to the side for a moment to talk to him.

Wonseok takes one of the empty spots beside you and rummages through the plastic bag he brought back with you. He pulls out a water bottle and a small metal tin and hands them to you. "I watched a TikTok ages ago and a doctor on there said that mint is supposed to be good for an upset stomach."

"Thank you," You smile tiredly at Wonseok.

Hyunjin and Changbin make their way back to you. Hyunjin takes the other open spot next to you while Changbin sits on the other side of him. They're quiet for a moment while you continue to drink your water and eat the mints that Wonseok bought. Wonseok passes out the other water bottles from his bag to Hyunjin and Changbin.

Surprisingly, Changbin breaks the silence first, asking if the store that Wonseok and Hyunjin went to was crowded. Then the conversation shifted to what everyone planned to do later. Wonseok tells them about your now tentative dinner plans, which leads to an argument. You change the subject to see what the newlywed couple of the group had planned. The conversation shifts again, this time to souvenirs that all of you want to get. Which of course leads to another teasing argument that ends with Wonseok trying to make you spill water on yourself.

"You two are such a cute couple. How long hav--"

You choke on your water as Hyunjin's words catch you off guard and trickle down the wrong pipe. Wonseok has his own visceral reaction, one that you don't see but you can hear the sound of him gagging at the question. Still, Wonseok slaps your back to help you get the water out.

"We--are not--dating." You choke out as you try to regain your composure.

"Y/n is like my little sister," Wonseok adds as he drops his hand back to his side.

Both Hyunjin and Changbin have confused expressions as they watch the two of you. Hyunjin opens and closes his mouth like a fish as he lets out confused babbles. "Sorry, I just thought...you two are...when..."

"Wonseok hyung is older than you but you two talk casually. Plus you're so close." Changbin says finally. Hyunjin shuts his mouth and nods quickly, agreeing with Changbin's reasoning.

"That's because Wonnie is a pathological liar--ouch!" You rub the spot on your leg where Wonseok hit you and glare at him. Although, you're not sure he saw your face through the hat.

"Stop telling people that I'm a pathological liar." You don't have to see to know that he's rolling his eyes. Wonseok shifts a bit and faces Hyunjin and Changbin. "I enlisted right after I graduated high school to get my military service over with. I ended up liking it so much that I stayed for two more years. When I finally enrolled in university, I was so much older than everyone in my classes that I just never mentioned how old I was. I met Y/n our senior year during our internship so I never said anything. She didn't know that I was older until we got our official IDs with our birth year on them."

"And he's so much older," You crack a smile.

"Stop that, I'm only 3 years older than you."

"Whatever," You wave him off as you turn back to the two younger men. "Besides, we're really like family. His parents treat us like siblings."

"Plus I have a girlfriend."

"And he has a girlfri..." Your voice falters in the middle of your sentence as you think about it for a moment. You turn to Wonseok and blink for a moment as you try to process what's happening. "You got a girlfriend? You actually got a woman to talk to you? Romantically? Who is it? Do I know her?"

His lips form a line so tight that the skin around them turns white while he tries to think. You flip part of the bucket hat up so you can see his have better. He's looking down at a blade of grass, contemplating something before he meets your eyes. "Frankie,"

"My Frankie?"

"Well, technically our Frankie but yeah." He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

"Oh," Your heart rapidly sinks to the bottom of your stomach.

You physically bite your tongue to prevent yourself from asking a million questions. Knowing that your best friends are dating behind your back hurts. Especially when there's an unspoken agreement against keeping secrets. So why did…

"I'm going to throw this all away and then we can explore a bit more." You get up quickly and take everyone's now empty water bottle.

If you stay where you are and continue to let your mind wander any further, you're going to either say something rude to Wonseok or burst into tears. You're happy that your friends found happy relationships. But they kept it from you and the idea of that doesn't feel good in your head or your heart.

"Noona--"

Wonseok puts his arm out, preventing Changbin from going after you. You're out of ear range as you walk quickly to the trashcan. Wonseok turns to both younger men and shares a small smile. "I get it but if you try to comfort Y/n when she's upset, it's going to become a bigger issue. Trust me, she hate when people see her upset or cry. Just let her have a moment and then she'll be okay."

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

TAG LIST (closed)

Red means that it wouldn't let me tag you (either at all or properly)

@amyyscorner @puppysmileseungmin @lixie-phoria @yongbbokkie @spearb-99

@weird-bookworm @stayconnecteed @brain-empty-only-draken @hanniemylovelyquokka @sunshinessky

@marked-unknown @lanatheawesome @theblindhag @skz-f0rlif3 @f9clementine

@kalopsian-thoughts @ismelllikechlorine247 @hyunjineret @kangaracharacha @slut4colinbridgerton

@reverse-soe @cupidsmoons @jungwonderz @szkstay @tenmii

@stay278 @phtogravi @hannahs-docx @jihanlovic @alnex05

@beccaskz @starlostastronaut @itsseohannbin @kayleefriedchicken @anushasstuff

@jutdwae-archives @dazzlingjade @itzella @divineinsanity @skzjen

@binchive @hannahdinse8

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enodia-polymorphous · 3 months ago

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DIRT PATHS, CREEKS, AND CROSSROADS A crossroads reflection following a visit to a local reserve's creek.

Beyond the backyard of my partner's house, it's possible to move from one world to another.

Where one is white and grey townhouses built in an estate, fit for modern domestic architecture, the other is just down a set of wooden staircases, mismatched in shape and height, approaching a natural world that sings with the water-flow of a nearby creek.

A nature reserve — somehow more accessible now due to the residences built in this area, that came with infrastructure such as staircases and pathways — and it's so much more vast than what you'd imagine just by looking out the window.

I take the stairs down, and I walk the white, measured concrete paths. I take a turn towards a barbeque and seating area, and then I'm met with a crossroads. I could continue along the concrete, or I can choose the path drawn in dirt.

I take the dirt path.

Crossroads exist pretty much everywhere. Spiritually, mentally, and physically. Though, I think my very favourite to look for are dirt crossroads. Ones spotted in the absence of the green grass that surrounds them, or those recognised as desire paths. They are created from use, from preference, for purpose.

There is safety in walking a dirt path many-times-walked. They tell us: "Someone has walked here before, now you do. In the future, yet another will walk the path, and perhaps one day it will be you again."

Whether from my love of crossroads or by the influence of my goddess, I always feel this sparkle of happiness when I approach a nature-based crossroads. I praise Hekate in this sacred domain.

What I love about this path to the side of the concrete is how it leads to a beautiful creek. It takes about forty minutes to an hour to make the entire journey around the reserve, and you can see the river that the creek runs into most of the trip.

Creeks and rivers are considered liminal places. They are also crossroads, even if they don't appear as the usual T or Y shaped road.

When you approach a creek, you have a choice. You can go over the creek at that moment, you can walk along the stream and find another way, or you could turn around. It is a place of transition, and more.

This creek in particular has a bridge from one side to the other formed by large boulders. They're easier or harder to climb across depending on how high the water is. When I visited this time, the water was lower than usual, easing my anxieties of crossing.

Balance and being confident on my feet, especially in situations where I can "fall off", is something I'm working on. I get to just before halfway across the rocks before stopping. It's better than other times.

As I stood there, overlooking both sides of this river, I noticed how still the water was in the distance. It hardly looked like it was moving. But when I looked down, to the water rushing between the rocks, it was a completely different scene, which came with an understanding.

Being in this space and honouring Hekate, I thought about the Six of Swords. There are many ways to interpret tarot cards, though some of the ways I see the Six of Swords includes:

Moving into calmer water, or into turbulent water. It can go either way.

A transition.

A rite of passage.

A requirement to take what's most important while leaving the rest, and moving on.

And...

How the water may seem still at times. How we look out into the distance and grumble about things not happening, things not changing. We want things to happen, good things! And we get frustrated. We lose patience.

Until the next moment when the seemingly slow water breaks into tens of rushing streams, making their way through river grass and over rocks, reaching the other side of the bridge and then we see it.

Our progress, how everything has come together, how being still and contemplative at these crossroads have allowed for life and our path to move with us and around us.

We don't realise just how far we've come until the rushing water has become still again in the distance.

Hear me, Hekate! Goddess of liminality, of transitions, and of the crossroads. I praise you for the beautiful natural dirt crossroads that I come across and acknowledge in your name. I honour you with libations poured where three paths meet. Please sit with us when the water is still, and remain with us when we finally realise how fast things are moving. Khaire, Hekate.

divider credit -> @enchanthings-a

#✶ — › crossroad reflections #hekate #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan #hellenic deities #hellenic worship #paganism

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n0odlz · 2 months ago

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EC Relationship Chart 😼

Plus my hc's so I can probably draw them later😁💞💞

How they'd react to the FREAK of Mya

Mya: "I'm gonna touch you"

Jerry: "Fucking weirdo" 😰

Pete: "Not if I touch you first" 😈

Josh: *Repulsive expression* 😦

Bill: "Keep your bitch germs away from me" 😦

How they found Mya

Jerry- Jerry was looking around the library to check out the first Harry Potter book yet again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone.. A girl. She seemed to be drawing, but drawing what? He shook his head and decided to mind his business. Even if he DID decide to approach her, she'd most likely be repulsed by just his appearance alone. A few days pass and he's already finished the book, so he decided to check out the next one. Yet again, he spots the same girl in her Batman shirt and short, kinky hair with rectangular glasses as well as too many accessories to count. Each and every time he came back to the library, all he would see was that same girl drawing in her sketchbook. By the time he had to check out the last book, he built up the courage to actually come up to her.

Pete: What the hell was a lady doing at Joe's? It was just so...strange..and just out of the ordinary. Pete just rolled his eyes and decided on minding his business, "because girls can only bring trouble." All of a sudden, he heard some commotion going on and being the curious little guy he was, he decided to check it out. Concern only rose when he heard the noises coming from the horror section and he immediately jogged over there. Once he arrived, he saw that same girl arguing with a guy.. Not over some weird shirt, not over a dumb poster. Over a limited edition Michael Myers vinyl figure. He watched as she argued and clawed at the boy who was definitely fighting back just as hard. Insults spewed at each other with the shuffling and huffing of them pushing each other against the shelves. He watched in shock.. Well, not really. He was more entertained over being shocked. His excitement heightened once he witnessed her unnaturally long nails draw blood from the boys wrist in turn making him yelp in pain drawing the attention of everyone else in the shop.

Josh: The Eltingville club was on an outing to their local mall. Mainly to cause ruckus and mayhem, but to also have fun. One place they decided to head to was the movies, only Josh had to use the bathroom so that's exactly what he did. He found the restroom and quickly did his business, leaving without washing his hands of course. He was headed back to the theater section until he spotted a girl. Yeah, of course there's a girl in the mall.. But why was she in such attire? A tacky Jimmy Neutron shirt with biker shorts, white leg warmers and some beat up black and red converse, purposely mismatched probably trying to piss someone off. Josh could only stand in stare in not only disgust but admiration...But only because she was into Jimmy Neutron!

Bill: My GOD! Where could he start? First off, Jane had her loud, stupid friends over during the only time he could sleep in without being yelled at by his mom. He tried getting dressed but half his clothes were dirty (as if that actually prevented him from wearing them anyway), and to top it off, a fucking foid in the local movie rental store. And no, she wasn't just there for anything.. Not just any movie.. But she was here to grab.. No. STEAL the newest release, "The Batman". He'd be DAMNED if he let a FEMALE not only enter his sacred nerd space but also steal his sacred nerd movie! He first bumped into her in the "new releases" aisle, trying his best not to quiz her on everything she knows and he was doing so well till they reached for the exact. Same. Movie.

"Excuse me Foid, I think you meant to go in the 'chick flick' section. This section is for REAL Dark Knight fans."

"ACTUALLY, I came here first and I touched it first, so I'm gonna be the one to rent the damn movie"

Unamused and unimpressed, she snatched the movie and was starting to walk away until she felt a firm tug on her arm. It was that nasty, brunette incel with his disgustingly dirty Batman shirt. It was unfortunate that they were practically matching that day with their shirts, it only deepened her animosity towards him. His firm tug on her wrist and constant insults only led her into a fit of rage, causing her to turn around and immediately start yelling and choking him. "Females are always violent ."

#eltingville club #pete dinunzio #the eltingville club #bill dickey #jerry stokes #evan dorkin #eltingville oc #josh levy #joshua levy #william alan dickey #jerome stokes #welcome to eltingville #my hcs #hcs #idk what else to tag #n0odlz

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rose-of-the-grave · 7 months ago

Text

The Great War: Chapter 4

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Hey everybody! I know it's been a while but here's chapter 4!!! As always I'm the author (please don't repost)

Masterlist Series Masterlist Read on Ao3

Warnings: mentions of past friendships, chess, "princess"

Word Count: 1924

Description: Y/N gets invited to study with the Slytherins, plays chess with Ron, and discovers she and Mattheo have a class together.

Taglist: @sylveryfire, @undercover-smutlover, @relminnie

“So, for the project we need someone to do research on the origins of crystal-gazing and someone to talk about famous examples. I can do the famous examples?”

“That’s fine with me, I’ll do the origins.” There was sure to be a book or two on it in the library Y/N thought.

“Great.” Pansy said, “We’re all meeting up in one of the abandoned classrooms to study after lunch. If you’re free, we could work on the project then.”

“You sure about that?”

“It’ll be fine. We need as many girls as we can get. It’s mostly boys so the testosterone levels are off the charts.” She stook out her tongue in faux disgust. Waltzing off ahead, her robes swishing behind her.

Y/N walked over to the Great Hall like everyone else while Pansy seemed to be heading outside. The weather, she remarked, was nice. Bright blue skies with not a cloud in sight. Turning away she walked through the massive doorway, spotting her friends already seated. Dropping onto the bench next to Ron she set her bag down beside her, her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had time for breakfast in the morning.

“Hey!” Hermione greeted her. A relieved look on her face. Glancing at her other friends’ faces she noticed how stormy they looked. As if they were engaging in a silent argument.

“Can you tell Harry that he needs to stop spying on Malfoy on that bloody map?” Ron asked suddenly, his gaze still trained on Harry whose eyes were boring into his plate, using his fork to move the food around. “He’s bloody obsessed with that thing!”

Harry looked up at him, a fiery look in his eyes. “I’m not obsessed!” He denied.

“Then what do you call staying up until all hours of the night watching his every move? If he were a Death Eater Dumbledore would know.”

Forever the mother hen, Hermione looked at him sharply. “You need your sleep Harry. Let Dumbledore handle it.”

He sighed, “I know.”

She looked at him, skeptical, but didn’t say anything else.

When they finished eating, she stood up ready to find Pansy so they could work on their project.

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, puzzled. They usually hung out outside with Hagrid or went up to the common room after lunch.

“Group project for divination. See ya!”

“Bye!”

After leaving the Great Hall she headed to the library to get a book on crystal gazing before leaving in search of the classroom Pansy had told her about which was completely empty, save a few people. One of them turned around to look at her, his eyes piercing her soul. He looked slightly amused, a smirk on his face.

“Are you following me?” Mattheo drawled.

“What? No! Pansy invited me.”

“I doubt that, princess.”

Before she could assure him that she was indeed invited by Pansy, the girl in question flounced into the room and quickly approached them.

“Are you behaving?” Not waiting for a response she turned to Y/N. “I swear he’s like a dog, always snarling at outsiders. He won’t bite though. He’s really just a big softy.” She ruffled his hair. He playfully snapped at her hand causing her to laugh before taking a seat at the table.

When Y/N also sat down he leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.” She jerked away, scooting her chair a few inches to the left. Disgust causing her cheeks to flush. Laughing he got up and walked out of the room.

Shaking her head, Pansy turned to the task at hand. Taking out a piece of parchment Y/N began writing down some details from the first section of the book she had grabbed, ‘Crystallomancy: The Ancient Art of Crystal Gazing.’. It wasn’t long until she had some of the basics about its origins and the first practitioners of it.

At the table across the room a few Slytherins she didn’t recognize were huddled together, discussing something in hushed tones. None of them were from her year she realized, they were all second or third years. Confused, she asked the raven-haired girl sitting across from her, “Pansy?”

“Mhmm?” She didn’t look up from whatever she was doing.

“Where is everyone else?”

Pansy looked up, her eyes narrowed in confusion, “Everyone else?”

Trying not to seem too interested she responded, “Yeah, I mean where’s Malfoy and Nott?”

She shrugged. “Probably with Mattheo. Outside”

“Don’t they need to work on the project too?”

She smirked self-deprecatingly, “You’re talking about the two Slytherins who are top of the class constantly. Right up there with your mudblood friend.” She spat the word out like it was a curse.

“Don’t call her that.” She retorted but there was no heat to it. She knew how purebloods viewed muggleborns, especially those who were once Death Eaters like a lot of her parents’ friends. Y/N couldn’t bring herself to hold it against her.

Pansy shrugged and continued to work. After a while it was nearing dinner time so they all left, eager for nourishment after hours of studying.

“Same time, tomorrow?” Y/N asked.

“Sure.” The Slytherin replied before making a beeline for her friends.

When she sat down Hermione turned to look at her, “Hey, where were you?”

“Studying.”

Hermione hummed, seemingly unsatisfied with her answer but let it slide, turning to face Ginny who had asked a question. Y/N leaned in as well, curious to hear what was going on between her and Dean. They had been on the outs for the past few days and yet earlier, between classes they had been spotted all cozy in the common room. Luckily Ron hadn’t seen them. It was already awkward enough having to share a dorm room with his younger sister’s boyfriend, he did not want to hear about it.

“So what’s going on with you and Dean? Have you made up yet?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, he finally apologized for his remark, explaining that it was meant to be a joke but that he realized he took it too far.”

“That’s good, I was getting a little worried there for a second that you two were over.”

Ginny smiled, “Nope, not yet at least.”

Too bad, Y/N thought, they were getting to be kind of toxic. Not that she would say that out loud.

After dinner they all went back to the Gryffindor tower. Once in their room alone Hermione asked, “So who were you studying with?”

“Huh? Oh, um Lavender and Parvati. Why?”

The curly haired girl shrugged, turning to her stack of homework that she was still finishing up. “You go on ahead of me, I’ll come downstairs later.

“Mkay.”

Y/N changed into more casual wear before heading back down to the common room.

“Oh, look who it is! Just in time for a game of wizard’s chess!” Ron called from where he sat by the fireplace. His favorite game had become a ritual, every night they would play at least one or two matches while the other two observed. Over time Y/N had gotten better, managing to beat him a few times.

Weaving through the other Gryffindors who were also hanging out together she sat down across from him, awaiting his first move.

“Pawn to E4.”

And so the battle began, going back and forth, taking each others’ pieces until they were nearing a stalemate.

“Ready to give up?” She taunted.

Ron grinned, “Not yet.” Before smoothly moving his last piece, save the king. “Checkmate!”

“Wait, what? Oh.” In her pursuit to win she had left her own king open for the taking. Shit.

“Better luck next time!”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop gloating.” She told him, pretending to be hurt but not fully hiding her smile so he would know that she wasn’t.

“Rematch?”

Shaking her head, “Not tonight, find someone else to wipe the board with.” Y/N stood up and wandered over to the stairs. Hermione still hadn’t come down. She wasn’t too worried though because her best friend had a habit of getting sucked into her homework, completely disregarding the time.

When she did make it upstairs Hermione was lying on the bed, her notes covering the bed, some partially tucked under her.

Knowing that she wouldn’t want to go to bed without brushing her teeth, the occupational hazard of being the daughter of dentists, she gently shook her shoulder.

“Hey, wake up.”

Her brown eyes opened, blinking owlishly. After taking a second to readjust she reorganized her notes before going to brush her teeth.

The next day she made it through Alchemy before retiring back to the dorms to take a nap in preparation for the late night ahead. Why did she think that taking Astronomy was a good idea? She barely knew anyone in the class. That question kept circling in her head as she walked up to the Astronomy tower once it got dark.

The rest of her classmates were there, mingling. Some were already at their stations. Picking an empty one on the end she gazed out into the distance. The moon was especially bright, its silvery glow washing over the ground below.

“Mr. Riddle. I see you finally found your way after a month of classes. Join Ms. Y/L/N on the end.”

The Slytherin sauntered over to her station. “Well, well. Imagine seeing you here princess. Twice in two days, you must be obsessed.”

“Says the one who came here after me. If anyone is the stalker here, it would be you.” She retorted, her finger pressing into his chest punctuating her last few words.”

“Fair enough.” He admitted, grabbing her hand before she could pull it away. “And yet, you can’t keep yourself from touching me.”

Yanking her hand out from his grasp she pulled out the star chart and began that assignment.

After a few minutes she looked over to see that Riddle wasn’t doing anything.

“Why’d you even bother coming if you weren’t going to do the work?”

He shrugged, teasing her. “Maybe I came to annoy you.” Before giving her what she could only describe as puppy eyes. He had the most beautiful brown eyes that just made you want to trust him. But she couldn’t.

“I’m flattered,” She deadpanned, giving him an unimpressed look she continued working diligently, studiously ignoring his deadly gaze.

“Well, this is boring,” He said, grinning over at her, “Wanna see something fun?”

Shaking her head in despair she turned away. Before she knew it there was a crack and something heavy fell from the castle and onto the ground below.

“Mr. Riddle!” The teacher yelled, “Detention. And 200 points from Slytherin!”

One of the other Slytherins nearby groaned, probably upset that his house had just lost so many points.

When he didn’t move their teacher came over and told him to leave, she would see about his detention task in the morning.

The troublemaker shrugged nonchalantly, slowly getting to his feet. “So long princess.”

Rolling her eyes, she shot him a look of disgust before turning back to her work, definitely not watching as he walked away.

She spent the rest of class pushing out thoughts of him. He’s just a mission. He’s a Death Eater. He’s Voldemort’s son. His dad killed Harry’s dad and has repeatedly tried to kill Harry. His friends have made her life a living hell. The devil may wear a beautiful face but an ugly soul lies beneath.

Y/N hated Riddle.

Chapter 5>>

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in upcoming chapters!)

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spankingwishes2 · 11 months ago

Text

A Chance Remark

I’m not even sure how I got invited… Well, I mean, I am – I tagged along with Crystal, my co-worker (who then left early) – but one Thursday evening I found myself in a ‘Wine and Whine’ session with a couple of Crystal’s friends at the house of this woman named Stephanie (her husband had wisely made himself scarce while originally five, and now three, complaining women invaded his shared castle). I had had a few glasses of wine before switching to sparkling water but figured the later I stayed the safer I was to drive home. Stephanie’s neighbor, Megan, however, had no such concerns.

Megan’s concerns were more long-term. Soon to be divorced, no dating prospects (she claimed, or at least no decent ones), didn’t like her job or her new boss… you know, the usual mix of real complaints and generalized bitching… bad enough for me but our hostess had clearly heard it all before – probably recently.

“I’ve made such a mess of every single thing in my life,” Megan moaned, “I should just be spanked.”

Did my ears ever prick up at the use of my favorite word! I tried hard not to react, looking at her with mild interest. But Stephanie took another approach.

“Okay, well, come on, then,” she said, standing up.

“Wha…?” Megan answered. Now my eyebrows were raised to my hairline but I kept silent, with my brain saying ‘Really?’.

“You said so yourself and you’re right,” Stephanie said, moving a chair, sitting in it and patting her lap.

“Ah, I should probably go…” I said, starting to rise – despite how much I dearly, dearly wanted to stay.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Stephanie snapped in a voice that sounded like I might be next – though I knew that was only wishful thinking. (I did, however, wonder just how much she’d had to drink.)

Megan stood up and I could tell this was actually going to happen. “Well, I suppose…” she said, moving to Stephanie’s right.

“Unt uh…” our hostess corrected, tapping on Megan’s belt buckle. “Down.”

I swallowed hard and pressed my legs together, only partly because I needed to pee – though I certainly wasn’t going anywhere!

She probably didn’t have to comply, but she did. And Stephanie didn’t stop there!

“Oh wait – please!” Megan complained, but made no move to resist.

“Get real,” Stephanie growled, and down came the panties! Apparently relying on some inside information, she accused, “So… spending too much time on line, have you?” Smack!

“Um, maybe…” Smack smack smack! “Okay, yes!” Smack! “Ow!”

I sat there, transfixed, as this proceeded right before my eyes as if I wasn’t even there.

“You know you have…” Smack! Smack!

It was all I could do to keep my hand from between my legs – but I sure wasn’t going to risk it!

“Sorry! Ow!” Megan squealed.

“Don’t apologized to me, you’re the one who’s suffering for it!”

“I am! I am!” Megan insisted – even though that’s not what her chastiser meant.

“And you will…” Smack smack smack! “Continue to do so…” “Until you stop!” The smacks continued and it didn’t sound like they were going to stop! I was getting a little concerned for Megan – and worried that she might get mad in a minute. Stephanie may have been picking up the same rebellious vibe.

“So,” Stephanie asked her, hand raised, “Have we taken care of that?”

Megan made a face – which probably only I saw, but said nothing.

“Have we?” Stephanie demanded, giving her another chance.

“Well, then…” she said – and the spanking resumed.

Now Megan was quiet, mostly, sort of grunting in response to the slaps, acting stubborn. She was more jerking than squirming now and I was surprised (especially in her inebriated, self-pitying state) that she wasn’t crying.

Somehow Stephanie could tell when she’d had enough – it was subtle, but I reached the same conclusion about the same time.

“There! That ought to do it!” she said at last, stopping the spanks and giving Megan’s now-red bottom a bit of a rub.

Megan knelt and turned away from me, showing off the bottom she was rubbing. Panties back in place, she stood up just as Stephanie did and they hugged. “Thanks, I guess,” she told her.

“Anytime,” her spanker responded, in a tone that made it seem more like a threat than an offer. I swear I almost climaxed, hearing this.

I stood as well. “I really should be going now,” I told them – not knowing when Mr. Stephanie was due home, or what little post-spanking bonding might transpire, plus a desperate need to deal with my arousal…

“I hope we haven’t embarrassed you, Lauren” Stephanie said.

“No, not at all,” I answered, realizing from the heat in my face that I was still flushed quite red.

“We’ll have to have you back sometime.”

“I’m going to take you up on that,” I assured her.

“Promise?”

“I promise!” I said sincerely, with yet another jolt of excitement.

Megan and I made our goodbyes, with me hoping things get better for her and assuring her I hadn’t been embarrassed, and I made my way to the door.

***

So I guess I’m part of the group now. This week we met at Crystal’s, and no mention of last week was made. I’m still trying to figure out how to get Stephanie alone… maybe ask her for advice on something? Think think think…

#first #career #encounters

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samwpmarleau · 7 months ago

Text

fic: ssdd

whumptober day 5: sunburn masterlist: tumblr, ao3 In which Daisy and Robbie get stuck in rural Utah.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

They walk for another two minutes beneath the blazing sun.

“But you did rag on rural Utah, and now we’re —”

“— stuck in rural Utah. Yes, I’m aware of the irony, Reyes. Can’t believe you won’t just jump us somewhere.”

“I can’t. I told you, I need my chain for that, and they took it.”

“Some all-powerful demon you’ve got inside you, can’t even make a portal without a prop.”

“You’re one to talk. What do you call your gauntlets? Without those, you’d break your arms.”

“Those aren’t props, they’re … accessories. Like your jacket.”

“My jacket is for effect. Or was.”

“Aren’t you fancy.”

“Whatever. We can’t change where we are, so can we just be civil?”

“That depends on how big this stupid desert is. Do you know where exactly they dropped us?”

“No. We should probably keep walking east. Otherwise, if we’re already west of Salt Lake, we’ll hit more desert in Nevada and be even worse off than we are now.”

“Yeah, and if we’re east of Salt Lake, we’ll get a whole lot of nothing until Colorado. I know my geography, too.”

“I never said you — look, it sucks either way. I’m just saying we might have better luck going east.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t know, I’ll make it up to you.”

“By doing what?”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Understatement.”

—

As the hours pass and they come across no signs of refuge, Daisy wonders whether the Rider really needs that specific prop to portal-jump, or whether any conduit would do. Could he make a dried-up stick work? Or an animal bone? It wouldn’t carry the same panache as a spiked hellfire chain, but it’d do the job. Then again, if that were possible, the Rider would’ve done it by now. Whatever misgivings she may have with him and Robbie at the moment, she doesn’t think he’d prolong this on purpose.

The only benefit is that the sun finally has begun to dip. The temperature falls quicker than Daisy had expected, almost enough to allow her to enjoy the breathtaking sunset, and the sweat cools against her skin. She would kill for a glass of water right about now. Some trail mix wouldn’t hurt either. She’s got another two days or so for the former and three weeks for the latter, though, she’ll be fine.

She will not die in goddamn rural Utah.

—

The desert is as unforgiving at night as it was during the day. The goons had not been considerate enough to let her keep her jacket any more than they’d let Robbie keep his (a loss she estimates accounts for about eighty percent of his upset with their present situation), which she hadn’t minded much while trekking through high noon but would very much like now. And despite being joined by someone who can start his own fire, the place is so barren as to lack any fuel for said fire, so it’s all stupidly pointless to begin with.

“Are you sure you don’t —”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She’d refused his offer to lie next to her for the warmth back when it was a reasonable temperature. Pride is all that keeps her from recanting now; other than being not in a desert, she can’t imagine anything better than what amounts to electric blanket.

Whatever. It’s not like she was going to get much sleep anyway on a bed of salt and sand.

—

Day Two is more of the same. Only worse, because there’s still no water, and she can see her skin start to redden. Under nicer circumstances, she could be leisurely working on a tan. Instead, she’ll be on her way to winning a lobster impersonation contest, with the added fun of a tank top-shaped void in the center of it.

It marginally helps for Night Two, though. The burn radiating heat from beneath her skin makes for an almost pleasant evening temperature. She does her best to focus on that part. The alternative is focusing on how sweat-sticky her jeans are, how she’s going on a third day of the same underwear, how her left boot keeps coming untied, how there is still no sign of civilization on the horizon, and how Robbie remains completely unaffected by their environment.

Other than the concern written in the furrow of his brow, that is.

—

Day Three blows.

At least Maveth hadn’t had the summer sun Simmons needed to contend with.

Daisy can see the blisters forming on her shoulders and is having trouble recalling a time when her mouth wasn’t dry.

The stars twinkling in the night sky are pretty, though.

—

She doesn’t register much of Day Four. After the second time her legs give out from under her, Robbie scoops her up and the rest of her consciousness is composed of heat and mirages.

—

She wakes on Day Five propped up in an unfamiliar bed with feeble rays of sunrise filtering through coarse linen curtains. On the nightstand sits a cup of water that she eagerly downs in one swallow, beside it a bowl of damp rags. She attempts to get out of bed to figure out where the hell she is, only to be speared with pain. She looks down to see her skin is worse off than she remembered: dark red, peppered with pustules, and the feeling of being stretched too tight. It stands out starkly against her unburnt torso where her shirt had been, of which she is currently bereft, along with her bra.

After that particular discovery, she finds she’s not alone in the room; her grunt of pain, it seems, had alerted Robbie, who had been sleeping on the floor. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Despite the water, her throat feels like sandpaper. “What happened?”

“Couple hours after you passed out, I found this place. Told the guy and his wife we were hiking and got lost. They said we can stay as long as we need.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’re uh … you were in pretty bad shape. I thought you were dead when I got here. So did they.”

She does feel like death. She tries to maneuver into a more comfortable position, and gets another stab of pain for her efforts.

“Don’t move,” says Robbie unhelpfully.

She’s only been awake for a few minutes and already she’s sick of this. “Did you call anyone?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t be long now. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t get here right away. Believe it or not, they don’t have a base in the middle of the desert.”

“Middle of this desert, maybe. Where are we?”

“I asked the same thing. There’s not much out here.” Robbie reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a state map, and points a few inches west of Salt Lake City.

You won, then, she thinks, heading east was best. She decides not to mention it.

“Did Simmons give a prognosis?” Daisy asks with another glance down at her blistered arms.

“No, she said she’d need to see you first,” Robbie says. He nods toward the nightstand. “Compresses and painkillers in the meantime. No touching the blisters in case they burst.”

She flicks the edge of the comforter that’s drawn up over her chest. “So was getting me half-naked your idea?”

“What? No, that — no.”

“It’s too bad you’re not sunburned too,” Daisy laughs, “it’d hide that blush of yours.”

“I swear, I was outside when Mrs. Emerson —”

“Would you relax? You’re many things, but a peeping tom isn’t one of them. I trust my virtue is safe.” Half because of the pink tinge to his cheeks and half because she really can’t do it by herself, she adds, “I could use the help, though, with the compresses.”

“With the … Simmons should be here soon, she could do it better.”

“It’s not rocket science.”

Following another moment of deliberation, he nods and helps turn her onto her stomach. She bites her tongue against the discomfort. Gentler than she expected, Robbie brushes aside her hair and nudges down the sheet, then grabs one of the damp rags and squeezes out the excess water.

“Might be a little cold,” he says, and places it over one of her shoulders. It’s cool, and the towel’s scratchy, but to her instant relief it leeches away some of the heat. Robbie pauses to ask, “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, definitely okay.”

He continues, placing another towel and then another until her back and shoulders are covered. It’s the best she’s felt in days. Once he’s done, he comments, “You know, this is gonna itch like crazy once it starts to heal.”

She’d been trying very hard not to think about that part, or about all the peeling that’s coming her way.

Instead, she focuses on how Robbie hasn’t moved from his spot beside her, and, wishing she could see his face, she smirks, “Good thing I know a guy who can rub me down.”

#premise is in reference to 4x05 when Daisy says:#'[getting off the plane] would put you in rural Utah. You think you're pissed off now ...'#daisy johnson #robbie reyes #quakerider #daisy x robbie #agents of shield #whumptober2024 #no.5 #sunburn #fic #my fic

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acourtofladydeath · 2 years ago

Note

Elain/Lucien/Tamlin and something sexy with Dom Elain vibes. 🔥

OH THE PATH THIS REQUEST SENT ME DOWN. I'm very excited, and I hope you are too.

And I actually managed to keep this drabble under 1K words (but not 500...we'll maybe get there...or not...stay tuned)

In "The Fawn, The Fox, & The Fiend" Elain is in full control of her mate and his best friend. Will Tamlin learn to follow orders?

And do we need a part 2?

Read here on AO3 or below the cut. Sexually explicit, minors DNI.

Elain circled the bed slowly after placing the last restraint, hand dragging around the bedding to make her presence known to her mate now tied to the bed. She heard Tamlin shift from his chair in the corner, groaning slightly at the sight before him.

“Don’t move your hands from the armrest, High Lord, or I'll have to tie you up too. It’s not your turn yet.”

At that, both males groaned again, Lucien’s breaths coming in pants before she even touched him. Elain slowly made her way onto the bed, tracing her hands teasingly along Lucien’s body as she moved up to straddle his blindfolded face. Grabbing his hair to position his mouth properly, she leaned down to whisper in his ear, still loud enough for Tamlin to hear from where he sat naked and painfully erect.

“Now Lucien, eat my pussy like a good pet and I’ll let Tamlin come over and play with us. Show him how to please me.”

Lucien breathlessly choked out a, “yes” as Elain settled her soft thighs on either side of his head. As she lowered herself completely, she let out a soft moan as his tongue immediately got to work running over her already dripping slit and drinking her down like a fine wine. Arching her back, Elain looked over her shoulder to ensure Tamlin was keeping his hands off himself.

He was seated with his legs spread wide, arm muscles straining as his claws pierced the plush chair in his struggle to obey the lady of the house. “Oh, so you can be trained,” Elain cooed toward him, breaths becoming more shallow as pleasure built low in her spine. Lucien was tied spread eagle beneath her, his thick cock straining and leaking onto his stomach as his mouth worked her toward release. With one finger, she beckoned Tamlin over to the bed and gave him his next order.

“I want you to suck Lucien off so he comes with me. Think you can do that High Lord? Think you can follow my command?” Tamlin growled from low in his chest, but practically jumped out of the chair to join them on the bed. In one fluid motion he took Lucien’s cock deep to the back of the throat, his nose hitting the red hair at the base with each pass he made. As he worked his friend in his mouth, Tamlin went to grab his own cock, but Elain was too fast and she grasped his wrist. Tutting, she chastised him and said “Tamlin you know the rules, you can’t touch yourself until I say you can. And now you’ll have to wait for us to finish first.”

Tamlin let out another growl while he was deep on Lucien’s cock, causing the male to trust his hips off the bed as he groaned around Elain’s clit. Grinding her hips harder onto Lucien’s face, Elain panted out, “I’m close, Tamlin. If he doesn’t come with me, you don't get to come at all.”

They’d done this before, many times, and Tamlin had learned both their tells long ago. It didn’t take him long to match his ministrations to the motion of Elain’s hips. One hand went down to play with Lucien's balls, drawing him just as close to climax as his mate. Noticing the slight stagger of Elain’s movement as she tensed before release, he gave one hard tug on Lucien’s sac and sucked his dick deep into the back of his throat, applying the pressure he knew would send his friend directly to bliss. Elain screamed her orgasm right as Tamlin began to drink down hot spurts of Lucien’s cum.

When they’d come down, Tamlin smirked to himself. He was still learning to follow orders, but he certainly knew how to get his favorite fox and fawn off at the same time. Elain rolled off Lucien, removing the blindfold and untying his limbs as he sat up. She curled into his side and they both faced the High Lord kneeling at the foot of the bed.

Finally, Elain spoke. “What do you think Luci, was he good enough to deserve getting to fuck me?”

“I’d say he did quite well, petal.” Lucien spoke from beside her, running his hands up and down her body, still coiled for another round.

“Do you want to watch him fuck my pussy or my ass, mate? You deserve to make the choice.”

Lucien hummed contemplatively beside her, locking eyes with Tamlin for a moment before responding.

“How about I don’t watch, and we both fuck you? I don’t want anyone else fucking that pretty pussy except me, but he can have your ass if you’d allow.”

Elain shivered in anticipation, watching Tamlin slowly stroke himself as he looked between them.

“I like the sound of that very much.”

And with that, all three realized their night had barely just begun.

#LDdrabbles #acotar smut #elain x lucien x tamlin #elucien x tamlin #elucien #tamlin #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #dom!elain #acotar fanfic #acotar #acowar

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chaoticgoodlawyerwrites · 2 years ago

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Sneak Peak for HSY Ch 8

Hey folks! Here's a quick look at the next chapter of "The H(a)unting of Shen Yuan"!! It might be here sooner than you think...

-----

After reassuring both him and Luo Binghe that Shen Qingqiu was not in any kind of danger, let alone life threatening, Mu Qingfang once more kicked Binghe out of the examination room to speak to his Sect Leader and patient alone. Then his expression turned grim as the privacy barrier was once more raised, and Shen Qingqiu grew nervous.

“Qingfang, what is all this? You’re beginning to scare me,” he offered lightly, hoping that the doctor would reassure him.

He didn’t.

“Qingqiu,” he started very gently. “I have determined that I was initially correct in that two things have significantly changed since I have last examined you physically. Considering how this is the first time you have spoken to me openly about a sexual relationship with the other world’s Luo Binghe, I am deducing that you have been having a difficult time processing your simultaneous feelings towards them both. Is that correct?”

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat and nodded. “Binghe reassured me since he arrived yesterday that he was accepting but yes, my guilt over that has left me a bit of an emotional wreck on and off for the past nine months or so.”

Exhaustion and exasperation crossed Mu Qingfang’s face before it was smoothed back into a professional neutral. Shen Qingqiu winced internally, knowing that his failure to be honest would be brought up in the next therapy session.

“In any case, two things have changed. First, assumingly due to your close bonds to Heavenly Demons or just completing this mating bond with your former disciple, you now can absorb demonic energy. The satisfaction you described suggests, though more tests would need to be done to say for sure, that your body views it as a potentially vital energy source.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him. “Are you saying I have to consume demonic energy like it’s food?”

“Possibly more important to you than food,” Mu Qingfang explained. “I was observing your core as your husband transferred you demonic energy. There was almost… an overflow where the transformed demonic energy went. I didn’t understand what I was sensing until he gave you the energy because it was already partially full. I suspect, but again, cannot conclude at this time, that failure to keep that energy at a certain level would begin to drain your energy reserves in your core. There is no inedia for that, Qingqiu.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him. “You’re saying. I’m. An energy vampire.”

“Pardon?”

Shen Qingqiu shook his head. “I’m dependent on draining others of their energy to survive?”

“Ah. Not necessarily. Demonic energy is abundant in the environment of the demon realm and especially demonic artifacts like your husband’s sword. And, obviously, energy can be transferred freely from a willing party, or taken by force as seen by the somewhat sentient sword’s reaction to you.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t know what to do with the information. He had known there could be other side effects to bonding to Binghe besides the lifeforce thing and being immune to poisons, but becoming a vampire?!

What even…

“But it’s not life threatening…” Shen Qingqiu said, trying to find some nugget of sanity in this mess.

“No, especially as you have two Heavenly Demon spouses to provide you with demonic energy through dual cultivation,” Mu Qingfang said without a hint of judgment.

“What’s the other thing?” Shen Qingqiu asked, hoping that the doctor had opted to go for the bad news first.

Mu Qingfang held his gaze and said, “Sect Leader, Qingqiu. You’re pregnant.”

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edgessunflower · 2 years ago

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Masterlist 66

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feelbokkie · 4 months ago

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L♡VE IN F♡CUS | Chapter 17

PAIRING: idol!Changbin x fem reader

WARNINGS: swearing, emotional breakdown

GENRE: smau, crack, angst, fluff

P♡V: 1st/2nd person (depending on how you view it)

TAGLIST: open

W♡RD C♡UNT: 1,539

SCREENSH♡T C♡UNT: 9

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

Exhausted and in pain, you drag your feet across the floor as you scan the hotel room number.

Against medical advice, you ended up on a flight to Chile. The soonest the airport would let you on a flight after getting your cast on was 48 hours. Even then, you had to take a longer trip with multiple stops rather than one to reduce the stress on your body. Luckily for you, the kids flew to Chile a few days before the second leg of the tour started because of projects they were working on. Meaning that you arrived before the first show.

Wonseok and Frankie weren't happy when you told them you were still planning on going. They spent the two days you were home resting trying to convince you to take more time off. Under normal circumstances, you'd listen to them. If your sister hadn't called you the day before asking for money to help your mother and the rest of the family, you would be at home resting until you could get back to work.

Yet, because life doesn't work out the way you want it to, here you are 38 hours later jet-lagged with a throbbing arm and head trying to find room 148.

You've spent the past few days replaying the events of the airport in your head. It's all could do. You've been too tired or in too much pain to work. It all happened before you even realized what was happening. One second you were taking pictures of the kids while they were walking through the airport, the next you were on the ground with a searing pain coursing through your arm. You were pulled up before you could process the sudden crowd of people and all of the pushing and shoving and shouting from fans and other media professionals. You were pulled up from the ground before you could hurt more. Everything is such a blur, that you can't even remember who helped you.

"Noona?" A familiar voice rings through the hallway.

You set your rolling bag upright in the middle of the hallway as you lock eyes with Changbin. You adjust your backpack over your good arm and watch as Changbin types something into his phone and closes the door to his hotel room. After a moment, he looks up and stares at you, his brows drawing closer in concern.

"What are you doing here?" His words come out slowly, chosen with care and caution.

"Tour officially starts tomorrow, where else would I be?"It came out a bit more serious than you intended it to be.

“Back in Seoul,” Changbin scoffs, his eyes widen in disbelief. His phone chimes a few times before he types something again and then slides it into his pocket. “Honestly noona, you make Seungmin look like a slacker.”

“Well, some of us can’t afford to take time off.”

“You got hurt while working. You’d be taking time to heal, not going on vacation.” The phone in his pocket continues to chime, but with his eyes trained on you he ignores it.

You rubbed your eyes aggressively as if that might clear the heaviness from them. You’re too tired to argue with him and yet you still have an overwhelming urge to justify your actions. To validate them, mostly for Changbin to understand but also for a small part of you deep down that’s trying to understand exactly why you’re there now. “Can we do this later? I’m tired and I don’t feel good,”

“You’d be less tired and feel a lot better in your own bed,” Changbin says gently.

“Don’t you think I know that?” You snap. You’re not sure why, maybe it’s the tone in his voice. How his words come off a little condescending. Or maybe you’re so exhausted and used to how the two of you used to be on each other’s bad side, but something about what he said sets you off.

“Look, I don’t want to be here either. I just got done with 3 flights totaling 37 hours—not including layovers. My body hurts from sitting in stiff seats that I couldn’t recline because I didn’t want to be rude even though one flight had a screaming baby and another one had a kid kicking my seat for most of it. And my arm was throbbing so much that I thought it was going to explode mid-flight." You speak quietly, unable, it seems, to put any more effort into being louder. Changbin maintains gentle eye contact while waiting patiently through silence, his features softening from his usual sharp lines as he watches you carefully.

"I wish I could stay home, resting in my bed so I can heal properly. But I can't afford to do that because my boss depends on me. And on top of that, my family--despite me being the youngest with parents and siblings who are very much capable--rely on me. And the only time they remember I exist is when they need or want something, despite being the least favorite." A flicker of recognition crosses Changbin's eyes as you speak. You're oversharing more than you intend. With your level of exhaustion, you're unable to properly filter your words and prevent further word vomit from spewing out of your mouth.

As you speak the words that have been dwelling inside you for months--years even--they linger in the air, somehow heavier than they were before as they suck the oxygen out of the room and weigh down on you. Thick and heavy, your thoughts force you back into your own head, almost as if building a wall between you and Changbin. You don't notice, how much closer Changbin is than he was before. He didn't even notice at first how he seemed to inch closer to you the more you talked. Or how much his hand twitches while resting at his side, unsure of its own actions.

You rub your eyes aggressively once more--so hard you see little stars. You don't register how wet your hand is as you pull your hand away. You do, however, feel a dry lump in your throat as you try to breathe. Finally feeling pin pricks on the back of your eyes, your good arm covers your eyes as you try to choke back the sob threatening to escape your lips. You try to take one deep breath to calm yourself down to no avail. Unable to keep it together any longer, a choked cry escapes you. And then another, and another until you're full-on sobbing.

"I-I'm just so fucking tired," You gasp between sobs, barely able to catch the breath needed for the next.

Changbin's hands hover uncertainly before they gently graze your good arm, softly urging you to put it down. When you refuse, protecting whatever shred of dignity you have left, he places a firm grip on your wrist and slowly pulls your arm down. You're forced to make direct eye contact with Changbin, who is now staring at you with such tenderness that it hurts. His gaze studies you carefully, almost like he's trying to read you before his arms wrap around you.

Being mindful of your broken arm, his grip around you is firm. The scent of his cologne fills your nose, giving you a warm sense of comfort as your face is pressed against his chest. You can't help but cry harder as he murmurs soft words of comfort into your ear while his hands move in small, unconscious gestures of comfort on your back and head.

"It's okay, noona," He mumbles quietly.

"Bin, I told you to stop talking to her," Chan's panicked voice comes up behind you.

"I did," Changbin breathes, "This is about something else, hyung."

You grip Changbin's shirt and bury your face deeper into his chest. It's bad enough he has to see you like this, you're not going to let anyone else.

"You're fine, noona," He whispers to you. "She just needs some rest. She's had a long day."

"Let's get her to her room," Chan says quickly. Changbin's grip around you tightens again as Chan approaches the two of you.

"I got her, hyung. Can you just open her door? Her key is on the floor."

Chan presses his lips together before grabbing your room key from the floor. A weight is physically lifted from your shoulder as Chan grabs your backpack and slings it over his shoulder. He stumbles for a moment, caught off guard by how heavy your backpack is, before grabbing your carry suitcase and walking down the hall to find your room.

Changbin loosens his grip on you, allowing some air to go to your lungs. The atmosphere around you feels a bit lighter, having been absorbed by Changbin and his hug it appears. The heavy words slowly but surely dissipate from the air the more you stand there, listening to Changbin's strong, steady heartbeat. He pulls your head off his chest and watches you for a moment. His hand slides forward from the back of your head, resting on your cheek for a moment before the pad of his thumb breaks the flow of now-silent tears falling from your eyes.

"I got you, Y/n,"

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

TAG LIST (closed)

Red means that it wouldn't let me tag you (either at all or properly)

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@weird-bookworm @stayconnecteed @brain-empty-only-draken @hanniemylovelyquokka @sunshinessky

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channieverse · 1 year ago

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I genuinely feel so nervous and inadequate about reblogging this, because I know that no matter the amount of words I try to express my appreciation and love for this piece with, it will never be enough. It honestly feels like being able to read this, being allowed to have my mind and my heart changed by your words, is a sin so incredibly grave. Like, how dare I read this skillfully crafted piece and live on to say I experienced such beauty. How dare I?

When I was reading this, a profound sense of guilt settled in me, the kind of guilt when you cut into a cake that's so beautifully decorated and you just can't bare the thought of eating it, or when you light the wick of the prettiest candle you own, or when you open a new album and the pretty photocard gets marked up by your finger prints. It's a hard feeling to describe and those examples might be so subjective lol. But I felt genuinely inadequate(?) reading this... like, how dare this piece be tainted by my gaze... ahhh I think I'm waffling lol, I think the emotions of reading both parts of this ingeniously crafted fic are still too raw and visceral. (Raw and visceral in the most beautiful way that I genuinely didn't deserve to experience... ahh, yes, deserve is the right word. I don't deserve to indulge in your excellence, honestly).

Despite the praise in the amazing reblog I saw this fic already garnered, I will try to share my appreciation as best as I can since it's the very, very least I could do. (wah this is saur hard I'm so nervoussss)

I can confidently say that I've never read something that touched my soul the way this piece did. It felt like your words permeated my being and changed everything I ever knew about feeling and love and patience. I genuinely cannot fathom that I've read this, haha, it feels ethereal, really.

This rollercoaster of a fic kept me at the very edge until the absolute end, I was greedily inhaling every word... and it really felt like I was committing a crime by doing so 😭 istg my thumb hovered over my screen above the link to the second part, not because I didn't need to know what more you graciously had to share, but because I was questioning if I'm really allowed to read more. (lol I really don't know what I'm even saying anymore)

I was so immersed in the story and I cried so many times. You wrote both characters' thoughts and emotions so perfectly and so vividly. Admittedly, I guiltily indulged in the way both of their perspectives were so real and incredibly well-depicted. The reality of it all was like a punch to my chest. It genuinely feels like something one can only write after experiencing it. How do you do it, and so beautifully too?

I loved the element of muscle memory you'd added close to the end, I thought it was so smart and it never crossed my mind that even though conscious memories can be erased, you can still hold onto said muscle memories. And please don't get me started on the pudding part and the tracing of his scar and how you personified the house and its walls-- my heart can only handle so much.

I usually try to avoid angst at all costs lol 💀 because it will genuinely affect me for the next few days. But I just dove into this piece and it got to the part of Minho wanting to leave. And then I physically sucked in a breath and thought that the end would be tragic and sad and will leave the population heartbroken beyond repair and that I made a mistake by choosing to read this. But. BUT. The ending so expertly waltzed along and soothed my soul. Yes, I'll probably be thinking and dreaming about the emotions and images you placed into my brain for the next few months, if not forever, but the ending was so perfect. I genuinely cannot explain it in words and it's so frustrating. I adored the imagery of the stars.

I must say, I think my favorite line was "It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice..." If I had to explain why (lol wow I apologize in advance for more waffling)... it's like the fic up until that point was an open wound and this line came along, caressed the reader gently, applied a hello kitty plaster onto said wound, and kissed it better. It settled my aching heart so well and it felt like I could breathe again because no longer is Minho grieving the loss of someone who's still very much alive and breathing. Instead, it seems as if his perspective of this situation has changed and there's more beauty to this situation than pain because Minho experienced y/n falling in love with him twice. I don't know what love's like, but once sounds as lucky as finding your twin flame, so what must twice feel like?

and you write Minho and his kind and gentle yet teasing personality so incredibly well. When he said "that obnoxious orange," I stopped, gasped and went, "THAT IS SAUR MINHO STFU" But really, the image of him in my mind never faltered once as I read, I clearly pictured him in every scene with ease, purely because of how expertly you pieced him together. And it's all the little things that makes the difference, right-- his moles, his scar, his teasing nature, his sparkly eyes and his jet-black hair, his cats and his gentle yet stubborn stance. I feel like if I personally knew Minho, this is exactly who he'd be. ( wow honestly at this point, I don't even know who's my bias anymore??? what did you do sahar 😖)

Lastly, I want to say thank you, Sahar. Not only are you talented, but you are indeed beauty personified.

P.S. (thought I'd leave some songs...)

끝나지 않을 이야기 (Neverending Story), Stray Kids Zombie, DAY6 She's In The Rain, The Rose Renee's Song, Bazzi

I feel like the words in these songs are so... obvious... like you don't have to decipher their meanings to link it to your story, which seems kinda shallow(?) on my part 😭 but listening to these songs after reading your work just brought me this sense of solace...? idk it's hard, to comprehend and even more challenging to explain. But I'd thought to leave these songs here since your work resonates with these songs for me... and it's so crazy because these are some of my ALL TIME favorite songs (especially 끝나지 않을 이야기 😭 istg it's my favorite song and i'm going to have this song carved into my headstone and tattooed onto my skin). So, for me to experience the same feelings these songs provide by reading your piece... I was genuinely speechless.

I hope you are well, happy and healthy. 🩷 with love, channieverse

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33.

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear.

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory.

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse.

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance.

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you.

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you.

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago.

Day 17.

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade.

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores.

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes.

He knows you better than you know yourself.

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands.

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from.

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you.

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.”

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head.

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again.

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you.

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you.

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19.

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement.

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.”

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask.

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently.

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?”

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.”

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment.

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé.

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out.

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms.

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope.

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto.

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating.

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in.

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back.

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night.

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you.

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?”

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure.

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles.

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door.

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place.

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up?

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you.

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-”

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.”

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you.

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach.

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls.

Day 22.

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart.

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.”

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.”

“I can try.”

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles.

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him.

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle.

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago.

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?”

“Of course. I promise you.”

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear.

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers.

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm.

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road.

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart.

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light.

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify.

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.”

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words.

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face.

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression.

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running.

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again.

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content.

“You did.”

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands.

“Of course.”

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to.

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.”

Day 26.

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads.

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more.

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin.

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest.

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought.

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.”

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within.

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals.

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door.

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for.

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you.

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.”

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more?

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were.

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks.

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart.

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words.

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle.

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words.

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side.

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder.

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second.

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing.

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips.

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly.

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends.

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?”

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.”

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out.

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along.

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle.

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs.

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks.

“N-nothing,” you stammer.

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you.

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you?

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out.

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.

And he loves you.

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for?

How many more days do you have to love him back?

Day 30.

Minho is sick.

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face.

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind.

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented.

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow.

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on.

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers.

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering.

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you.

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?”

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet.

“Anything.”

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly.

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to.

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm.

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you.

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows.

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted.

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds.

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days.

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again.

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean?

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep.

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name.

He prayed you’d call his too soon.

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean?

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips.

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of.

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways.

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh.

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!”

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?”

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him.

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh.

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card.

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify.

“Hey, yn!”

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them.

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run.

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey.

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat.

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by?

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be.

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both.

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all.

Day 33.

“Did I keep you waiting?”

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?”

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him.

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table.

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here.

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines.

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger.

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.”

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you.

“But how does that make you feel?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.”

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.”

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?”

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.”

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yn, he brought you back to life.”

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?”

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core.

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table.

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder.

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around.

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it.

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart.

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room.

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind.

“Minho?”

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to.

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again.

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho.

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one.

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?”

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.”

#my brain chemistry has been altered #i'll be thinking about this forever #and I couldn't be more grateful #thank you so much for sharing this with us #here's a virtual hug and forehead kiss #you can pretend it's from lino :)#channieverse.reblogs #channieverse.reads #💜

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