#i literally have been in shambles writing so many things at once

[nomazee]

what ppl don't tell you about writing is that it's half having zero ideas whatsoever and not knowing what to write & half having too many ideas and not knowing which ones to pick

[mossy-rock-in-a-field]

Several weeks ago, my retirement-age mother requested that I play Baldur’s Gate 3 for her because she has trouble with controllers/keyboards and wanted “to see what all the fuss is about with that cute wizard boy.” For context, my mother and I have done this sort of thing in the past with certain RPGs (dragon age, mass effect, etc.), but it’s been a few years since she’s personally requested a game like this. Basically, I control her Tav but let her make all the choices so she can determine how the story plays out without worrying about mechanics. She treats it like a choose-your-own-adventure book.

Anyway, here is a list of some of the things my mother has said and/or chosen to do throughout the course of BG3 in no particular order:

She is (obviously) romancing Gale. She is quite smitten with him and his passion for books and learning; she also thinks he’s polite and qualifies as “relationship material.” She also REALLY likes the things he’s said about his cat so far (my mom is a cat lady), so I know she’s gonna flip shit when we meet Tara in Act III.

She’s playing a normal druid Tav with a generally good alignment. Her favorite spell is Spike Growth because she thinks it’s hilarious whenever enemies walk into the AOE and die. I usually end up having to cast it at least once per battle per her request. Sometimes twice.

Contrary to her alignment, my mother tasks me with robbing every single chest, crate, barrel, and burlap sack we come across; this also includes people and their pockets. The party is always at max carrying capacity. ALWAYS. She doesn’t like selling things because “what if I need them.” The camp stash is in literal shambles. There is no hope of organizing it. She’s got like fifty seven sets of rags and a billion pieces of random silverware.

She MUST talk to every animal and corpse in the game. I think five hours of her total playtime so far (47ish) has been spent speaking to animals as many times as humanly possible. Like, I was thorough in my own playthroughs, but this is on a whole other level.

She did NOT get Volo’s lobotomy, but she did let Auntie Ethel take her eye in hopes of a cure for the tadpole. I did not understand the logic then. I still do not understand it now.

She is far more interested in fashion than equipment stats. Do you have any idea how much gold I’ve had to spend on dyes just to make things match? SO much. Same vibe as that “please someone help me balance my finances my family is starving” tweet but instead of candles it’s thirty thousand fucking bottles of black and furnace red dye.

We broke the prisoners out of Moonrise, but they got on the boat too early and bugged the fight by leaving Astarion and Karlach behind. Wulbren Bongle somehow got stuck in combat mode even after engaging the cutscene on the docks below Last Light; he he kept trying to run ALL THE WAY BACK TO MOONRISE nine fucking meters at a time while I frantically tried to finish the fight with the Warden, otherwise Wulbren would have run straight into the shadow curse. (I would’ve let him go; fuck Wulbren Bongle, all my homies hate Wulbren Bongle. But my mom didn’t know that, and she wanted to keep him safe. So.)

She had me reload a save like eighteen times to save the giant eagles on top of Rosymorn Monastery. Wouldn’t even let me do non-lethal damage just to get past things. I think getting that warhammer for the dawnmaster puzzle took us like an hour and a half alone. (Yes, I know you can use any warhammer, but SHE didn’t.)

She’s started keeping an irl notebook to keep track of her quests between play sessions. She writes down ideas and strategies when she thinks of them during the week, then brings them to her next game session at my house. I think she wrote about three pages on possible approaches to the goblin fortress alone.

She insists that I pet Scratch and the owlbear cub before every single long rest, no exceptions. Sometimes I have to do it multiple times until she is absolutely sure that the animals know exactly how much she loves and cherishes them. She has also commissioned a crocheted owlbear plush from a friend of hers and is very excited.

I’m sure there’s a bunch of stuff I’m forgetting, but those are some fun things I thought of. She’s enjoying the game and is telling all of her retired friends to get it and play it for themselves. She asked me “what is Discord” yesterday and I think my life flashed before my eyes.

anyway shout out to my mom for being neat

Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5

[impishjesters]

Pomni, Kinger, Caine & Jax's reaction to their s/o abstracting

warning(s): angst, hurt no comfort, self-blame, "death" of the reader, implied "death"/abstraction of another character (spoiler: Kinger), hopeful outcome note(s): There's nothing incredibly heavy or detailed, just tread carefully if "death" is something you are sensitive to, please. The "hopeful outcome" implies that Caine will at some point in time be able to fix those who've abstracted. A/N: I was feeling particularly cruel and wanted to write some angst, this came to mind and I'll be honest. I made myself a little sad.

Pomni

She never saw it coming, of course, you were acting different lately but she didn’t think it would… lead to you abstracting…

It took forever for things to get some semblance of normalcy, and you being with her was a major part of it.

Sure the relationship in a place like this was a bit, weird, but you cared about her, and she cared about you.

You kept her sane and grounded, so when you were found abstracted? It felt like she failed you.

Ragatha tries to assure her that you aren’t completely gone. Like Kaufmo you’re being kept in the cellar. Caine claims the abstracted are being kept there until he can find a way to “fix” them. (Whether he’s genuine or not though, none of them know.)

It’s all empty promises though, she still feels like she failed you.

Kinger

Not again…

Kinger silently promised himself not again, he was fine being friendly with everyone else that fell into the circus, but he had no intentions of being more than that.

But then you happened, and while he was still in shambles from the time and the insanity spent here, you were there beside him. Like a knight in shining armor.

He hadn’t been around when you abstracted, in fact, he didn’t know you abstracted until there was yelling, and boom an abstraction was causing chaos.

Kinger didn’t know who it was until it was sent off to the cellar, actually, he didn’t know who it was until he realized everyone was present except you.

There’s a high probability that losing someone again, losing you, is what ends up being his own downfall. The other’s (not including Jax) try their all to get him to calm down but it’s not enough, it’s too late…

Caine

Of all the humans to be pulled in he never once got attached.

This was never supposed to happen, he’s incapable of love.

Caine does his best to keep the humans from abstracting, and as many eyes as he has over the place, there are always ones that slip through his grasp.

Of course, he’s not around when you abstract, it takes a bunch of hooting and hollering from everyone before he shows up and oh hey an abstraction.

At an immediate glance, he knows it’s you, abstractions never remotely look like the person they were before but he knows it’s you. You don’t recognize him as you lash out, of course you don’t, you can’t.

He’s unsure about tossing you with the others in the cellar, there’s nowhere else he can truthfully keep you without causing problems. So into the cellar, you go.

Caine visits you though, not for long but he does check in on you. Not that anything changes, but out of all the abstractions down there, he knows exactly which one is you.

You’ll be the first human he fixes as soon as he’s able to.

Jax

His s/o abstracted? Nice joke, though it’s in poor taste. You’re completely fine, he just saw you earlier.

Jax doesn’t believe it until he sees it, and seeing it absolutely ruins him. He’s seen countless others get abstracted and thrown into the cellar, but why, why does it have to be you?

Why couldn’t it have been literally anyone else? He didn’t give a shit about anyone else, the one person he cared for, and you…

Similarly to Pomni, he feels it’s his fault like he could’ve, no should’ve done more. Was he so wrapped up in everything else that he didn’t notice the signs? Why didn’t you talk to him? You didn’t, didn’t do that on purpose, did you?

For the first time ever, the others are genuinely worried about Jax, they all saw/know how much you meant to him. The two of you even spoke fondly about what the two of you would do if you got out of the circus.

For a while Jax becomes even more irrational and unhinged, they try not to hold it against him too badly, even when he oversteps. He’s grieving and none of them know just how long that’ll go on.

Jax isn’t quite the same afterward, but he makes sure that nobody else tries to worm their way into his heart.

If it’s possible, he’ll make sure Caine fixes you the second he’s able to. Even if Caine can fix only one person, it’s going to be you.

[star2fishmeg]

can you share some of your Luke recs?

Of course! I may have gone a bit overboard but I just love love love all these fics and their authors so so much. I highly recommend all these writers and their blogs, from the nsfw to the sfw, I couldn't stress how highly I respect and recommend them enough:

≡ᴍᴇɢ's ʟᴜᴋᴇ ʜᴜɢʜᴇs ғɪᴄ ʀᴇᴄs

—SMUT

♥ again by @hhughes (you can find her on @bedsyandco now I think) ➥ I frequently find myself going back to this one, the way Cami has written it is just so addicting and it's so hot.

♥ the mortifying ordeal of being a 20 year old virgin by @theemporium ➥ This series is hard as hell, literally love it. Each chapter is just divine and I love Luke and reader's dynamic, it's so juicy and with every new chapter, I think I literally heel click and do a jig.

♥ escape from la by @eyesthatroll ➥ Another one I go back to often, still think about it to this day actually, I just picture it vividly and it gives me butterflies every time.

♥ locker room by @lucijawriteswords ➥ Words cannot describe how much of a chokehold this one has on me. Angry Luke is so hot and I can't stop thinking about the imagery and I want this so bad.

♥ those sleepless nights - @wineauntie ➥ I present to you; my bedtime story. Sleepy smut is just so yummy, you know? And I just wanted Luke wrapped around me after I read this, I now go back to it when it's some silly hour of the morning.

♥ stress reduction by @goldfades ➥ Bro I cannot begin to explain how many times I've read this one. Short and sweet and so sensual, I want it. You'll literally read it and feel something.

♥ risqué reflections by @sweetestdesire ➥ This is the place for filth and I'm a loyal customer. This fic had me doing deep breaths and GOD it's so yummy. Read it once and then went back because the buzz it gave me.

♥ the green eyed monster by @puck-luck ➥ Jealousy has never looked hotter on a man. I remember reading this one morning before uni and yeah let's say I wasn't thinking about my class that day. Andy went all in with this and Jesus it was hot as fuck.

—FLUFF

♥ he's been a bit of a jerk by @quinnylouhughesx43 ➥ I've never liked the winter more, I need Luke to come find my lonely ass and kiss me too. This was too cute honestly and the second part is just as good. Recommend reading them back-to-back.

♥ too tall by @toasttt11 ➥ Anything to do with height differences has me in shambles and this was so cute. I just love the image of Luke standing in the kitchen at 12am like a deer in headlights.

♥ uh oh by @be4chywritez ➥ The Curtis-Luke rivalry will always make me giggle and even funnier with the sneaking around trope, I adored this and the locker room scene. The whole thing is so cute and lighthearted.

♥ jelly on a plate by @wineauntie ➥ I dislike the process of flying so this was a really comforting read and I love it so much. It's adorable and reassuring at the same time and if you're not a fan of flying, I really recommend having Luke with you in spirit.

♥ my princess by @lvrhughes ➥ No because this one's fun and fresh and adorable. Something about drunken nights will always get me, especially when it's one looking after the other. Filled my heart with warmth.

♥ caught by @ifimdreaming ➥ Love this one a lot, it's funny and cute. It perfectly portrays siblings having an argument and Trevor making an appearance will always be funny. Luke is just too cute and love me protective Luke.

♥ kiss her you fool by @withwritersblock ➥ Tooth rotting fluff, friends to lovers and just pining and that's my cup of tea. Loverboy Luke has you aching for him to be honest and you'll wish you were y/n and so much touching that has you tingling.

♥ "are you awake yet?" blurb by @bedsyandco @hhughes ➥ I wish I had this in my life, honestly. Read this and you wish you did too. It's so sweet it makes me kick my feet and twirl my hair, run laps around my room, go through my Luke Pinterest board. I love the way Cami writes Luke.

[heelycular-manslaughter]

I've been working on a ttrpg inspired by Hades and Kill 6 Billion Demons, modifying my Lumen game, Luminous Vein. It's definitely still early in the process, and I have so many projects that this one is a bit on the backburner, in part because I hate figuring out random generation and it'd feel more right to have a more official vibe to it with art & stuff. Anyway I do however think some of it is cool as hell so I put out a poll asking people what they'd like to hear about; you guys chose my problematic trans rep, who I dont have much to say about that I didn't already put in its description, so I'll just put it in full:

Hollow, Goddess of Rot

It/its, she/her, they/them

Feared among mortals to its elation, Hollow is a heavy shadow of positivity in the pantheon of gods. It loves trying to find new ways to disgust and horrify mortals, sometimes going so far as to create minor planes to trap them in and play with them. It, however, is not a real threat to anyone; her domain only ever affects those that have already died.

While plenty of wildlife loves her, human cults are rare to form, but those that do are often social outcasts, finding beauty in not just the way rot provides new life, but to death on its own merit.

Hollow is the shambling corpse of the first dead god, born in the abyss that could not be filled by anyone else. Its skin is grey and thin, tearing at the joints; its eyes have long been forgotten by physical existence; its form is too old and rotted to make out what the dead god once looked like. There's a gaping hole in the center of her neck, leaving its voice whispy, almost pained. They have a series of spindly, metal legs modeled by Eralth, the God of Craft, to support their slowly withering divine legs. Smaller beings of rot reside in the fungi and holes growing around their flesh. Hollow is extremely proud of the body they claimed, and, even as the gods respond to her presence with discomforted silence at best, they will all admit that she shows more joy than the first dead god ever did, or most other gods in the pantheon, for that matter.

Hollow loves dead things and is, therefore, happy to help runners escape hell so they can fulfill their full potential as dead things. She only shows confusion when asked for clarification.

Core Mechanic: Rot

When enemies inflicted with rot die, their bodies will remain to fight alongside you, becoming undead. Undead have the same actions made on the GM turn, but directed at enemies, and their health is based on how much rot you inflicted on them.

Boons of Hollow:

Rotting Wounds: Your weapon attacks inflict 1 rot

Trail of Death: Inflict 3 rot when you move away from an enemy

Decay: When you kill an enemy with an attack requiring 2 actions, they are given 1 rot

Spores: Your cast inflicts 2 rot to all enemies in Close range of the target.

Contagion: All undead attacks inflict 1 rot.

Self-Actualization: You can choose to target actions or casts on yourself, dealing harm but giving you any included rot effects as well.

Angry Dead: All undead deal +1 harm

Slough: Living targets inflicted with rot will take +1 harm.

Probably should've guessed the website with all the freak transgenders would vote for the freak transgender, now everything after her is gonna be a letdown. This is my best girl and also literally me so if anyone is mean to her I'll kill yo u

I'm not entirely sure how many possible boons I want the gods to have, Hades has a massive swathe of them but it turns out that can be kinda hard. I might add more mechanics to the core combat system to play with, the big issue I'll have to deal with is the randomness and the fact that the upgrades aren't weapon specific

Congrats! You read this far! or scrolled down and clicked words! You are now granted voting rights on what I should bring up next. if you want

[gravesung-moving]

*  ANSWER  TWENTY - ONE  QUESTIONS  ! some questions may be ‘ ??? ‘ instead of answered.

01.    NICKNAME  :  raine 02.    REAL  NAME  : emma 03.    ZODIAC  : gemini 04.    HEIGHT  : 5′9′’ 05.    WHAT  TIME  IS  IT  ?  : 10:54 am. 06.    FAVOURITE  MUSICIANS  /  GROUPS  :  lately it's been hoz.ier, air traffic controller, hal.sey (thanks hol), brick + mortar, the neighbourhood, zack hemsey (underrated, listen to him), and then just 100000 other artists that i only know 1-2 songs by because of character playlists 07.    FAVOURITE  SPORTS ��TEAM  : uhh hh h (sweats) the sportsball sportsballers (nodding. i'm so cool and know a single thing about sp 08.    OTHER  BLOGS  :  @/huntershowl, my main blog! beloved oc, writing whom has changed my life in so many ways! also elizabeth bioshock at @/cewyll but the activity there is super low rn. she sleebin. once dragon age comes out she'll wake back up 09.    DO  I  GET  ASKS  ?  : HAHA. (TAKES A LOGN DRAG OF A CIGARETTE) bOY DO I MISS GETTING NICE ONES 10.    HOW  MANY  BLOGS  DO  I  FOLLOW  ?  : 133 (wow? goddamn) 11.    ANY  TUMBLR  CRUSHES  :  oo. i haven't been here super long (since The Resurgence at least) & pre-anime boy takeover this blog was more just a friends-only sandbox zone, so i don't do a lot of outreach still. —but also, who are we kidding, yes 100%: @vzmky's geto portrayal & art has me in shambles. same goes for @brazenlystrong, ur art and portrayal is so [chef kiss]??? (& lbr you two are a package deal SDHSKJDH) —@sasouken we've only written together a little bit so far, but i'm already like !!! EEE whenever i see a message or reply from u. such an honor honestly. —also silly but needs to be said, despite literally being mains @chaoslulled is STILL fuckin awe inspiring in every way. i still get a little thrill when i see ur replies AND I DO STILL READ EVERY ONE THREE TIMES 12.    LUCKY  NUMBER  : 4 (thanks artemis fowl) 13.    WHAT  AM  I  WEARING  RIGHT  NOW  : pjs... though im about to change into some kinda cuteass fall outfit for a walk outside & the gym 14.    DREAM  VACATION  : prollyyyyyy italy to visit mine papá... although tokyo & amsterdam sound very fun too i just love cities 15.    DREAM  CAR  : a solid public transport system 16.    FAVOURITE  FOOD  :  curry. any kind of curry 17.    DRINK  OF  CHOICE  : coffee (flat cappuccino or just drip w/ cream), spicy black teas (dont get me started ill talk forever), or if we're talking alcohol, i always gravitate toward floral gin drinks 18.    LANGUAGES  :  english but i am learning welsh for fun. at some point i GOTTA start learning italian but i'm putting it off because i'm lazy 19.    INSTRUMENTS  :  cello & piano, a ttteeeeeeeny bit of guitar, took vocal lessons for a while, but honestly cello is my main bitch forever and ever 20.    CELEBRITY  CRUSHES  :  c.ate blanchett, d.aniel henney, k.eanu reeves, j.anelle monae, k.ing princess, uhhh kaoru kobayashi has real hot scarred dad vibes in midnight diner (this answer has not changed since 2019 when i last did it) 21.    RANDOM  FACT  : i just started an art mentorship!! gonna be commissioned a custom mural (themed on isolation, there will be hellhound & lighthouse themes involved most likely lbr) & later this fall, doing some inking for a mecha comic under guidance of a local artist i admire so much. it's gonna take an entire year but i'm so excited about it, especially because i want to eventually make my own webcomic/GN about mx houndcreature eventually (soonish) 

TAGGED   BY  :  thiefed it.

TAGGING  :  y'all know by now that i barely have enough confidence to tag the earlier ppl. THIEF IT. TAG ME SO I CAN SEE. but also @tewwor because you tagged me in this 5 yrs ago

[thefaithbroken]

A dissertation about Zevlor that I've been meaning to write and post for some time…

Some of this is from my bio for him and some I will elaborate further upon than I do there, but here we go. // @thefaithbroken

Zevlor has been through hell, figurative and literal. A protector by nature, it was as obvious an action as breathing to become a paladin of Helm, to become a Hellrider. His strong sense of justice and his drive to defend those who could not defend themselves had him rise quickly in the ranks. It was not long before he earned the title Commander.

For a time, all was well. He was proud of his work, of his calling, of the good that he did.

And then Elturel fell.

You remember the shattered windows of Elturel's High Cathedral, the burning black sky of Avernus beyond.

In its horror, the Blood War unites you. Tiefling, dwarf, and elf alike huddle behind the shields of your paladin order, waiting for salvation. But when it comes… disunity.

The returned city casts you out, the devils who dragged them down to hell. In the end, it is not your paladin oath that is broken: It is your Faith itself.

Those of his order stood together, united in the face of possible enslavement or annihilation… until the danger had past and there was time for such ugly things as resentment, fear, hatred, and racism.

After all they had endured, after how they all had stood together and defended their home, after they had all placed their own lives in peril to defend those who needed their aid—just as Zevlor always had believed should be done—to be cast out… broke both his faith and, in many ways, him.

He was weary, wartorn, betrayed. But his people, the frightened Tiefling refugees also cast out, needed him, looked to him to guide them through the perils of the Wilds and to Baldur's Gate. He was the one with the most experience, the most authority of the lot. They looked to him and he set aside his own pain and brokenness in order to do what he could for them, so little as it might be. Older than most there, powerless with his faith left in shambles, a greater ruin even than Elturel, still he agreed to lead them. Who else was there to whom they might turn? Most of them had never held a sword, perhaps never even ventured outside of their city, in all of their lives.

Yet, even despite his knowledge and his experience, they lost many along the roads, to all manner of dangers and threats. Their numbers had substantially dwindled even before the gnoll attack… and he set each one like a mark against his very own soul, the burden of his failures, the reasons for the guilt that hunched once strong shoulders. He was not worthy to lead them. He had failed them at every turn. Without his abilities as a paladin, with his faith shattered as it was, what use has he been to them? If he has done anything at all worth note, he cannot see it. Yet, he does not ask for them to take up arms as well. Does not demand of these survivors to become soldiers. He assures the ones who wish to help, tries to encourage them even when he would have given up from the moment the order to leave was given if it hadn't been for this duty. He asks nothing of them, and takes everything upon himself, weary as he is.

That is where the story begins anew though, isn't it? Gnolls and goblins and brave, heroic adventurers, some small spark of hope rekindled at last… How surprised he is at every turn when the leader of the adventurers not only agrees to help, but even offers, does so without asking anything in return. It shocks him every time and you can hear it in the breathless, stunned quiet, particularly if the leader of the adventurers doesn't take the payment he collected from the refugees for their help in ridding them of the goblin threat. He even gives the leader his own Helm-blessed gauntlets if the player sorted Kagha. Every time he is met with kindness and aid, he is left stunned and perhaps even a bit verklempt because Elturel had shaken him so much, had broken him so much, had left him hopeless.

But these adventurers who owe them nothing had done everything in their power to help him and the other refugees, perfect strangers to them, simply because it was the right thing to do. It isn't much in the grand scheme of the world turning, but it means everything to him, which is exactly what Cerys says when you meet her at Last Light.

"The way Zevlor talked about you, I'd thought you would be ten feet tall." [ Potentially paraphrasing as I can't remember the exact wording, but that's the gist. ]

He hadn't stopped talking about the leader, about the one who returned at least some hope to him, not from the moment they left the Grove. It was the first time since Elturel fell that he felt a spark of something again that didn't feel like loss or suffering.

If only he had known how it would go from there…

What hope had been rekindled by the travelers was challenged by the Shadows as fear and uncertainty once more gripped him. Were these shadows not the same that Halsin had warned the travelers about? And yet, Cerys assured him it was only a quick detour to avoid an owlbear on the road. If his scout was so certain, then perhaps it was, in fact, the best path.

Except that it wasn't.

Not far from a place that could have been their safehaven from the shadows, it fell upon them: the might of the Absolute.

Enthralled and dominated by a being of god-like power, his brokenness, his vulnerability, his self-doubt and his guilt are what the Absolute sees and what it uses. What is it that captures him? The thought of having his power restored to him, not for his own gain… but that he might at last truly protect his people, might prevent the loss of any more lives, might at last be able to live up to all that they had asked of him when he, in his mind, had failed them so many times along this journey. The Absolute singled him out as the threat, as the one who would cause the most trouble if he was aware at the time of the ambush, and it made certain that it wouldn't be, showing him exactly what he wanted to see: him able to keep his people safe…

As they were slaughtered around him, or blindly fled into the darkness.

And by the time he can snap out of it, there's nothing he can do. It's too late. Asharak, Ikaron, Memnos, and others — dead. It's his fault. It's his fault that he was too weak. It was some personal failing of his that lead to this, clearly.

So he goes with the cultists. Lets them take him away to Moonrise.

So much for hope. So much for heroes. What a fool he had been.

There was only him and his weakness and his failure… and the dead…

Yet, upon being freed in the Mindflayer Colony by the leader of the adventurers, he fights like a madman, helps to clear the room of any and all threats, offering a glimpse at the warrior he was and still is beneath the grief. And then you can speak with him.

For this, I will use my paladin, Thraeya and the dialogue options she chose.

Zevlor: Hells, I didn't think I was going to make it… Thank you. I… I owe you an explanation. Much more than that. But first, please… The others. The ambush — tell me they survived.

Thraeya: They found refuge. But what the hells happened out there, Zevlor?

Zevlor: You've heard some of it, I'm sure. That I froze, or broke, or some other lie that is kinder than the truth. We were ambushed by cultists, yes. And then I heard… her. Their false god, whispering promises in my mind. I would be a paladin again — with a god's purpose, a god's power. Everything I needed to protect my people. And all the while, the cult tortured them. They fought, and ran, and died around me, while I imagined myself their saviour. By the time I regained my sense, it was too late. I did not just surrender to the Absolute. For a moment, I welcomed it.

Thraeya: It sounds like you were being enthralled. It's not your fault.

Zevlor: It would be nice to think so. But whatever these monsters twist us into… I believe that it begins in us. I won't make excuses. I can't make amends. But I know something of what you came to do — I want to help, i- if you'll let me. Ketheric is below. He thinks you are no longer a menace. Descend and show him how wrong he is. If there are any more survivors to be found, I'll find them and lead them out of this place.

Thraeya: Find your people. They need you.

Zevlor: They have you… Go, my friend. Please. Let me do this much.

--------

As an aside, most of the responses you can choose are less than understanding. Several of them are outright condemning, much as the tone I dislike that has been taken with the writing in answers to Gale. And, honestly, the way Zevlor talks about himself also reminds me quite a bit of how Gale talks about himself. As though he has no worth or value beyond what he can do for others—right from when you first meet him in the Grove and he says that he'll repay your kindness—as well as for feeling that there is no way he can redeem himself, no way to make amends, no way to atone. There is something inherently wrong with him.

It frustrates me to no end that the game and its writing team have chosen to treat a character like Zevlor in this manner, as though the very narrative condemns him for something utterly beyond his control. As many times as certain adventurers get charmed by harpies and Tasha's Hideous Laughter and Otto's Irresistible Dance cast by just regular, ordinary opponents, I find it a bit hypocritical to hold it against Zevlor that he gets dominated by a literal deity-level being.

We give Minthara a second chance when we recruit her despite how many deaths she's either responsible for under orders of the Absolute or would have been responsible for under the Absolute, nevermind anything she might have done or been part of as a Lolth-sworn drow.

We don't hold all of Astarion's past against him, despite all the lives it affected forever.

We don't condemn Shadowheart for being part of Shar's cult despite all of the destruction wrought.

We don't blame Lae'zel for her people literally being willing to go wipeout whoever stands in their way — including an entire monastery as well as the Flaming Fist and the tiefling scout.

We don't fault Karlach for not helping the people of Elturel while she was in the hells because she was focused on doing whatever it took to survive.

We don't hold it against Wyll that he made a bad decision because he wanted to save his city.

We don't blame Halsin for the Curse falling and for his inability to fix it all this time, or even to keep the Grove in order and Kagha, his own student, on the right path.

We don't blame or condemn or ostracize any of them for their worst act or worst failing or worst decision or worst moment.

Yet the game seems to slant towards immediately writing off characters like:

Zevlor [ who was literally in the worst mental state possible while still trying to help others and was taken advantage of because of it and then subsequently blamed by the very people he strove to protect and had protected until that point even when he was struggling, to the extent of Cerys basically saying 'fuck him' despite the fact that SHE is the whole reason they ended up in the Curse anyway even if you explained to her what happened, and Zorru — who has exactly no right since he took off and abandoned the Tiefling who the Githyanki kill — basically says he better not see Zevlor or else. ]

Nere [ who is arguably in the same boat as Minthara, if not worse for having been a drow male in Lolth-sworn society, and if you converse with him after you convince him to free the gnomes, you can even actually see the shift in his demeanor and tone, to the extreme of going from talking in third person to talking in first, as well as him seeming almost addled and confused ]

Gale [ who much of the fandom makes no secret of saying that somehow Mystra was the real victim and Gale was the problem — thanks, Larian — despite the fact that even Minsc says that where he comes from, they teach their wizard boys to be silent lest Mystra steal them away, nevermind all of her canon behavior and atrocities outside of the game ].

On the whole, the fandom pardons almost all of the team characters in some manner or other, while condemning some of the very others whose stories are quite similar. Why is that? This game literally revolves around the concept of trauma and the fallout from it, and yet… apparently the effects of trauma should hold weight only for some characters? Is that the takeaway?

Zevlor should be condemned and ostracized because he was suffering, Nere should be killed and his head taken to the Myconids despite being a puppet under the Absolute, and Gale's best ending — according to some of the very people at Larian in charge of the stories — is to kill himself for the greater good because he wasn't ready before but he can do it now.

Wow.

--------

But, I digress, Zevlor is a good person who has been through literal and metaphorical hell while trying to help people who needed help, despite the fact that he didn't even feel like he could help himself. In a moment of weakness, he was taken advantage of and enthralled, and he blames himself for all that followed — and the narrative itself seems to blame him in turn.

Instead of pointing fingers, throwing blame, and directing venom at a man who already thinks he isn't worth the space he takes up, you should be able to sit him down in camp with a warm blanket and some food beside the campfire and reassure him — just as you do with all of your companions, each in turn — that he did what he could, that he isn't defined by his worst moment, and that the world is still better for him in it. What's the most important is what he does next. And you would see him absolutely crumble.

Zevlor deserves the world, and no one will ever convince me otherwise.

[oh-cramity-its-amity]

real! I used to love her (ts) but she feels very different than she used to. I’ve listened to phoebe bridgers a bit, she was good just not the type of music I usually listen to. Boy genius and Lucy Dacus are both amazing tho. They for sure deserved to win Aoty, or sia

sorry for how long this got??? i just started writing and oh whoops....

anyway- THATS what ive been saying about her unfortunately. its like after folklore/evermore things genuinely changed because of all the fame and popularity. people werent criticizing her anymore and instead overly praising her.

which isnt bad! i do think she deserves praise over folklore. the marketing of it being a suprise album was very clever too. but i think before those folklore there was a sense of criticism that people had with her music that kept her wanting to innovate it.

i have a strong believe that social media's algorithms are failing artists to innovate pop music in the same way than 00's pop music did just because of how much less artists have to lose now with their brandings. i once again bring up artpop by lady gaga and how much she lost for her idea???? and now??? gaga was really fucking killing it. her music had such creativity and passion put into it that you can SEE her drive in that. (also to know i didnt understand artpop as an album until MUCH later in my life)

but taylors lack of needing to innovate her sound due to her popularity and lack of criticism really has just shown how much her music has come to decline in quality. if you see the transition between fearless and speak now. those two albums. she TOOK the criticism that she "couldnt write her own songs" and literally flipped that narrative to write that entire album herself. and to me? arguably speak now is MY favorite taylor album.

and the transition between speak now to red to 1989 to reputation. theres SO much that happened in that sense of time. theres different sounds that make those albums what they are. 1989 was such a creative endeavor for her because it was her first step into pop music. i think was also her first time working with jack? now people say her decline on music is his fault as a producer but i dont believe his role had gotten bad until midnights. (i saw people discussing clairo's sling album because he produced it. but THEYRE WRONG. SLING IS GOOD AND HIS ERA OF BAD PRODUCING HAPPENED IN 2023(?) i forget when midnights came out ugh thats how many taylor albums we have gotten ffs)

but the breakaway and challenge 1989 gave really set up for reputation. she disappeared because of all the hate. and i think while I DONT SUPPORT that type of treatment because no one should go through that type of mental low... that really set her into a space to create more fluidly and with more passion?

lover- people will say was a flop.. and ill admit too... cruel summer?? shouldve never ever became a single. it was better as a hidden gem. but lover was good for the majority of songs!! there's still passion in it.

it was just that after folklore/evermore it felt very.... underwhelming and not like her at all. the quality slipped so so off the page. it just feels very recycled and unnecessary. especially like i said the fandom doesnt help with overconsumtion and she really truly should use her platform for more. the economy being in shambles and yet she wants to charge $700 for a concert ticket. (nothing bad if like someone WANTS to go but its genuinely ridiculous because inflation shouldnt BE like that).

not to even cover merch??? why is it so high?? shouldnt you want it to be accessible to your fans since you have so many?? vinyl prices are ridiculous but WHY is a hoodie almost $100. im sorry but like why 😭. cant we just charge $60 again?????

anyway all that to say that after the evermore era her music genuinely slipped off. im just thankful that the speak now rerecord didnt get BOTCHED as high hell. i have opinions about the vault tracks because the entire reason was to include tracks from that era and yet its like your smearing shit onto a perfectly wonderful painting and saying "look yall!! i added to this!!" wrong. wrong wrong wrong. idk. 1989's vault tracks just made me mad. it felt so unlike the vibe of what 1989 was???? and slut was NOT written at the time of 1989. come on.

timeless though off of the rerecord for speak now.... i will defend that one with my honor. i genuinely am glad speak now's vault tracks didnt get horrible treatment. i like that she kept the solo writing with the entire album. adding on fob and hayley's collabs as a callback because i really remember seeing videos of her singing sugar were going down and thats what you get during the speak now tour. it just felt like a full circle moment for that. fob's collab couldve been better but im glad it wasnt like... bad.

stilllll think matty's collab couldve been iconic on slut. even if i hate 1989's vault tracks as a whole... the 1975 does have good music. I KNOW. controversial yeah. anyway. hes got talent tho.

i found phoebe during 2020 when i was listening to a bunchhh of different artists (the 1975 too yeah). but punisher found me and i used to not be able to sleep due to anxiety/insomnia back then and i would listen to that album for months to just SLEEP.

i have a closeee bond with it. its like my favorite if not a close second of my favorite album of all time. its just really interesting?? also really valid that its not your type of music either. i just hold her stuff close. also did a english assignment on smoke signals' lyrics. i remember that. i got to say "fuck the cops" in the assignment and felt very proud of myself LMAO.

in terms of lucy- i for some reason never have gotten around to listening to her stuff?? even though i know i need to and should?? i just always somehow forget. many people have told me to but oh man i forget.

glad we can agree that they deserved album of the year btw.

sorry for the LENGTHY reply but yeah!! i might be forgetting to talk about something but askinf about my special interests (music) will always give you a lengthy answer.

[lennjamin-o7]

🌯🗡️ back again just to say once more, FUCK MIELLE. I reread the chap again and I cant believe I forgot to include her forgetting Techno fucking exists in the novel. Sis he is only 4 fucking years younger than you and he's achieved what you were literally MADE to do!

Your whole existence hinges on Phil deciding one day "hmmmm me want baby for wife" and you were so unlovable that the second he saw you he stood in the middle of the fucking road for like 5 hours because of how rancid your vibes were until the perfect sonboy known as your baby brother came up and fixed the vibes!

I just wanna see Mielle get her ego ripped to fucking shreds at this point. She's had it too good for far too long.

Felix isn't off the fucking hook either Mr."I should turn you and your horse into fucking glue" isn't nearly as innocent as like I first read him as. Like I tried give him just a smidge of wiggle room and he decked me in the face for it. I hate the both of them so much, Techno will need so many snuggles when the custody battle is over.

I have no idea how I missed that shit, I must've been in fucking shock at these egregious actions against the perfect baby boy. If they act like this here imagine how they acted at fucking home. Techno trying to copy his brother?? And then being mocked for it????? I'm in shambles. Shattered.

Both Techno's siblings are utter dogshit and its a CRIME that they even have a similar appearance to Tommy and Wilbur. Brown fluffy hair? Wilbur Sootification. Blond hair blue eyes? Tommy Innitification. I don't make the rules. Would Wilbur lose an archery contest to a 12 year old while he's like 20? ABSOLUTELY. Would he ever be anywhere near this mean to Techno?? Never in a million fucking years.

Simply cannot wait for the boy to get got. Yoinking needs to initiate immediately. SOS as Save Our Souls? Nah bro its Save Our Sonboy. Save him from these crimes committed against him, Philza Minecraft, patron saint of son stealing.

Idk how but all that has only just set in for me, but anyway, enjoy this small additional side meal of rage flavoured brainrot. A rare 🌯🗡️ anon delicacy!

Yeah, but did Mielle ACTUALLY forget or did she do that because she knows that it makes Techno feel bad. The world may never know...<3 <3 <3 <3

Bro, Phil was standing there SO LONG. Just completely flabbergasted that Mielle actually existed and acted like that. Who does that? Who is that rude? How dare they????? ABSOLUTELY rank vibes.

Mielle has lived a pampered life for sure. Literally, never had a bad day.

Yet.

Felix I try to write as that one person you know that says hateful things like they are joking. You know the kind. They laugh at it and make it sound like a joke so that when you are actually hurt by it, they can brush it off as "I was just joking".

The similarities between Tommy and Wilbur were not intentional lololol. But it is a very funny parallel.

<3 <3 <3 <3 I loved the brainrot. Feel free to send more whenever you get the chance.

[dysiver]

Oh Dys, I'm still in mourning. This is misery!! What is left in this world if my king didn't even get to go out with a bang. What the absolute shit? Gojo shouldn't go out like this man, this is disrespectful. GG, let me buy the rights to jjk so I can revive my bb boi and he can pull some shit with the fraudkuna/megumi mess and then he can rest with his bf by his own choice. If my king goes out, it has to be because he got bored of living in the world where he's already god and he wants to be romantic and shit and decides to die on his bf's anniversary death date, not some shit like this. Let him be the arrogant little asshole that I love even in death, not some fraudkuna bootlicking humbling shit like "he wasn't even going all out on me" And that picture haunts me. Doing him dirty like this man? I don't want to see my man cut in half GG. Now everything is ruined and I'm in shambles and I'm so angsty as fuck that I don't know how to bring myself to watch or read this week's issues 😣 As you can tell, I'm both a simp and I'm heated so I am sorry for the rant dys. I have already literally shaken my friend so badly in anger, betrayal, sadness, disbelief that she passed out on me and now I have noone else to rant to 😔 Thing is, she is even worse off then me. She is in denial and still hasn't processed Gojo got the Toji-outfit curse treatment and got cut in half. Man, You right. This week ain't it for Gojo si- fans. Even the anime? Idk how many episodes I have to wait until I see a glimpse of him again after the sealie-do has been done 😭 I'm in pain :'<

honestly, that's still what upsets me the most LOL the way they killed him. I was ready for Gojo to die since the beginning of the fight, all gojo fans knew this, but we were having fun and booing sukuna the whole time. It is just so damn disrespectful LOL to get a fucking off-screen dead, it is legit so fucking annoying.

Like for example, Rengoku is still my favorite Demon Slayer character, by far, no one has come close to him even tho some other characters are better written, and that's because of how he died, what he did, and how it went down and it looked even better once it was animated, it make everything feel so fucking whole and made me like him even more. The way he died, mattered a lot, it make his death sad, it make people sad.

I'm not even sad that Gojo is dead, I'm fucking pissed off LMAO! I'm pissed off because we got some afterlife speech with "sukuna wasn't even really trying." bullshit while sukuna was crawling around and crying for help the whole time, like ???? you expect me to believe that gege??? cuz that's not what the fuck you wrote LOL so quit trying to make me suck that dick cuz I'm not swallowing that bullshit.

I know a lot of people are saying Gojo isn't really dead, and there are lot of theories that have evidence backing them up but I'm still never going to get over how gege wrote an off fucking screen dead for one of his most hyped characters all cuz he doesn't know how to fucking write the fucker.

Do you know what other writers do? They cripple the fuckers to keep them from being so OP. All gege had to do was cripple Gojo (which technically is part of the theories going around) and if he DOES do that, I'm still gonna be annoyed that he wrote that shit off screen even if Gojo is alive.

Nothing will fucking make any Gojo fan get over the fact that this shit was done off-screen. It is so fucking cheap.

[bee-snail]

For the ask: Zhan Tiri x Demanitus? (seeing as you answered the crack one xD)

I'm so glad you asked!!

I actually already replied to this pairing, but since Tumblr links aren't working well for me anymore, instead of linking the old post I'll be copypasting it here.

Still! Your gave me an excuse to write even more content about them because I love them (but I hate them.... But I love them).

I now have three docs revolving entirely around Ziti and Demanitus in the context of my fic, Moonrise; but since it doesn't stray much from what was shown in canon, it can be read regardless of whether or not anyone has read my fic!

The only thing is that it's pretty spoiler-heavy for the first two, as they're packed with important parts of Ziti's backstory, but I love them enough to share anyway. We'd be getting some insight into Ziti in Moonrise's first Book and diving head-first into it in the second, but you can still read if you'd like it!

(Plus, I wrote almost 3k words specially for this ask, so that's that!)

Doc number one is called "Medinese Victory" and it's semi-unfinished. I'll be updating it soon and the link will still be here if you'd like to check, but it's pretty good as it is so here you go!

Doc number two is called "I Loved You" and it's the first I ever wrote for them, and it's unfinished and sort of in shambles. It's very telenovela-ish. I think it's fun.

And doc number three is called "What Once Was Mine" and it's literally just them being zero braincell buddies. Mindless fluff (can be seen as angst if you remember where that relationship ends but shhh...)

I love the title of the first doc. Hehehhe.

Anyway, here's the copypaste with my honest opinions !!

What made you ship it?

The sheer tragedy of it!! The innate angst of the fact they could have been such a good duo if only... Well. You know.

I personally think they were a really really amazing duo that works either platonically or romantically, but the romantic take on it gives it just a slightly different "flavor" to the dynamic and it makes me so excited about it.

I love it so much because even apart they've sort of always fit—haven't you heard the legends of Zhan Tiri and Demanitus?

What are your favorite things about it?

They are such NERDS.

Look at these little guys. Look at them. They're making SCIENCE, they're making MAGIC. They fit together like peanut butter and jelly and I can't just not see the potential of Demanitus sat down in his favorite armchair reading a book and Ziti plopping down in his lap to read it with him.

I can't not see her smiling fondly as he excitedly plays around with the monkeys he found in the mountain (and continously fails to draw a sketch of them as they keep messing with his quill).

Paired with my headcanon that she can make flowers bloom according to her mood—the concept that he would have a journal dedicated entirely to what each of her flowers mean, and being ready to comfort her or reassure her or anything she might need just by watching the flowers bloom.

Do you see the flavor that these two have as a romantic couple? Sure, you can see these same scenes platonically, but man... Isn't it just lovely?

It just makes the betrayal hurt even more, whether the person to blame was him or her.

Is there an unpopular opinion on the ship?

I'm pretty sure the ship as a whole is unpopular; many people enjoy the idea that TTS didn't go with the "scorned lovers" route. Fair enough, I say, but man... the possibilities...

My unpopular opinion is that Ziti wasn't as bad as she seemed. And also that Demanitus is a jerk there I said it.

[dreadwhoop]

Reviewing the All Elite Wrestling personnel 2024 Edition (Part 3) -

Retrospective of AEW's main champion lineage and where they are now.

In this section, to celebrate the 5 years of AEW's lineage with this title, I'm going to weigh up in hindsight if each champion was right and, if not, who it should of been or if they should have lasted longer/shorter.

Chris Jericho - August 31st 2019-February 29th 2020 - The right pick for the time. Ended too soon. Should of drawn out longer until crowds were back but even if one would have the foresight to know how long the 2020-2021 lockdown would of lasted it still felt to me like he could of coasted when the TNT title was brought in. I have a rule World Championships are only defended on PPVs anyways so it could of easily been a means to protect him until the big pop upon his dethronement.

Jon Moxley - February 29th-December 2nd 2020 - Should of always been the guy to beat Jericho but not to hold it for so long - the thing is Moxley, at his best, is always effective as a chaser. Being the guy to hold it for so long meant little in the long run - it's mostly a forgotten slice of AEW's history. We forget this is back in the days where those who weren't in factions meant so much more. Moxley should of won after a long struggle against everyone only to hold it for barely a week or two. It would make his rise mean more the next time.

Kenny Omega - December 2nd 2020-November 13th 2021 - The first truly important AEW Champion - right call, right length of time, and had excellent matches throughout. No issues here. AEW was red hot during his reign. I miss him.

Hangman Adam Page - November 13th 2021-May 29th 2022 - The anointed one of AEW - in hindsight should likely have never won this title until after the TNT title. He simply wasn't ready. He STILL isn't ready. It was too late in his story arc plus made no sense to be given so many chances and if you've seen me write about his inclusion to GET RID OF back in 2021 it only validates it more now we're in 2024 and he feels every bit the poster child for insecurity alongside Jack Perry and The Young Bucks. Watch as they have him be the one to retire Bryan Danielson. It'll prove once again their stupidity to force bad ideas in your face because Tony Khan will never be loved by those around him.

CM Punk - May 29th-August 24th 2022 - Hangman Page wasn't so much a misstep as a trip up. CM Punk was a dive in a direction which, probably, should not have happened either. I get what the idea was behind CM Punk winning but it also felt to me the divide, the split, the rift of AEW's audience occured at this moment. It was a "whose side are you on" kind of deal. Did Punk deserve to be its architect? Probably no more or less than others blamed but his win was never a comfortable one. It just highlighed how weak AEW's homegrown talent looked compared to ex-WWE stars. A product of comprimises.

Jon Moxley - (June 26th)August 24th-September 4th 2022 - And this is where the AEW World Championship went from strength to weakness. A literal square peg in a circular hole. Does it fit? Sure - didn't I say he should win it again? Didn't I also say his run should be short and then chase again? The context is lost on those who only see it for what they are. To reminisce on events years ago is to collect from it the more important lesson - timing is everything. The match sucked, the reign sucked, the purpose sucked.

CM Punk - September 4th-7th 2022 - Cursed as this all is, it's a shame this never ended up the way it could of gone. After Page you had so many potential choices - Darby, Danielson, even outside choices in Dustin Rhodes or Eddie Kingston. Wardlow. MJF, who we'll get to in a moment. CM Punk was there to instill the sense those guys were going to deserve it in the way Moxley would of with Jericho had it not been a little rushed. Everything with the title is in shambles now.

Jon Moxley - September 21st-November 19th 2022 - And here's where we look at, once again, the wrong person. It should of been Danielson. It should of been Kingston. It should of been Darby. It should NOT have been Moxley. By now it was all but proven Moxley was not in AEW to be a World Champion but a character onto himself - a person pretending to mean more than he is. The hot potatoing of this title between him and Punk only served to prove once again AEW's homegrown talent suck compared to ex-WWE talent. If I didn't know better I'd almost think Moxley is some deep-cover sleeper agent for the rival company. How else do you explain such willful incompetence? No not with CTE please…

MJF - November 19th 2022-December 30th 2023 - The second truly important AEW Champion - right call, right length of time, and had excellent matches throughout. No issues here. AEW has a sustained period of interest in this time though, through no fault of MJF, had begun to show visible cracks.

Samoa Joe - December 30th 2023-April 21st 2024 - The best choice in a bad situation. Likely earned it as a thank you for not being a total amateur whilst being surrounded by them. Right length of time too. History won't tend to remember Samoa Joe as one of the better champions of AEW but he's definately one of the least mired in controversy.

Swerve Strickland - April 21st-August 25th 2024 - Another underrated but all too deserving choice. It's clear everyone else didn't so much step up to the plate they were given it and dropped it. Swerve served everyone a feast of true expectations and by working hard and being better you deserve to be at the top. A remarkably solid run only dampened by AEW's decline. It is my hope he'll be back at the top once more sooner than later.

Bryan Danielson - August 25th 2024- - The current champion but it's all a bit too late. Should of happened a year or two ago. I almost felt like Swerve should of won because it would solidify his reign as the third truly important AEW Champion but alas was not to be…not to mean now we have Will Ospreay looming in the horizon as the next anointed one. I hope, as we go into 2025, AEW isn't going to fall back on bad talent who have been there stinking up the place and put fresh talent forward to make this company grow as it did once before - time will tell if a guy like Darby Allin will get his crowning moment. It's the only goal they should focus upon after making a 3-time former AEW Champion look so amazing after a drought of middling performances. Perhaps let Darby be the one to retire Danielson. It would be a fitting irony after last year's retirement from Sting - a full 1-year on and Darby retires another legend in the business.

[felixsbakingbud]

Buckle in partner cuz I—

Say it with me now

✨am in emotional devastation ✨

The way you write Minho is so unbelievably soft and beautiful and sweet and warm and just ☹️☹️☹️☹️ you seriously know how to capture that quiet part of him that’s a big ol softie and I LIVE. FOR. IT. The amount of love he quietly shows for y/n throughout the whole fic had me kicking my feet, throwing my phone, and being a puddle of sobs on my floor. ALSO YOU NEARLY HAD ME WITH THE CHANGBIN BIT I STG 😭😭😭 I WAS ALMOST NOT READY BUT I STUCK IT THROUGH. THAT WAS SUCH A CLEVER TWIST TO HAVE IT BE A FLASHBACK ALL THROUGHOUT AIJEOEJDOEKS have I mentioned I love ur mind ur such a mastermind the mind of a genius, a poet, an artist like we love to see it so much.

Now for my favorite part and yours, ✨Sobbing Over Sahar’s Beautiful Words✨

(Can u tell I’m finally learning how to use tumblr with literal italics we love to see it grandma work it 😍😍😍)

Listen that ENTIRE car trip to the beach had me in shambles. Just the quiet care Minho had in reassuring y/n and helping her regain a part of her life that she had been missing for so long ☹️ and supporting her in her trauma with car rides ☹️ and the beach itself with the ocean story ☹️☹️☹️☹️ I would cite the whole thing like it was so beautiful but this was my absolute favorite: “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.” Also y/n saying that they’re holding on to hope right after that like she read his mind ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ emotional devastation

“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 lil Cover Me reference 🥺🥺🥺 I’ve been loving this song so much since it came out and I love that you incorporated it a bit in here too

👏comfort👏and👏reverse👏comfort👏are👏my👏favorite👏things👏 and Minho’s fever scene 😭😭😭 the way it started off with that small nightmare of losing y/n and then ended with the kiss BAISJSKSKOSKSOSKS “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.” THIS WAS SKDHEOSNIENEKE a kiss that just revives in a way???? Idk how to describe it but just feeling love and all those positive emotions flowing through you from your heart sisnkddkkd you perfectly described that and I love the imagery here so much

“"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips. “Yours.”” I puked :> (affectionately) nah seriously threw my phone at this line this was JAKJDKENDOSKS MINHO YOU FLIRTY SOFTY (me when)

““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.”” Do you hear that? That’s the sound of me creating my own ocean of tears :> YOU CAN’T JUST DO THIS TO ME SAHAR????? This was such a BEAUTIFUL WAY TO DESCRIBE MINHO???? And then her realization that she was brought back to life because of him. Because he didn’t abandon her and instead poured his love into her and watching her heal and grow “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.” here we go again gonna create another ocean very casually rn

THE ANGST WHEN HE WAS ABOJT TO LEAVE WAS. SO. GOOD. YOU TORE MY HEART OUT PLZZZ I was so yelling in my head for him to wait and then he did and the reunion was so 🥹🥹🥹🥹 “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.” CRYING SOBBING PUKINGGGGGG

“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.” I LOVE THIS PART cuz it parallels why Minho didn’t kiss her on the bridge and said he wanted her to choose him in the present without worrying about the past or future. LIKE SHE CHOOSES HIM NOW IN THIS MOMENT SIJSOWJEOSKSAPA I have made so many oceans atp.

““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.” 😭because😭Minho😭is😭her😭home😭 THIS WAS SO SWEET

“The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.” AND FHE FACT THAT THE DAY COUNT RESTARTS WITH THIS PART TOO 🥹🥹🥹 Sahar the ending was absolute perfection too like you always manage to wrap everything up so sweetly with the prettiest bow and it always leaves me feeling so satisfied. LIKE THIS WAS SUCH A PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL ENDING

oh I’m still not done cuz we have to talk about the star motifs cuz

Sahar please I love galaxies and stars so much and the constant little details you added with the stars from Minho’s eyes containing galaxies (you’re so right I love his boba eyes that hold galaxies so much) to the ending with the destined stars line but Minho still loving y/n the same throughout it all ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME WITH EMOTIONS CUZ U SUCCEEDED

Every time they mentioned galaxies or stars I got a lil kick it was so cute 🥹🥹

Beautiful conclusion a masterpiece that made me feel all the feels as usual :> worth the wait as always too hehe

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.

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.” 

[enlighten3d]

fuck this, i have more thoughts abt buttercups eva au!

(if this is your first time seeing buttercups eva au: its an au where grian, mumbo, and scar are pilots of evangelions. like, from neon genesis evangelion. i dont think much knowledge of eva is required, but im prolly wrong shfjfj. other things abt this au can be found in the #buttercups eva au tag.)

character backstories! made this up while trying to sleep last night . this is scars, ill write grian and mumbos later

reminder that im kinda partially saying 'fuck the lore of eva' bcs i literally watched this thing two days ago and it does not make sense to me but i like the Vibes. also am maayyybeee??? calling the angels watchers in this au.

so, scar goodtimes: (this is more of a character profile... a rly rambly one.)

his parents were... killed, and he is under suspicion for being the one to do it. i am unsure whether or not he actually killed them, but the alternative is that they killed themselves and then he got blamed for it. whatever. he doesnt particularly care that they died; they were assholes. so hes on the run, hopping countries whenever he can. he tries to stay in places the longest he can, but he can never stay too long as it gets unsafe + he gets paranoid. also he pissed off a SHITTON of people during his travels so hes also hiding from them. at some point tho he gets weary of always running, despite being scared of stopping, he says fuck it and tries to settle down someplace, even just for a bit. probably fuckin... germany or something? he IS technically supposed to be the asuka of this au.

so he settles down in say, gemany. tricks the government into giving him a new identity via the loophole of him being born right after the second impact, when the world was in SHAMBLES. he says that he never like, officially registered in the government databases due to the disarray and is only coming forth about it now. the government is like 'okay sus but sure'. mooostly cause hes a viable eva pilot i think. anygays he gets an identity, goes to school, is very Normal, but then he gets approached like 'hey do you want to pilot a giant mech? okay great you have no choice'. he wouldnt have said no either way; nerv being a government facility means that its safe. besides, hes curious.

so he becomes the second child, the pilot of eva unit02. he doesnt find it particularly great but its fine enough. he likes feeling like he actually has power for once in his life. he knows he doesnt, not really, but what matters is the feeling of it when it comes to these things, isnt it?

and if youre going like 'lime, his parents being mysteriously killed and him being on the run is a rly flimsy backstory', my answer to that is that i KNOW. but this is silly au and i can do what i want. all of this is subject to change hjksdfsnamd

also hes trans (because i said so). when he got a legal identity, they were like 'we are not going to call you scar'and he was like 'boo'. and then still went by scar.

hes been in a LOT of countries over the course of the course of his life, which means that hes picked up quite a few other languages. how can he trick convince people into letting him hitch a ride if they dont understand him! so hes a polyglot but like, a really bad one if that makes sense fsjdkfnds. id say hes fluent in english, german, japanese, which are the obligatory languages for this, but im sure he knows several more, even if hes not necessarily fluent.

his whole life, especially while his parents were alive but even after that, hes been told that hes worthless and that he wont ever really accomplish anything. how could anyone like him ever do anything with their life? so yeah, spite. hes decided that no, theyre wrong. even though hes never been in one consistent place for most of his life, hes always been determined to somehow prove them wrong. so that definitely plays into being one of the first eva pilots beside the whole safety thing.

hes... determined. but hes never had many close relationships, having always left before anything true could bloom (boom, the whole being on the run thing is a metaphor now as well cause hes running from himself too haha). he puts up a confident façade to hide the fact that he very much does not know what hes doing. hes trying to prove people wrong, that hes better than what they say, but he usually always leaves before he can do that, afraid of actually doing it. here, hes forced to actually stay. so even if he doesnt particularly want to (he does, he just doesnt want to acknowldge it because surely hes better than personal connections? surely theyre a weakness?), he becomes close friends with grian and mumbo and learns that yeah maybe he doesnt have to run. maybe he can stay put.

and thats it mostly!

hope this makes sense, thank you so much for reading! if you have any questions or thoughts abt this au, shoot them in my askbox. this is a very very unplanned au, so anth is appreciated. Ɛ>

[dumbbitchfrommars]

I’m annoyed so I’m going o rant and go to bed so it’s done and can be left with today. I’m annoyed and feeling unrecognised and under appreciated.

Perhaps is this why her sister has distanced herself? Is this the toxicity that I knew existed but hoped wouldn’t come to reveal itself to me?

I don’t like her family because they’re white and superficial and so so boring. I can’t even pretend to engage or be interested in things that mean nothing to me… it could be as simple as me being me and them being family. It’s completely fair and understandable and expected. Once an outsider, always an outsider.

One good thing I can say is I love Istanbul. I would happily move here one day. It is beautiful and charming and interesting and cool, and somehow I feel safe amongst its chaos. It reminds me of Sri Lanka but also of Melbourne, and Europe mixed together.

Anyway, I feel overlooked. Every time I’ve made a suggestion that was overlooked, that plan backfired. We end up following my original plan, that I get put down for. What’s the point of me saying anything in the first place if you won’t listen?

Furthermore, the best experiences had on this trip thus far have been organised by ME. I booked the flights, I booked the tour that you so happily shared with your cousin (despite implying it was boring and not your cup of tea…), I found the gorgeous beach we spent the day at. YOU made us waste money on entry to a lake we didn’t even spend any time at. YOU made us waste time and energy on a shitty Airbnb for your insisted “space for the wedding” and now o have anxiety in a dodgy room. YOU made us walk in the heat for ages only to get a taxi like I’d originally suggested… when you know I have an injured shoulder. God, you can be a selfish person sometimes. YOU walk around sticking out like a sore thumb, too polite and white and attracting scams like bugs.

I love you but I know you can be a dark sided person. You’re lazy and refuse to compromise on my needs and wants for this trip. This trip that I paid all my savings and the same amount of investment that you did, and therefore deserve the same amount of control of what we do. Eh are we wasting money on Airbnbs when I explicitly said I wanted yo MEET PEOPLE AND MAKE FRIENDS. ? How many people have I met? None. Besides your exhaustingly caucasian family. No, but I’m sure they’re actually really very nice. Nice like your sister. Or your mum.

You can’t replace a plug you took out? You can copy past a code that I now have to write out entirely from memory? You can’t take an extra second to make my life more convenient, can you? So fucking lazy. And you insist on paying for everything only to tell me the amount before conversion, giving me a million extra things to do at the end of the day. Cant you simply do it yourself? Or constantly demanding my attention WHEN IM TRYING TO DO SOMETHING ALREADY. cant you fucking wait for one second while I get my shit done. I can’t even THINK FOR A MOMENT WITHOUT YOU ASKING ME TO DO SOMETHING. figure it out on your own! Jesus fucking Christ! I need a break from her. Stop leading me on goose chases and making me look like a fucking idiot. We look like a couple of idiots when your in the lead.

I am evil for saying these things but it must be done or I won’t stop coming back to the thoughts. I am angry and upset and frustrated and sick of being ignored overlooked disrespected and dismissed. If it weren’t for me this entire trip would be in shambles. Genuine fucking shambles. I have all the ACTUAL addresses. I have all the flight times. I organised everything for you as a favour to you. And you can’t as little as make a fake id for me to use when you literally made a promise to do so?

I despise someone who doesn’t live up to their words. I’m constantly apologising and stepping on eggshells to make you happy and you can’t even find the tiniest effort to meet my expectations. The disrespect is strong. I’m very disgusted by it. I know my worth and it is not this. I won’t be letting your laziness affect this trip negatively anymore. I am taking control and I don’t care if it bothers you because you are not responsible enough to do it yourself.

I will listen to music when I want to. My music. I will read when I want to. I will appreciate men when I want to. Privately. Unjudged. I will walk as far as I like. I will prioritise my health because that matters to me. I will meet new people and travel independently because that is what I wanted in the first place. I will stay silent when I want to be silent. I won’t engage in superficiality for social niceties because that just ain’t me. I am deep and complex and interesting and I won’t water myself down for you or for anyone for that matter. Don’t think this trip is any exception. I invested in this trip for ME. so I come first. ME ME ME ME ME!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t care if you’re bored of me!!! I will entertain myself! I don’t have to be here if you don’t want me to be! Leave me alone !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[thegaangneedstherapy]

Just finished the new and last chapter of risking it all

Before I say all this @ssreeder you are so incredibly talented that it makes me jealous. I want to crawl into your skin to get your writing ability (is that creepy?)

When I got the notification it was updated I was ECSTATIC. I literally jumped out of my seat then I saw it was the last chapter and closed out of it the app.

usually I read updates right when they happen but this one I couldn’t. Once I read it, it was over. This series I’m so attached to was coming to an end (this part)

I finally got the courage to read it and the amount of time it took me is something I’ll never admit. I had to keep taking breaks to just stare at my wall and not cry. The whole chapter was so incredible.

I could of put this in a comment but one I’m not a comment guy and it felt more fit as a post.

The ending had me in shambles. I’ve never cried so hard to anything. Any movie,book,or whatever. My tears to banna fish and my angsty books were NOTHING compared to this.

It wasn’t just the tears but I had to pause every paragraph (especially near the end) to just wipe my eyes and stair down at my lap.

I should be sleeping but man I love this story so much. And hate it from making me so emotional

This fic has inspired so many story’s that are sitting in my google docs. Some references to it in my fic that’s posted cause I love this fic so fucking much.

How you portray the characters. Their growths,redemptions,reverse redemptions,how they’ve changed,their trauma response, JUST EVERYTHING.

You prob get tons of comments and stuff telling how incredible you are but this really is something special I wanna say I’m proud of you but I don’t even know you. I’m getting too sentimental.

I have never been so effected (positively) by a fanfic. I really encourage everyone to read it cause I won’t stop talking about it.

When I randomly scrolled through the sokka/zuko tag I never expected I would end up here.

I’ll wrap my whatever this is up. Im most likely gonna post more about this cause MAN I LOVE IT SO MUCH

SO MUCH

Sorry to type this whole essay (this is the first and won’t be the last so stay tuned) on my love for this fanfic. When I read this back I’ll probably realize how creepy and obsessive I sound. But who knows I might delete it all so if you’re reading this I didn’t.

Thank you @ssreeder (sorry to @ you again) for creating this cause it truly was one the most amazing things I’ve ever read. I’m excited to see the next part and where it will go from here.