#spent way too much time on this but nothing tickles my motivation and inspiration more than gallacrafts <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[lingy910y]

Gallacrafts #23: Stargazer Lilies, Motherfucker!

for this month’s @gallacrafts i drew the sleeping beauty kiss scene from Too Busy Being Yours by @ms-moonlight-inn, a fic about mickey having hanahaki that was gifted to me during the Gallavich Gift Exchange 2022 🥳

[think-ill-watch-it-burn]

hi! I hope I'm not late for the alphabet... Can I ask for SFW A, B, C, H, J, M, N, R, X and Z for Joker? I know it's a lot so no need to hurry or you can break it into few, shorter ones. Thank you and wish you a lot of inspiration and motivation!

Hello my love!! Thank you for reaching out!! You most definitely are not too late 🥰

So, I did end up breaking this request down a little bit. I’ll post H, R, and X a little later - but here are the rest!

Nestled under a read-more so I don’t inundate folks with the ~~long~~ ☺️

Joker/52

SFW Alphabet Letters: A - B - C - J - M - N - Z

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

At first Joker is stingy with his affection - he’s more afraid of being hurt than he is of hurting someone else. Withholding affection is self protection for him.

With time he realizes how good affection feels, from holding hands to resting against one-anothers’ bodies.

With a little more time he realizes the good-affection-feelings aren’t anything to hide from. They aren’t a punishment, or even a reward. They just are.... because he is loved.

It takes such a painfully long time for him to realize this, but once he does he absolutely cannot get enough physical affection.

Touch his hand, arm, shoulder.... omg his back??

There’s a whole side of him he’s never even entertained... open that up for him.

He will be FOREVER grateful.

All he wants in life is to be touched and loved. He’s never known anything beyond hatred and bitterness... you don’t even have to, uh, give him a happy ending. Hold him, caress him, show him physical affection and his mind is utterly blown.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

If you ever, in your life, want ANYONE on your side.... it’s Joker.

Fair, he’s pretty militant in his beliefs and direction. But... we see how hard he fights for his own truth. Imagine he’s fighting for something - someBODY - tangible. An entity with feelings, desires, pain....

As hard as Joker wants to be, really he’s soft and gooey and wants nothing more than companions to share his life with.

More than likely you’d bond either over music or your general disdain for society as a whole... maybe a little of both.

He’s made a friend here and there, mostly acquaintances, aside from Viktor who is probably his best friend until he meets you... and then you seem to fill a role all your own.

He treats everyone whose managed to wriggle into his heart the same way - with undying devotion and protection that borders on stalking. 🙃

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Joker is resistant at first. He doesn’t even necessarily know if he *likes* being touched...

Until you stroke your hand up and down his back for the first time.

And then you lay your head in his lap and wrap your arms around him.

The warmth down to his bones is foreign.... but once he realizes he likes it, he cannot get enough of it.

Eventually he’s nudging his head into your lap for hair-strokes, wrapping his arms around your waist hoping you’ll hug his shoulders and neck back, craving your fingers against his scalp.

If he feels comfortable, if you’ll let him, he’ll dissolve into the neediest little black puddle you’ve never been able to deny.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Honestly... I think Joker is surprised by the jealousy he feels over you.

Initially, I think, he can’t even fathom jealousy. He’s very, very much about personal agency and the thought of “possessing” one’s partner seemed foreign to him....

Until he saw someone flirting with you... and you didn’t immediately brush them aside. Instead, you seemed pleased by their attention.... what the fuck?

Joker is as confused as he is irate. You’re only supposed to want him, right??? Especially considering some of the things you’ve done together....

He follows you with hawk-eyes, swooping in to question you the absolute FIRST moment you are alone.

“You wanted them, didn’t you?” He asks, unable to look you in the eye. He takes your scoff as an affront. “Is this funny?”

You try hard to hide your triumphant grin, a little ashamed of how tickled you are by his jealousy.

“I don’t know how you expect me to see anyone else with you in the way?” You say, grinning unapologetically at his sour face. He looks so bashful your heart sinks in your chest. “You do know you’re the only one I ever see… right?”

He scoffs and toes at the dirt, looking pathetically like a scolded boy, hoping you’ll dive against his chest the way you end up doing, squeezing his bony ribcage into your soft arms. He sighs against you, nuzzling his face into your neck. As you smile against his skin you mutter, “YOU are the only one I want, stupid. Who could ever possibly replace you?”

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Joker’s passed the fuck out, spread-eagle on the couch, you nestled between his thighs, cheek on his tummy, likely also passed the fuck out. Joker is not a morning person. He doesn’t even think about cracking his eye open until he can feel the afternoon settling into evening unless he absolute h a s to.

If you wake before him - which is typical - he’s unbothered by your activity and is sometimes even spurred begrudgingly awake by it. He doesn’t really mind - if he really needed the rest drum practice wouldn’t wake him - and he can usually coerce you into doing something fun. If you really need help with your responsibilities he’ll probably try, but he struggles with attention when it isn’t something that easily holds his interest.

He doesn’t usually eat much, but if you put some food in front of him he’ll be endlessly appreciative and probably even start gaining a little weight.

Most of the time he just appreciates waking up to you in his arms (or between his legs, or slung over his back, or otherwise wrapped around, under, or on top of him), gently rousing with some wake-up snuggles and, uh, stuff. 😏

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Most nights are spent snuggling, wrapped around each other, enjoying some yummy food, and usually watching or listening to something.

Joker’s very sensitive to his environment, especially when he’s preparing to sleep. After a short adjustment period he gets comfortable enough to really enjoy spending the night at your place, but he’s become so accustomed to Viktor’s endless activity in the only space he’s ever felt the safety of “home,” that having too much quiet is unnerving for him. Having a movie or show on, playing music, even a loud fan or air conditioner help soothe his unease. If there’s no better option he likes to fall asleep on your chest, lulled by your swooshing, thumping heartbeat.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Joker has never really, in his life, known a nighttime routine that he’s ever liked or remotely worked for him. He just kind of… nods off wherever feels safe and reasonably comfortable.

He spends a lot of time napping on the couch at his place in the Nether with Viktor. He has his own room, and the bed is fine, but honestly… he low key doesn’t like to be alone.

Don’t be mistaken, he almost always prefers to be by himself, most especially when he’s in a vulnerable position like sleep - but that was before he realized there were people in the world he could feel comfortable with and enjoy being around after all.

He doesn’t like loud, sudden noises, but the shuffling, padding, clacking sounds he’s become used to in his environment are slowly becoming the happy-place he goes to when he zens out, lulling him into peaceful sleep every time.

Once you come into his life, he spends more time sleeping wherever you are. It’s weird for him at first… he spends a lot of time on your couch in the dark, even when you aren’t home, so he can get used to the sounds of your environment. He probably even spends some sleep-overs on the couch, until he tackles the task of getting used to your bedroom. He absolutely isn’t averse to the presence of a sleep/white-noise machine.He may or may not bring a big-ass fan from home to setup in your bedroom - just cause it needs more air flow, ya know. 👀

Once he’s used to sleeping with you there, outside of extraneous circumstances he has a VERY hard time sleeping without you - especially if you snore, move around a lot, or make a lot of noises in your sleep. Beyond the obvious loss of your warmth and weight, he’s left without his snuggly little sleep-machine. Having something that smells like you nearby helps. If you’re ever away or unavailable you should just assume he’s sleeping in your bed every chance he gets.

He might even pop in occasionally just to nuzzle your pillows/clothes while you’re gone, holding onto it for later knowing he won’t be able to come back to sleep. Don’t be surprised to find some strange things missing when you return.

[stopeatingwhales]

about a girl x kurt cobain

hi guys omg- it’s been too long since i’ve last posted something, and my nirvana obsession has risen once again so what a thought into writing something dedicated to the one and only kurt himself <3 thank you ever so much to the person who requested this, i managed to write something i think i’m somewhat proud of aha

Pairing: pre-bleach era kurt x reader

Warnings: nothing! 

Word count: 2.165

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

Waiting for him to appear on stage for the first time was like a moment snatched out of a drunken stupor: so surreal I had to continuously pinch myself every few minutes for reassurance that this was really happening. With a mind cluttered in thought, it became hard to sit still for as little as ten seconds without being accompanied by an itch to either scratch my scalp in nervousness, or chew on my already bitten nails - attempting to sand off their roughened look from my previous antics. The most I had drunk that night was a couple sips of my gingerish coloured beer - with the room buzzing in anticipation and curiosity for who was headlining the bar tonight, it caused everything that even shifted slightly in its position to irritate me in all ways plausible. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t manage to let anything settle in my stomach without having a sudden rush of nausea bubble up in my throat; it was Kurt’s first performance tonight with his new, reformed band, and being told that he was quite nervous triggered an anxiety in my veins stronger than the pain of the first rush of heroin dousing my body after months of not being able to get hold of it - allowing all my stress, agony and dread to escape my body at an expeditious rate as my body adorned the poison I was granting into my limbs. It was inevitable: Kurt was bound to be nervous before his first performance with new material to a bunch of strangers that had never seen the wonders of his model-face before, and although he had performed many times, a grasp of worry still caught into his hair as he tried to pass the time, like a knot you seemingly are unable to rid of, leaving you with no other choice but to resort to grabbing a pair of kitchen scissors and chopping that bunch of hair off. Which he had done many times. 

Whilst time speedily went on, I found myself calming down by a small amount, consoling myself with different types of remedies in solution: downing my drink, ordering another (this time a gin & tonic to spice things up) and repeating the same, before slamming my now empty glass to the table and standing up to get a clearer view of the stage, knowing they were going to come on soon. All that wondered in my mind was Kurt, quickly reminding myself over all the time we had spent together - the times when we had first become friends. I had been introduced to him early last year when Krist had asked me if I wanted to see his new band he was bassing for - and immediately was I enthralled, knowing that once I had laid my eyes on him, I would never be able to detach them from him: a poor man, masked in aristocracy in ways not physical as it may seem. He captivated me. His presence carried such warmth it was able to counter against the sun; your cheeks immediately burning as he locked eyes with you. You instantly wanted to wrap your arms around him, and when talking, you were instantly drawn to his short yet meaningful phrases, laced in passion stronger than an avocado seed. As my eyes were locked firmly together with his, I was able to notice something so pure and wondrous I had been unsuccessful in finding in anyone else: care. A simple emotion, somehow one of the hardest to master. Regardless of what the subject matter might be, he always carried a certain interest to it - constantly having something to say. Even if you found him sitting excluded from everyone else, you could notice that there was something either battling his mind, or inspiring him for something - new music, lyrics perhaps. It’s enticing, it's human. He’s human.

Suddenly, a distorted strum of a guitar abruptly blared through one of the many amplifiers dotted around the small stage at the end of the room. The crowded space was now silenced by the hasty noise, my (slightly intoxicated, yet conscious) head now instantly turning to see what had happened - although I was for certain it was the time I had been most excited for. Little whispers and hushes were the only things you were able to hear for the span of a few seconds as the amp's sound had silenced itself, a small buzz affiliating throughout the room, a couple of heads turning back and forth to see the number of people collectively awaiting to listen to the music of the unknown band performing tonight. My eyes stayed glued to the stage as I pictured his character, standing there in the middle, Krist and Chad capturing the rest of the space, adorned by their instruments - playing along to Kurt’s beautiful melodies. Gazing at his figure, beautifully formed with such masculinity, decorated with concerning parts of emeation, slowly embarking its way through to the middle of the stage - guitar gripped firmly in arm - birthed dozens of baby butterflies inside my stomach, tickling my insides in all sorts of ways. My nervousness resurrected itself once again, as I had come to a realisation that I wasn’t imagining anything at all.

Silence. 

No introduction, nothing. From his immediate grace to the stage, I could tell he was nervous; the bright light emitting onto his face allowed me to see his features much more prominently - allowing you to just about to see the small stubble that was forming on his face from his forgetfulness to shave in the morning. However, I wasn’t able to admire his face for long, only for a few seconds before he fixed his gaze to his electric guitar, placing his fingers on specific chords, then turning to stare at his bandmates. A couple looks were shared between them all, a mere roll of the eyes from Chad, a small smile from Krist towards Kurt - for motivation, as the good friend he was. Kurt on the other hand didn’t change his facial expression, only nodding his head at both the boys before switching back to stare at the instrument adorned by his grip, beginning to bob his head slowly - counting himself in. Even from afar I was able to tell that at that single moment, he didn’t carry a care or a worry for anyone but his guitar, focusing all his energy and thought into this one specific thing: the start of the performance. 

1...2...3...4

As the music began, a smile branched onto my cheeks instantly. A song I recognised, my heart warming as I realised what was playing. About a girl, the song we wrote together. 

Usually, Kurt would write alone, not wanting anyone else’s input and ideas; all the band played was what Kurt had written, for it was truly only his work on that stage, just a few people helping out to put it together in life form. However, there was a significant time after a band practice weeks ago where I had attended due to me having nothing else to do, and watching the three of them play always made me feel content - holding my heart with hope for the new wave of music they were producing. As they were packing up their stuff at the end of the rehearsal, Kurt had slowly wandered off from tidying up and had come up to me, awkwardly wanting to show me what he had written for a random song: hungry for my opinion even when he never really cared what anyone thought of his music. We ended up co-writing that specific song together, the song sounding the room at this very moment. As I stared at Kurt all that was met with my eyes was his entire concentration to perfect everything that he was playing; every move of the finger producing a different sound as he attempted to hit all the ones significantly partnered with the song. He knew I was watching him, that’s why he played this song first and foremost. 

Lifting his head up from the guitar, his mouth instantly pressed itself onto the microphone, revealing his raw, raspy vocals. My eyes were physically unable to detach themselves from the sight I was seeing at this very moment. They had performed multiple times before, yet this time, something felt different. New. Almost as if everything pieced in together, and with just a bit of sanding around the edges - they’d be perfect, unlike any band I had ever seen live. Watching the crowd’s attention simply staying undivided towards the band made me feel a sort of elation the morning of Christmas would give you, the sensational feeling hitting you that its the date that brought everyone together; this time the music was the thing that brought everyone together. My eyes scanned the crowd, noticing some people bobbing their heads, surprised by their immediate tunes that were being emitted from the song, widening my smile - if that was even humanly possible at this moment. Their fresh, uncensored, gruffy sound was something not many bands at the time even thought about playing - that was for people who were behind their time, Sex Pistols era almost. The feeling that warmed my heart at that moment was something indescribable - illegitimate for words. It felt like a lighter had torched its way into my body, the sharp pain bruising a bright crimson all the way up my torso to my cheeks, a breath hitched back in my throat as I slowly figure out the way to breathe again. The pain that caressed my heart so dearingly was also paired with a strong sense of joy. Happiness. Delighted that the pieces of such a complex puzzle were fitting together. 

As a minute or so went on, the crowd slowly began to get more and more into the music, some people now swaying their hips or dancing around with their friends. I couldn’t help but wonder how Kurt was beginning to feel, or what he was already feeling. Euphoria at the highest degree, something so strong not even a multiload of ecstasy could even attempt to give you. I found myself singing along to the words quietly, resulting in the people around me noticing that I was the only one who actually knew the song apart from the band. A random guy had turned to look at me, drink firmly gripped in hand, and with his rough attempt to shout over the loud music, whilst pointing towards the stage. “You know them?”

For a couple of scenes everything went still. I stopped moving, my eyes slowly getting lost with the man standing on the stage in front of me as I accidentally ignored the stranger’s question. I continued watching the stage, my eyes focused on Kurt - until his eyes abruptly opened, locking in with mine instantly. Startled, he noticed my starstruck expression, a little grin hanging off his lips. Maybe it was out of arrogance, however I knew he wasn’t planning on taking them off soon - not that I’d be the one to complain. His eyes were bright, glimmering with happiness; filled with life and fertility as they pierced into my soul so daringly, carrying the same devilish want that Adam had been challenged with once told not to eat the apple off the tree - his mind so intrusive he was simply unable to resist. His wondrous orbs carried a hint of impish, vanity, as they were also laced with a hint of seductivity and perhaps a shed of horniness, sudden greed blistering over his ocean-like eyes; he wanted it all, in the most wicked of ways. It would be a white lie if I had said this didn’t make me feel some sort of way; had he never looked at me like that before, I might’ve said otherwise. Perhaps his sudden bursts of confidence spewing out of him made him act this way, regardless, I knew it was something real. His eyes bestowed the same hunger he had initiated into his sudden approach when asking me what I thought of the music he had written, the first time me and him truly bonded together. I seemingly was unable to detach my eyes from him, for my body, heart and mind stayed encompassed in thought of how bewildered I was; in simply over a year, I had watched him grow, become more confident, sanguine, and it was all showing off now. He was staring at me as if the world was ending, and that I was the last thing he wanted engraved in his mind, aiding him into dying in such complacency it was almost as equal as equilibrium in the world of absolute zero. “Yes I do,” I muttered, nudging the unfamiliar person whom I hadn’t even set eyes upon. Feeling his gaze burn into my cheek, I continued to focus my eyes on Kurt, my tongue licking the sides of my mouth as I figured out words to muster. “That’s my boyfriend,” 

[keijikunn]

Yellow

pairing: bokuto koutarou x neutral!reader genre: overall fluffy, there’s this tiny bit of angst but nothing too hurtful  summary: the yellow things in love that reminds you of bokuto koutarou word count: ~2.5k author’s note: happy birthday to my favourite loud boy! i know i’m a bit late, but here it is my special fic to our owl

WARNINGS: mentions of car crash

If you enjoy it please leave a comment or a reblog!!

               a life with bokuto koutarou is painted with yellow. like the sunshine on your skin, a cold lemonade on a hot day, or a smile face on every text exchanged. a life him his was never dull, he just… brings color into it. in all honesty, you were nothing but blessed to have such a great man on your side through the ups and downs of life.

              waking up next to him – with his arms securely wrapped around your waist, his soft breathes hitting your neck and his head on your chest – always filled you utter joy and warmth. even when his lips let snores escape or how his hair would tickle your face, the peace on his features was enough to melt your heart. and when the rays of sunshine illuminated both of you? that was the moment koutarou looked absolutely like an angel – and perhaps he is.

              “good morning, love” his raspy voice has never failed to pull the strings of your heart, the same ones bokuto knew all too well – after all, years of relationship taught him enough about you.

              “good morning, kou” you replied with a quick peck on his forehead, letting a hand run through the locks of gray and black hair. the man let out a content hum as he pulled you even closer, that way he could kiss the soft skin of your neck just the way he knew you liked.

              as odd as it might be, mornings were the only moment bokuto would be the calmest he could. the aura around him would be a pastel yellow. soft, discreet, but lovely. the most tender and loving gestures are exchanged in a half-sleep conscience – but still the purest actions. your own world is filled with such color, your bedroom – despite the blue grey-ish shades on the walls – was a safe haven illuminated with it.

              koutarou, however, wasn’t a simple man. therefore, he hadn’t in himself only one variation.

              bokuto was also as yellow as your highlighters: bright, flashy, but helpful with sort of a guidance within it – just like the actual object. he reminded you of it because of the many sleepless nights both of you spent during your exam’s seasons in college, even though he was not much of a help and his schedule required him to wake up early.

              “I might not be a college student, but I need to hype my significant other” he commented on the first time he stayed up until 3 in the morning with you, sitting on the kitchen table scanning with his eyes through the many pages scattered around. “it’s hard, but I believe in you. and I can’t let you pull an all nighter, you’ll be absolutely shit on your afternoon classes”

              just like that, koutarou would make you company in silence. sometimes he’d fall asleep resting his head on his folded arms over the table, in others he’d try to help you organize what you’ve already been through. and on the top of all of that, bokuto koutarou would ground you whilst your mind you’d be drowning in anxiety and self-doubt.

              the same way you’d highlight important things on your books and notes, bokuto would highlight the best qualities of you. pointing your smartness, beautifulness, gentleness and loving personality. this man would not let you forget how far you’ve come, all hardships you’ve won against and how your future is going to be as bright the yellow pen that you constantly use.

              by himself, kou would be under the spotlight as the great athlete he is. you, however, couldn’t help but give him the focus he deserved. he was inspiring to you, always trying to do better, to be the best version of yourself. in your life, bokuto koutarou was a highlighter, but also something highlighted so you can – and will always – remember his importance and meaning to you.

              there are these certain shades of colors that just don’t look as pretty as others, but are as just important to compose the whole one. like any other people in the world, bokuto also had the slightest ugly tones of yellow.

              the sunset and sunrise can be both renewing and melancholic. the hue that transitions to orange has two different meaning when you’re talking about your boyfriend: can be both the argument and the reconciliation. the contraposition between these two is essential to understand why one color brings two types of feelings.

              “koutarou, you aren’t being reasonable” you argued certain night, it was after a msby game – which his team won. it was a hazy memory to you, everything passed by in a blur. at one time you remembered hugging bokuto as the two of you celebrated the end of the game, then all you could see and hear was him dragging you out of the commemoratory party.

              “how not, y/n?! that guy was fucking touching you” kou’s voice was loud, as he always is, but that volume wasn’t filled with love or excitement; no, all you could hear was angriness and jealousy. “and you weren’t doing a thing to stop him! you acted like your boyfriend wasn’t there”

              “it wasn’t like that, kou!” the scream match wasn’t going anywhere with both of you stressed, with a deep breathe, you held eye contact with him. “I tried to stop him! tetsu saw me pushing his hands from me, but he ignored whatever I did! he still touched me and all I could do is act as if nothing was wrong, or else I’d be the hysterical significant other”

              “c’mon, y/n, you’ve never really cared about what the media would say about you” bokuto mocked as he rolled his eyes, your heart clenched at those words. they weren’t true, how could you tell him about how you felt reading mean comments online? you treasured the bright smile he had, it was enough for you to keep going while receiving those kinds of insults.

              “you know what, koutarou? I’m going to my friend’s house tonight. we are not going anywhere right now” with that, you left your shared apartment with the jacket you were wearing and the cellphone on your pocket.

              leaving bokuto for the night was awfully painful. each day, before you fall asleep, the man’s embrace was like a sunset, a way to conclude your day. the explosion of orange, red and yellow as the sky grows darker was a signal that another milestone was completed with koutarou by your side.

              arguments between you two were exactly like watching, by yourself, the sun hiding under the horizon after having company for so long. it felt wrong, but sometimes it would unfortunately happen, because no couple was perfect. but, what made bokuto and you different from others was the way that always the sunrise would come with closure of whatever hurtful feelings were reminiscent.

              later on the next day, you’ve returned to your home. bokuto’s shoes were organized by the entrance of your apartment – contrary to the other night, when he just took them off and kicked aimlessly. the rice cooker was on, you could even smell the cleaning products you use around the house: an indication that kou did some of the chores you had to delay to attend his game.

              “I’m home” you announced rather quietly, eyes scanning around in order to find your boyfriend. he emerged from the kitchen, a basket full of clean clothes on his grip and a tired expression on his beautiful face. “what… are you doing?”

              “I know you use Friday evenings to do some chores, and since I’ve dragged you to my game you couldn’t do them, so I decided to be helpful at least once” he answered with a small smile. you could tell koutarou was tired – maybe feeling his muscles ache after such an intense game or just because he couldn’t sleep without you. “akaashi gave me the biggest lecture ever to knock some sense into my head, I wasn’t being fair with you”

              “neither was I” the aftermath of every argument between you two would be like this: silently, spoken in whispers and reluctant touches. “I should’ve told you how I truly felt about those online comments… we’re supposed to share our worries, right?”

              “yeah… and I should be more understanding about your fears and insecurities” koutarou placed the basket on the floor and stepped closer to you, a timid hand reaching out for you own, which you obliged quickly. “sorry, love. i had no right in yelling at you”

              “it’s okay, baby” a smile crept on your face, your other hand brushes aside the tip of his hair over his forehead (being at home with kou meant seeing him with his hair down, it was a beautiful sight). “I’m sorry too”

              as your lips touched once again, your own little world, where only you and bokuto were allowed to, was painted with the most beautiful sunrise. because that was what a relationship is: every disagreement ends with a reconciliation, a new day would begin from that. you two learned with a few painful sunsets that, after a fight, the way the sun would come up would be even prettier than the day before.

              the most unusual shade of yellow in bokuto koutarou would probably be the same one as from warning signs. this simple association emanates all worry and fear that lays on the deepest part of koutarou – and you thanked god you don’t usually see it. his emo modes back in high school managed to hide the feelings behind his lack of motivation after many failures in a row; now, he shone bright yellow warning signs every time his heart wasn’t at ease.

              despite of that, no emo mode would have prepared you to see the restless and worried features on bokuto’s face when you opened your eyes on a cold day. all your body hurt as your chest raised and fell from your breathing patter, the lights above you weren’t making the pounding headache of yours any better.

              “y/n, love, how are you feeling?” koutarou asked frantically, needy for answers so his brain could finally calm down.

              “where… am i?” you uttered, the words almost getting stuck on your dry throat.

              “you’re at the hospital, babe” with that information, numerous scenes rushed back to your mind. how you were on the bus on your way home, the way it drifted on the street covered with a thin layer of snow and the side you were sat colliding against a lamp post. “you were on a car crash, do you remember?”

              “yes, sort of…” still a bit confused, you turned your head to completely face your boyfriend. you could tell by the reddish skin around his eyes that he had cried and judging by his clothes – the msby track attire – that he was on a match before rushing to the hospital. “did you finish the game?”

              “are you insane, y/n?” bokuto whined shaking his head, the grip on your heads tightening a bit. “how could I play volleyball knowing that the love of my life was hurt and on their way to the hospital? my coach allowed to leave as soon as the first set was over. when- when he told me you were involved in a car crash, I was so worried that you’d leave me- and seeing you laying on this bed makes everything so much more intense that-”

              “hey, kou” you raised your hand to cup his wet cheeks, the tears once again started to stream from his eyes and that was one of the worst views you’ve had: his yellow eyes dull and watery. that sight would never match the ball of sunshine bokuto truly is. “I’m here, right? I woke up, see? I’m here, holding your face as we speak. the worst have already passed”

              “I was so afraid, y/n…” he confessed quietly, leaning into your touch to ground himself. “I love you lots, babe, I am so damn glad you’re alive”

              “I wouldn’t go anywhere without you, bo… you don’t have to worry”

              bokuto was shining a bright yellow, indicating his wariness and worry, for the rest of the time you spent at the hospital. the big warning sign on his mind was put aside as soon as all doctors assured him you were fine, completely healed after almost a month after the incident.

              even if that shade wasn’t a pretty one that bokuto has in himself, that makes him exactly the man you are head over heels with. he cares for you, he worries for you, he would do anything in a heartbeat just to make dure you were fine. koutarou gave all of him to you when you started dating, just the same way you did to him.

(the yellow warning signs would only appear years later when your first kid got sick for the first time)

              and last, but no least, the most beautiful, breathtaking hue of yellow was the exact one he always shows you: his eyes. the way they’d look at you with such adoration and fondness, like he was screaming with his sight “this person next to me is the love of my life”, “I love you”, “you’re everything to me”.

              this kind of shining yellow summarized koutarou perfectly: the excitement when he’s playing the sport he absolutely loves, the happiness whenever he is around his friends. but, on the top of everything else, the state of being completely – both mentally and sentimentally wise – filled with the purest emotions he could gather. that only happened with you by his side.

              through the ups and downs of adulthood, you and bokuto faced them together as a couple, as best friends, as growing people. as every single day passed by, both of you were completely sure that this situation – you and him against the world – needed to last forever. you two needed to wake up illuminated by rays of sunshine cracking through the curtains of your bedroom; have in each other’s embrace every sunset and sunrise, eve the ugly ones; put every single yellow sign up whenever the other was in danger.

              and the newest thing you added on your mental list like a masterpiece painted by your love was the way koutarou’s eyes shined so bright while kneeling on your knee. you saved in your heart the image of him holding out a black velvet box with the most beautiful ring inside, his hair down – the same way you love – and wearing his pajamas.

              “will you marry me?” that sentence came in a blow, your knees buckling as your arms found their way around his broad shoulders. the tears of joy stained his shirt as you exchanged words of ‘I love you’ and ‘yes’ between sobs and fits of laughter.

              your world was already full of color, but bokuto koutarou happened to make everything brighter and, at last, complete.

[igotyoukth]

Mornings. BTS

Masterlist

Seokjin

You were used to finding an empty spot next to you in the morning, so it startled you to see a knocked out Seokjin next to you. He was always cooking breakfast or already on the way to practice, but today he snored shamelessly. It was so weird, how he slept without any movement, but little snores filled the room. He had told you how hard practice was last night, and how exhausted he felt. So his current state wasn’t that shocking, if you thought about it. 

You decided to reward him with an amazing breakfast. Not that you were as talented as he was cooking, but you tried your best. You even googled these egg rolls, he performed so perfectly. 

“Welcome to ugly, but hopefully delicious breakfast sponsered by me,” you greeted Jin, when he entered the dining room with sleepy eyes. He rubbed his eyes, not believing what was presented on the table. 

“Yes, yes, you won’t believe me but those are egg rolls and some sausages,” you pointed at the rather sad plates. You had tried to decorate things with ketchup, but it looked more like a murder scene.

“I’ll eat well,” he said, not able to hide his smile. “You won’t eat?,” he asked when he picked some eggs. 

“No, one of us should be able to drive to the hospital,” you shook your head. You were joking, really, you just had too many bites tasting during cooking. 

“Very promising,” he laughed, but took his first bite. And immediatlely, he tilted his head and arched his brows. “It’s delicious?” 

“Hey, try to hide your shock at least.”

Yoongi 

People loved assuming things about Yoongi’s sleeping routine. How much he loved to sleep, whenevere wherever. At first, you thought like that as well. When you woke up around noon, he was asleep. But with working hours, waking up at eight in the morning, you found a wide awake boy. It wasn’t because he was a morning person, but simply because he didn’t sleep until that hour. He had his own routine, you jokingly called him a vampire. He stayed up all night working on new songs. Because the nights were quiet and inspiring. So understandingly, throughout the day he used every opportunity to catch on sleep he missed at night.

At first it was a bit tiring to get used to it, but soon you found yourself staying up late too. When he was working, you joined him and read a book, get some work done or talk about your day. You could sleep after work, if you could spend more time with him that way.

Once he confessed, that he felt like improving as he wasn’t alone at night anymore. How your voice soothed and relaxed him. He felt at ease around you, because you didn’t judge him and how he handled his life. You simply nodded and explained how much you loved his very own time-zone.

Hoseok

When Hoseok started to hug you in his sleep, you knew that this morning peace wouldn’t last long. Because once he started to move, it wasn’t long until he woke up. And then he would go to pracitice like he did every single day. His inner clock was working so perfectly, it was shocking every time. Minutes before his clock went off, he yawned and tickled your side. Then he stood up and started his day. People only saw carefree, sunshine Hoseok in him, but he was so weird in the mornings. He was so serious and disciplined with his morning routine. He walked into the bathroom and ended just in time, when you finally opened your eyes as well. 

“The sun is up, pretty one,” he said before walking out of the room. You liked to hear that sentence. He probably referred to the actual sun, but you liked to think about him being up. Your personal sun. 

By the time you dragged yourself into the kitchen, he already set the table up and started eating his toast. Until this point, every morning was the same. You were the only variable in his very monoton morning. The time spent by the table was very easy to disturb. Talking about your dream from last night, eating super slow or not being able to think of a cute outfit were your favorite options. 

And Hoseok was okay with it. You brought variety into his life, even though you made him nervous sometimes. There was no script or schedule he could follow with you. Very different from the life he lived as an idol, but very welcome.

Namjoon

You jumped awake, when loud music suddenly filled the bedroom. 

“Sorry, sorry! Go back to sleep, please, I’m so sorry!,” you heard Namjoon whisper, while trying to put the headphones back into his laptop. When he had tried to get out of bed, while working on a song, he somehow had tripped and removed the headphones. 

You were wide awake now, there was no way you could go back to sleep again. And also, he didn’t find a way to stop the song yet. He was apologizing to you, his laptop, the bed and everything else at the same time, you almost laughed at his situation. 

It wasn’t even the weirdest way Namjoon had woken you up. Once the bathroom door had fallen to the floor, when he had tried locking it. Sadly, you were used to this now and didn’t bother crying over your sleep. 

“I like the song,” you said, reaching over to him and lowering the volume on his laptop. He looked at you with puppy eyes, and thanked you. 

“What would I do without you, my morning sun,” he  said into your hair and started the song again. 

“Probably lose your hearing, I don’t know.”

Jimin

He had changed his hair color back to brown again. Like a puppy inside the white sheets, he looked so peaceful. It was a shame, that his alarm would wake him up soon. You were already awake, you did some yoga before work and waited for Jimin to wake up. 

His peaceful face changed, when he heard the ringing sound and started hiding his face in the pillows. “Five more minutes,” his muffled voice filled the room. He was acting like a school boy, like he always did.

“Yes, that’s what I’ll tell your fans, who wait hours in the cold for you.” He immediately sat up and glared at you. He looked more like a goblin right now. “You don’t have to be mean first thing in the morning.” But eventually he stood up and walked into the bathroom. Yes, you were mean, but it was the only way to wake him up. You tried many things, just this seemed to work. Really. And he knew it as well.

Minutes later, he joined you in the kitchen and looked more like the puppy from his sleep. “What did my number one fan prepare?,” he asked you and eyed the breakfast table. It wasn’t spectecular, just some toast and some topping. And coffee. 

“Not much, sorry,” you handed him his mug. It had his face on it, from the Run era with orange hair.

“Should I dye them back?” Questioning his current hair color was as usual as drinking coffee to him. You had never met a person that greedy about hair colors.

“What did I tell you, Jimin?”

“Healthy scalp, healthy heart,” he pouted. Still, you didn’t trust him.

Taehyung

Well, technically Taehyung woke up half an hour ago. But you were pretty sure his soul was still in bed and sleeping. He sat by the table with his eyes closed, head moving in circles. You still hadn’t found a way to make him a morning person, and you tried many things. Nothing ever worked. Not even the pancakes you had prepared this morning. 

“Tae! Wake up and eat,” you almost yelled. He murmured something that sounded like thank you, and he tried finding his fork. 

That’s when an idea popped in your head. You quickly grabbed his plate and put dish soap on his pancake. You put the plate back to its place, when he found his fork. He placed his fork right into the soap soaked dessert and you anticipated his first bite. 

“You really think I’m dumb easy, don’t you,” he suddenly said and opened his eyes. He was wide awake and laughing at you. Then he took your face in a swift motion and squeezed your cheeks. You unwillingly opened your mouth, knowing what would follow.

“Eat a lot, love,” he said, forcing the disgusting pancake into your mouth. He didn’t let you go, until he was sure, that the cake touched your tongue. Then he let loose and you could pull yourself out of his grasp.

You ran towards the tap and washed your mouth. It started to bubble.

“YA! KIM TAEHYUNG! That means war.”

Jungkook

You hated it. You hated waking him up in the morning. It always started with your cute whispers, but ended with yelling at a soundproof Jungkook. He liked to call it a morning exercise. 

The funny thing was, right before you were about to lose your voice, and your mind, he woke up so peacefully, with a smile on his face and dreamy eyes. Your anger disappeared just like that. 

“You have five minutes to get ready,” you told him. 

“That’s more than I had yesterday, am I improving or what,” he said while trying to hug you and kiss your still red face. When you pushed him away, he rubbed his hair into your neck, before running into the bathroom.

At this point, you gave up on making him some fancy breakfast. He never woke up in time to eat in anyways. So you simply put some bananas on nutella bread and waited for him to rush to you.

He still found time to tell you about his plans for the day, like he always did. It motivated him, when you listened to him talk and imagine what his day would look like. He always told you, that he felt like you were watching him that way. And he tried harder and better. 

“You are only ten minutes late, love. I’m almost proud of you.”

[girlinthepictureframe]

The Briefest Kiss Part 23

I know I said I’d post the epilogue. But that one is taking me longer than I had anticipated. So, until it arrives, here’s some smut to fill the time. 😉

Alex leaned against the bedroom door and watched with great interest and a fiercely growing hunger as Miles performed his morning routine of sit-ups. If he’d counted correctly, he was somewhere near a hundred by now. He was sweaty and breathing hard and completely focused on his workout.

He, himself, on the other hand, had not the least bit of interest in joining in or doing anything remotely similar. He’d just come back from a long trip across the pond where he had recorded a few tracks with the rest of his band. Sometimes, he let Miles convince him to join him during sit-ups. Sometimes, they’d compete. Today, not so.

Today, he fully enjoyed the sight and kept enjoying from a safe distance. Miles kept going faster and Alex wondered where on earth he found the motivation to be this energetic at seven-thirty a.m. in the morning.

Sweat was running down the chest of Miles’ naked upper body and Alex felt the familiar lust taking hold on him. Licking his lips, he carefully and quietly walked into their bedroom, snuck up behind him and crouched down.

“Hi there,” he whispered, chuckling when Miles made a startling move forward.

Then Miles fell backward, directly into his arms. “Scared the hell out of me, Al!”

Hovering over his face, Alex lowered his head and brought their lips together. Slowly, agonizingly. Miles moaned into the kiss and it spurred him on. Made him kiss harder, deeper, more passionately. His hand went to Miles’ chest, finding it damp and hot and he stroked it up and down, side to side, letting his fingertips dance across his nipples, then feeling the soft hairs as they tingled his fingertips.

Miles reached out, curled his arms around Alex’s neck and brought him closer. But there was only so far that Alex could lean down. Dying for more contact, he let go and changed positions, straddling Miles.

“You’re wearing too much,” murmured Miles as his mouth left searing kisses all over Alex’s neck.

“Matt made fun of me for all those hickeys you left the last time,” said Alex with a thick voice as he dug his fingers into Miles’ back, encouraging him to do it all over again.

Miles chuckled against Alex’s throat. “Had to mark my territory before you went away.”

Alex brought their mouths together, kissing him hard. He loved it when Miles did that, loved being peppered with his little marks of passion.

Six months of relationship had done nothing to lessen his want for Miles. If anything, being with him had made it worse. It had fed their desire. And getting to know each other on an even deeper level had made them fall for each other that much harder. There wasn’t a day that Alex didn’t consider himself fucking lucky to have Miles as his and Miles never failed to let Alex know he felt the same way.

Even on his worst days, Miles managed to make him smile brighter than ever before. When he got lost in his phases of inspiration, when he locked himself away in his studio, Miles always found ways to draw him back into the real life, even if only for a while. Nobody else ever managed.

Alex got rid of his own shirt and wrapped his arms around Miles’ neck, deepening their kiss once again. Miles’ hand went to the button of his jeans, undid it, tried wiggling them down, but in this position, it was impossible.

Getting up, Alex grinned as he shoved his pants down, briefs included. Standing naked and ready in front of Miles, he held out his hand, but Miles grabbed the back of Alex’s thighs instead. He made him step forward as he sat up.

Alex looked down and purred like the happiest cat as Miles’ tongue licked him. Up and down, again, until he grabbed him and swallowed him whole. “Fuck!” moaned Alex as he pushed his fingers deeply into Miles’ short hair. “God, yes! Baby…you’re so fucking good!”

Miles kept going for a few more moments before leaning back, eyes traveling up his body, until, finally, meeting Alex’s with a provocative glint. “Blow job or sex orgasm?”

“Sex,” grinned Alex and stepped away from him. His hand moved forward, his finger curled and he let him know that he wanted him to follow.

“Where?” asked Miles as he got up, quickly getting rid of his shorts and briefs.

“Bathroom,” husked Alex. His voice was gravelly. “Against the sink. In front of the mirror.” He led the way, got there first and spread his legs as he faced their reflections. His hands held onto the white porcelain. “I want slow and dirty.”

Miles’ lips went to his neck as he pressed up against his back. He suckled on his skin. Teased him. Alex’s head rolled back and his jaw dropped from the sheer pleasure of it. Cupping his cheek, Miles turned his face and licked deeply into his mouth as he rubbed the tip of his cock up and down Alex’s crack.

Letting go of the sink, Alex moved both hands behind his head, around Miles’, to bring him closer. To arch wantonly against him. “Do it,” he begged. “Please…take me!”

One of Miles’ hands slipped around Alex’s torso, agonizingly unrushed. His fingertips tickled and tempted his patience towards the breaking point. Alex pushed his ass backward, giving Miles an unambiguous idea of what he wanted.

Soft laughter vibrated against his ear shell and Alex groaned frustratedly. Until Miles pushed inside. Then his groan became a filthy, rotten noise of utmost desire.

“How slow?” whispered Miles. “Like this?” He was barely moving. And still managed to slow down. “Slower?”

“Gawwr.” Overwhelmed already, Alex couldn’t speak in words anymore.

Miles’ hand wrapped around Alex’s painfully hard erection as he gently sped up his thrusts. “Love touching you, babe!” His teeth nipped on his sensitive skin as he began stroking him in sync to his pace. “You’re so big and hard. So delicious. Spent the last two weeks dreaming of nothing but you and your cock. Every night that you weren’t there, the thought of you kept me awake. It made me long for you. It made me crave you. It made me wank myself as I imagined your hand on my cock.”

Another bite.

God, those words!

Alex shuddered.

He felt completely bent out of shape by the way he was arching and holding onto Miles and as he watched the love of his life slowly fuck him into oblivion, not once letting go of his blackened gaze, the lyrics to Used To Be My Girl crossed his mind and a grin appeared on his lust-filled face. Not for the first time did it occur to him that their Puppets lyrics were vastly more sexual than he’d previously realized.

Their bodies were covered his sweat, their breathing was ragged. Alex felt close to passing out as Miles’ tempo turned tantalizingly fast. “Come for me,” rasped Alex, roughly grabbing Miles’ hair, fisting it. “Do it, baby, come inside my ass. Fill me up!”

He felt him explode against his body. His grip got tight, his body shook vigorously, and the most erotic noises slipped from his dry throat. Alex watched in complete trance as Miles came deep inside of him. And it was then that he was overcome with his own release, which struck him hard and turned him into an incoherent, mumbling mess.

Alex dropped forward, all but collapsed on top of the sink as Miles clung firmly to him, his lover’s forehead pressing against his nape.

After a while of simply catching their breaths, Alex smiled softly. “Got any plans today?”

Still breathless, Miles merely shook his head.

“Good,” said Alex. And grinned. “Let’s do it again then!”

Miles laughed against his back. “Now?”

“Yep. First in the bed, then in the shower, then in the kitchen,…”

“.…then on the hood of your car,” added Miles, eliciting an intrigued expression from Alex.

“Nice one. We haven’t done that yet.”

“Know where we also haven’t done it yet?”

“Where?”

“Balcony.”

A dirty grin lit on Alex’s face. “Riscué. I like that.” He grabbed Miles’ hand, entwined their fingers. “Let’s start there, then!”  

[cle1024]

abstracted | lmh

member: lee minho 

genre: angst 

summary: art was his passion, his vivid daydreams, yet it was also the thing that caused him the most pain. when he saw art personified, so rare and exquisite, it only hurt more.  painter!au 

warnings: mentions of anxiety 

a/n: i intended for this to have a different ending but it became way too long for me to write the full ending, so it’s kind of rushed towards the end. i also apologise if the formatting is really bad, i’m still figuring out how to post on a functioning blog lmao

His life was a paradox. Paint splattered his skin, the secondary hues mixing in with his moles and scars. The canvas suffered more so, fat strokes painted in shapes he couldn’t quite identify. By the time he had completed the work the syndrome had already gone too far, clouding his vision with dizziness and a thick smog that only seemed to disappear when he ripped his eyes from the canvas he spent hours hunched over. It was a punishing gift, and a hugely ironic tragedy. 

A painter, Lee Minho, who couldn’t look his own art in the face. Waves would crash on his body, pinning him to sharp rocks until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Only then would he drag himself away, wheezing out of his studio as he clutched the doorframe. It had many names, though most commonly Stendhal syndrome. He never truly understood what it entailed, but from what he had experienced it was nothing good. There were parts of the diagnosis he had cut out, his eleven year old mind figuring his older self could fill in the gaps - he was wrong. The doctor had mentioned it was psychosomatic, would cause him physical and emotional anxiety, dizziness, fainting, maybe hallucinations if it was particularly bad. They were selective symptoms, in the fact they would only occur when he viewed art. No one was quite sure how it happened or what it meant, just that it had originated in the 19th-century with French author Marie-Henri Beyle. Some thought it was poetic, some thought it was bizarre, Minho tried not to think about it. 

 A deep sigh left his defined lips as his hand came up to wipe his forehead. It was only transitioning to spring, yet the heat had already picked up dramatically. Sweat tickled at his hairline, threatening to spill down his forehead in river streams. All he wanted was some water, a fan, anything to cool him down. Instead he stood in front of an incomplete canvas, the light breeze from the window doing nothing to calm his rising body temperature. He could distinctly make out half of a face, oddly familiar in its features and dimensions, but still no masterpiece. At first, he resented all forms of art. How dare such beauty bring him such immense pain, so much panic and suffering. It wasn’t until he tried picking up his own paintbrush that he realised how freeing it was. His hatred soon transformed into appreciation, which then upgraded to motivation. In Minho’s warped reality, a hard time breathing and remaining conscience while viewing his art was rewarding, as it proved to him he’d made a masterpiece. If that didn’t happen, then he’d hang the painting up in his house and try again. Three out of forty works remained in his house, the rest being shipped off to independent collectors, friends or family. Not once did the thought of his art being in a gallery strike him. Nothing about his style was traditional, nor was he. The top layer of strokes shook with overwhelming emotion, some having large lines out of place from where he’d collapsed in the final moments of painting. Yet in his eyes, there was something perfect about them. The way they shook so meticulously - such a beautiful contradiction. His hand reached for the damp cloth hanging from the waist of his shorts, touching it to his forehead as he closed his eyes in momentary bliss. When he was looking for the best room for his studio, the one with the most sunlight seemed like a good idea. Perfect lighting for almost all hours of the day, never a need to adjust his easel to reflect such light. He hadn’t considered the lack of fans and air conditioning in the room that would surely make him suffer during the warm weeks spring and summer. But it was okay, he was used to suffering. 

 Your eyes drifted absentmindedly, taking in the full lecture hall. A 10:00am lecture, yet you could barely keep your eyes open. The eyelids would weigh heavily on you momentarily in the hopes of making you crumble under the pressure of exhaustion. Everything had been building up lately - you had design tasks due left and right, and you still had to haul ass to the Art Theory lectures you were expected to do, despite not having art as your main course. A sigh forced its way up your throat at the thought. Every night it became harder to sleep. You could practically feel the bags under your eyes sinking as each hour passed under the moonlight, but nothing changed. Of course you’d tried sleeping pills, three different kinds in all honesty, yet nothing could defeat the heavy weight of anxiety that kept you up at night. There were too many questions inside your head: what will my design be? How many materials will I need? Who should be my model? Why do I still drink coffee when it just makes me crash in the middle of class? It was exhausting, tiring enough to make you rest your head on the table for a second. Your laptop was open in front of you, a fresh word document open and waiting for you to type some notes about the lecture you begrudgingly attended. But your hands never met the keyboard. They remained in your lap as you kept your head down throughout the lecture, fading in and out of sleep as your professor droned on about the theoretical concepts of art. Line, shape, colour, what good were they to you? Art wasn’t your major, you shouldn’t have cared. Key word: shouldn’t. You still cared, far too much evidently, as you woke up and came to the realisation that you missed an entire lecture. You cursed yourself repetitiously, how could you fall asleep like that? You probably missed important information for the exam! You bunched your hair in your fist. You were truly and utterly screwed. 

On the opposite side of the hall, Minho had sat with his back against the wall, half-focusing on the lecture and half-searching for a new art inspiration. He tended to get bored of subjects easily, so painting the same people he saw everyday was utterly dissatisfying. Perhaps the curve of the professors bald head, or the glow of the rectangular laptop, or the sunlit person sleeping through the lecture. Minho’s eyes darted back to their figure to confirm what he had thought so absentmindedly. There, in plain sight, someone had the audacity to sleep through Professor Kang’s numbing lecture. He smiled slightly to himself, what a reckless maniac; I love it. The sun filtered through the window gently to form an angelic glow around their head. He had a clear view of their face, forme with delicate and peaceful eyes, yet sharp cheekbones and distinct lips. Something about them was so perfect, as if they had been hand sculpted by the gods, hours spent meticulously crafting every last feature. They were truly a masterpiece - Minho’s smile dropped. Oh no, his vision began to cloud, the pressure around his neck tightened and he found himself struggling to breathe. Get out, get out, get out, get out. He packed his things in a daze, based purely off of muscle memory. His sight was stripped from him and if he wasn’t quick enough then his breath would be too. Clumsily, he stumbled out of the lecture theatre, muttering profuse apologies until he had left the suffocating area. Go home, go to your studio, get the fuck out of here. Something wasn’t right, but it simultaneously felt as if everything had fallen into place. All of his painting life, Minho had searched for the muse that would bring him to his knees in agony, reflect the very distress his paintings caused him. Now, as he speed-walked back to his home, he was convinced he had found that in the mysterious person at the back of the lecture hall. Inspiration was a vital part of his work, his hobby, his future career, but at what cost did he owe? Part of him was conflicted. Shall he fall to his knees, burn under your gaze without a second thought? Or shall he hide in the shadows, paint around the panic and become breathless from his imitation of life? No matter which choice he went with, Minho would still suffer. Life truly liked to do that to him. 

 Minho panted slightly, his movements getting more erratic as the colours melted together. Yellows trickled into browns trickled into whites, yet in all the chaos he still managed to highlight beauty. His vision was getting spotty, rarely moving his eyes from the canvas even if it meant dipping his paintbrush in the wrong colour - he could find ways around that, but letting himself lose the momentum he built up was something he simply could not compromise. Line after line, shape by shape, the detail slowly filled in as he recreated the image in the lecture theatre. The one that had him wheezing all the way home, clutching at his dry chest as he ran and silently prayed his legs wouldn’t collapse under him. His sharp eyebrow furrowed in concentration, the light tickling of his bangs going unnoticed. Stay awake, just a little longer. He urged himself, pleading with life to be on his side for once. Frantic, maniacal movements spurred him on at this point, his eyes darting to different sections of the page where he could add something new. More detail on the shirt, more lighting on the hair, quickly, just a little more. With a finally stroke of his smallest paintbrush, he allowed himself to step back heavily. He haphazardly threw his palette on the stool beside him, hoping his paintbrush landed in the cup of water before his vision went out completely and he collapsed. It was truly a scene, one that would baffle yet inspire anyone who walked in on it. A palette placed perfectly on a stool, right next to a paint-tainted cup of water with numerous brushes poking from it, all diagonal to the man laying on the floor unconscious. His eyebrows were furrowed, hair blowing slightly as the breeze trickled in, light blue shirt unstained despite his vigorous work. His work, almost photograph like, good enough to bring anyone to the same state as he. A simple scene, yet a devastating impact. Someone sleeping on a table, opened laptop and sunlight threading through their hair. It was an accurate representation of the life of the student, yet it was captured so surreal. Not a stroke was out of place, no shaky final layers or misplaced colours in moments of intense emotion. Everything was perfect, just as Minho had always hoped. Something had changed in that one painting - it had proved to him that he could work through shaky hands and spotty visions, still producing paintings that could be mistaken as photographs. When Minho’s eyes eventually fluttered open, only to be met with the image of you sleeping across from him, he truly thought he’d lost his mind. He recalled the painting, but this wasn’t about the painting. You weren’t in the painting anymore; instead, you were lying beneath the canvas in front of him. Minho’s dark orbs rolled back into his head as he fell backwards once more, I suppose I’ve truly lost my mind. 

 “It’s been awhile since you came in for a checkup,” the crinkled man smiled from behind his glasses, gesturing for the patient to sit in the plastic chair across from him, “so, what seems to be the problem?” Minho rubbed his hands together slightly, eyes darting to the side as he went over his pre-planned explanation. 

“Uh, I was painting the other day, and I passed out. But, when I woke up the painting was-like-alive,” Minho blinked rapidly before continuing, “the… thing, I painted was in front of me when I woke up. It-it wasn’t in the painting anymore, it was mimicking the painting in front of me.” 

The panic began to rise in his chest as he awaited a response from the doctor. The older man had sat there, nodding every few seconds to indicate his understanding of what Minho was saying, but just because he understood didn’t mean he had an answer. He adjusted his glasses before unclasping his hands, “it seems that you had a particularly vicious episode, this time including hallucinations. Minho, I really wish I could do more, but we just don’t know enough about it. The best advice I could give is to find an anchor of some sorts,” he gestured with his hands, “you know, something that can just ground you in that moment.” Minho nodded softly despite his dissatisfaction. They don’t know enough about it, even after two centuries have passed. 

 The paintbrush lingered over the canvas, tickling the material with saturated hues of blue to mirror the Spring sky. Flowers had quickly bloomed, cold weather had been temporarily eradicated, tranquility whistled through the trees and along the crystal clear water of ponds. Though Minho could not be at peace, even if he tried. As his colours blended together in a dance of dark and light, he allowed his mind to be captivated by the sight - directly ignoring the doctor’s advice to “find an anchor”. This artwork wasn’t for the purpose of bettering himself, it was rather to experiment on how far he could push it. How much of his mind had he truly lost? White paint arched into the blue background as Minho delicately stroked the canvas, watching his work form intently. Something about it was soothing to watch, but caused him such stress and anguish. What an awful paradox. The black dots started to stipple their way into the clouds, darkening the sky into a thunderstorm. Minho panicked - he wasn’t done yet. Frantic hands reached for the purple-stained paintbrush, swiftly striking the canvas with dark slaps of the colour. Petal after petal, stroke after stroke, Minho created a new landscape through blurred vision and shaking hands. His lungs begged for air, releasing wheezes and gasps from Minho’s throat. He couldn’t breathe, not yet, not until he was complete. The painting was a simple still-image, mirroring the purple Bellflower that sat in a crystal vase by his window. Light twinkled in the fragile possession, framing the flower in an angelic glow. It was a simple image that caused much harm to Minho, making him stumble over his feet and straight to his knees, paintbrush and palette still in hand. Unconsciousness beat him stiffly, but at least the painting was complete. Thirty minutes later, his eyes fluttered open as a hefty weight fell on his head. The painting stood across from him, no change in its contents. Nothing out of the painting, nothing replicating its contents. There was no hallucination, everything stayed the same. Minho pushed himself into a sitting position, mouth open slightly as the wind blew outside. Now he understood why doctors didn’t understand how to help people with the illness, he couldn’t even make sense of his own symptoms. 

 Your head rested on your palm, pushing your cheek upwards as you attempted to keep yourself awake. In your head you whispered thank you’s to whatever higher power made sure your teacher did a theoretical lecture today, you didn’t think you could stay attentive enough to avoid sewing something wrong or stabbing yourself with the needle. Although you certainly enjoyed sewing, the possibility of spilling your own blood on your work wasn’t appealing - sure, the symbolism of ‘blood, sweat and tears’ becoming a reality sounded artistic, but blood stains were harder to remove than you had expected. Your eyes focused on the digital clock stationary behind the professor, only ten minutes left. In your mind, you pleaded for no assigned work - no extra reading or online theoretical tests. At the moment, you had a major work for your practical due. An entire fashion collection, birthed out of your colourful imagination in dark shades of soft fabrics, velvet that would hug the skin of your model. If you even had a model. With a heavy sigh, you packed away your belongings into the leather shoulder bag beside you. 

Minho checked the time on his phone as he strolled through the campus, absentmindedly calculating whether he should bother catching the bus or running home. Majority of the time, the bus was late enough for Minho to walk home before it even arrived, though he was never sure why. The route it traveled wasn’t typically congested on a Wednesday afternoon. Lowering his phone to the pocket of his jeans, he allowed his eyes to raise across the campus. An exploration of the blue sky, old brown brick buildings and cobblestone path began in his mind. He drifted, allowing himself to imagine painting such a scenery, wondering whether the shades of brown would blend as easily as he would like. Though his fantasy was cut short, sliced through with a sharp and unexpected knife. His footsteps halted as he watched. Again, the sleeping person from the lecture, fell into his line of sight. With open eyes he could clearly distinguish pigmented skin from deep-sunken eye bags, it was no wonder they slept through that lecture. In the two times Minho had observed them, the light had managed to cascade down on them to provide a heavenly glow. Perhaps it was a message from the beyond, singling this person out as the muse he’d always searched for, longingly. Then, it started. Blurry, the buildings shifted, and Minho felt himself moving without thinking. There was no time to catch the bus. 

 He lay still, head tilted slightly to the left as an arm rested on his upper abdomen. The painting was once again replicatory, vividly so. To the point where any passerby would question how you could print a photo onto a canvas, only to then become aware of the unconscious artist who lay across from his work. His work. It was a large portrait of you - that nameless, sleepy person - as you moved through the campus. Surroundings blurred, colours melted together to convey your speed, but there was a distinct fixation on you. Every feature mirrored to perfect, even the attention to your eye bags. Minho had only glanced for twenty seconds, yet he had managed to perfectly replicate the glance hours later. With heavy eyelids and a bruise forming on the back of his head, Minho lifted himself into a seating position, rubbing his eyes. As he focused on his surroundings, his eyes widened and he jumped back in shock at the sight ahead of him. The painting, a blurred background of brown buildings and greenery. That was all. In front of him, you stood. Side-on, the exact direction of the paintings, mimicking his work as he woke. If he reached out and touched you, surely you’d disappear, evaporate as a figment of his imagination. But, you seemed so real. Just as you did in his painting, only this time you weren’t a two-dimensional subject on a canvas. You were a physical, life-sized artwork come to life - almost like a sculpture, but less obvious. Minho allowed unconsciousness to tug his hair backwards and into the realm of darkness. He had no answers to his questions, nor did he have an understanding of what was happening, but he had already made the decision that avoiding you - a random student at the same university as him - was the best option. 

 It was successful to say the least. Not that you noticed, but Minho stopped looking at you for inspiration. In fact, he didn’t paint much at all anymore. There was a period after his discovery where he tried, even without seeing your face prior. Yet his pink sky ended up having your face blended into the hues, the city scape had you looking out a window, and the bowl of fruit had a hand reaching in with an identical dainty ring on. Subconsciously, you became the focus of all of his work, and it scared him to no end. Certainly more than the first time he passed out or panicked while seeing art. So he had temporarily retired his paintbrush and freshly woven canvases, opting instead for the limitless control of the sculpting medium. Clay gave him more control than painting. With painting, it was an out of body experience. There are no thoughts, only movement and creation. But he has a conscious thought process while shaping clay, making note of which areas to push which way. His temporary retirement from painting extended to longer than anyone could have expected. One week turned into month, turned into three months, then into six, then to where he was now. Eight months without stepping into his studio or analysing his environment as if it were an incomplete painting. Eight months closer to his practical assessment.  

The concern about Minho’s artwork had grown, only in his professor, though. His art wasn’t something he indulged in with friends or family, it was more an off-handed gift under the guise of “spring cleaning”, even in the middle of autumn. Though his professor had somehow figured out his work. He could sense the passion in every painting, and the rate at which Minho produced them impressed him to no end. So when Minho seemingly gave up on the medium, he obviously found it concerning, “Minho, a word?” Minho shoved his hands in his hoodie as he approached the professor, raising his eyebrows confusedly, “you’re not in any trouble if that’s your concern,” it wasn’t, “I just wondered why you’d given up on painting so suddenly.” Minho grew tense - that question was his concern. 

“Oh-uh, I-I’m just not feeling it anymore, I guess.” 

“You guess, or you know?” The professor raised his eyebrows as Minho silently cursed himself for his revealing slip up, “Minho, you’re an incredibly talented painter. Whatever has put you off painting needs to leave your mind, just let yourself be guided by the paintbrush. I expect to see it for your major work,” the younger male nodded softly before leaving the room. With a sigh, he began the walk to the bus stop. Although he hated late buses, he didn’t want to go back home. Something in him didn’t want to be confronted with the closed door to his studio. He didn’t want to unleash his talents again, as strange as it was. Though when he made it home, yellow coated paintbrush hovering over the canvas with the intention of letting the paint guide him, nothing happened. No emotion overwhelmed him, there was no exiting of his soul as passion took over. He just stood there, blank faced as he stared at the blank canvas. Then the questions came to him: I wonder how sleepy student is doing. Is their hair any different? Do they still sleep through Art Theory lectures? Are they still the inspiration I need? He couldn’t paint without inspiration, and you’d unknowingly become his muse. Neither of you knew it, you’d never even made eye contact before, let alone spoke. Minho let out a huff as he slammed the paintbrush on the stool beside him, golden toxicities spilling onto the wooden material, certain to stain if he didn’t clean it up fast enough. He didn’t. Instead, he turned his back on his paintings, the bare canvas and fresh paint. All he did was turn around and walk through the door. 

 Minho tried his best to approach you, running over ways to start conversation in his head, but as soon as you even glanced in his direction - not necessarily at him - it became far too hard to breathe. Pitiful, slightly. Pathetic, certainly. In his utopia, you would be the anchor to ground him, the sense of tranquility to calm his flurry of emotions brought on by messy paint and beautified canvases. Clearly, you were not. You were a paradox. You brought so much inspiration to Minho, so many bursts of inspiration in the midst of lectures, enough for him to start frantically sketching you over his notes - which was certainly a mess, but so was he. Simultaneously, you made life so much more difficult for him. You gave him a muse for his major work, but you made it hard to get reference glances. All you did was make him dizzy, high on a perfect mix of elation and panic, before sending him crashing down as you disappeared from eyesight. You would never know about it - mainly because Minho would never be able to tell you, but also because he’d be too embarrassed to let anyone catch a glimpse. It was almost stalkerish of him. Only almost. The most he knew about you was your face, the way your hair framed it, the way the light brought out the colours that tinted you, the way you slept through lectures or typed notes one letter every half-a-second. No name, no major, nothing. That didn’t stop the concern growing in him as every time he saw you your eye bags were darker than the last. He would never have the strength to ask about it. 

 You still appeared in front of him when he woke up, sometimes he could even poke you gently and feel smooth skin. There was never a heartbeat, there never would be. But, Minho was okay with that. Perhaps you wouldn’t be the anchor he wanted, perhaps there was no anchor. As long as he had the muse and passion to paint, that would be enough for him. 

[authorcatherinenogle]

Author Question Tag

Decided to procrastinate today for NaNoWriMo as this tag caught my eye. Decided to fill it out, just for fun. 1. Favorite place to write. My favorite place to write is on my couch. It has tables nearby, it’s hella comfy, I have all the pillows I need to nest in, and is close to the kitchen for coffee.

2. Favorite part of writing.For Original Fiction: Outlining. It’s quick, dirty, and I can find out what happens next super fast. For FanFiction: Playing through/re-reading source material to check facts.

3. Least favorite part of writing.For Original Fiction: Editing. I suck at it. For FanFiction: Editing--so I don’t do it. My chapters I post are somewhat edited as I go, but I don’t re-draft my fanfiction.

4. Do you have writing habits or rituals? Cup of coffee, and a cup of water, always. Coffee for fuel, water because otherwise I won’t hydrate myself.

5. Books or authors that influenced your style the most. Honestly, I can’t answer this. I genuinely don’t have a favorite author, or a favorite book. I enjoy books plenty when I read them, but they just don’t stick with me that way. What influences my writing is characters that my friends and I have created while playing RPGS, or campaigns I’ve played in or run in the past.

6. Favorite character you ever created. Always and forever will be Abby Arana from a Scion RPG campaign I played in a few years back. She was the child of a war God, (Huitzilopochtli for those of you that are interested) and was all sarcasm, pranks, and badassery. She killed many a villain in the campaign and grew so much as a character that I will always hold her near and dear.

7. Favorite author. Shit. If I have to pick one, Anthony Burgess, simply for A Clockwork Orange. (Viddy well, droogs!)

8. Favorite trope to write. The ‘will they, won’t they’ trope. Mostly for fanfiction.

9. Least favorite trope to write. ‘True love at first kiss’. Because, really, there is a negligible amount of people that will ever experience that (if any), and if your story isn’t believable or relatable, you’re doing yourself a disservice.

10. Pick a writer to co-write a book with and tell us what you’d write about. My husband and I have spent time spit balling an idea of his this past week. He wants to do a dystopian war novel, and has some amazing ideas. (Now if I could only get him to write them down….-_-)I know this answer seems like a cop-out, but he is truly the only person I get on well enough with, and are so on the same page that I feel we could actually accomplish finishing a book without murdering each other.

11. Describe your writing process from scratch to finish. The only process I have that is tried and true (for me) is for fanfiction. I’m still figuring out this novel thing.

Come up with your twist on the cannon.

Agonize for days over how to make it new and interesting.

Give up and start writing, and self-edit as you go.

Chapters take forever, but it’s better than going back through later.

Laugh at your own dialogue at random and scare your husband.

Finish the chapter, read through for consistency. If that checks out…

IMMEDIATELY post to ff.net and A03.

Wait impatiently for feedback

12. How do you deal with self-doubts? Xanax.

13. How do you deal with writer's block? I do something else creative. I do character sketches, or work my outline, or try writing from another character’s perspective for a while.

14. What’s the most research you ever put into a book? The one I’m writing now will be a hefty amount, but so far, fanfiction wise, probably Abduction. I got the itch to write for MassEffect, but didn’t want to go through the games again for a refresher, so I perused the wiki for a long, long time.

15. Where does your inspiration come from? Mostly, RPGs I’ve played in, and conversations I have with my chosen family. My boys are hilarious and some of their zingers end up giving me dialogue, or some story from their past will create a scene for me.

16. Where do you take your motivation from? From the need to start acting like the adult I’m supposed to be. I’m 27, I’m a homemaker, and deal daily with major depression and anxiety issues. I am currently using my need to help provide for my family to get me through this novel and get published. (Either self, or possibly an agent--not sure yet.) My husband is a great provider, but I want to help and make our lives more comfy. ...and pay back debt.

17. On avarage, how much writing do you get done in a day? Fanfiction wise: I will write all day. Like, maybe a get a coffee, and take the random smoke break, but other than that, ass to cushion until it’s done. I can pound out a thirteen page chapter in an evening if I have a good enough surge of creativity. Original: Before NaNo? I got a good 6k done in two days as I fleshed out the first arc. Now that NaNo has hit, I’m getting maybe 2k a day? It’s only day three, so we’ll see what happens, but I spend a good amount of time building my author platform, doing sketches for the world, world building, and taking care of the house.

18. What’s your revision or rewriting process like? Sporadic at best. When I do my first draft, (or only draft for fanfiction), I self edit as I go for continuity and plot holes, so it's hard sometimes to work in details that should be there, or add in new scenes as it makes major restructuring necessary.

19. First line of a WIP you’re working on.

The ticking of the old hand-me-down cat clock on the wall drilled into my brain with every mechanical swish of its tail. -from Whispers in His Ears

20. Post a snippet of a WIP you’re working on.

As my eyes traveled up it's naked form, I noticed a distended gut, and a hollowed chest. Every bone was visible, and every time it moved, the space around it seemed to shudder, as if the air itself was disturbed by this thing's presence. -from Whispers in His Ears

21. Post the last sentence you wrote in one of your WIP’s.

Not able to spot anything out of the ordinary in the woods, Ray turned back to Samuel and I and just shrugged. -from Whispers in His Ears

22. How many drafts do you need until you’re satisfied and a project is ultimately done for you? On fanfiction: One usually does it for me. I just want to get content out, and it’s usually edited well enough that I haven’t gotten any real complaints about grammar/spelling. Original fiction: We’ll see. My first chapter is on draft 6. The second is still on one.

23. Single or multi POV, and why? Both have their uses. I have a multi POV I’m working on and it helps me with moving the story forward, and gives good insight into my MC’s.

24. Poetry or prose, and why? Prose. I am shit at poetry.

25. Linear or non-linear, and why? For my WIP, it’s linear, and for most of my back burner projects, they’re linear…nothing against non-linear, but I haven’t felt that the non-linear format would benefit a story I’m telling thus far.

26. Standalone or series, and why? My fanfictions thus far are all standalone stories. None of them connect to any of the others. Different AU’s and all that. My WIP novel for NaNoWriMo, is plotted out for three books, because there was so much more to tell.

27. Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished? I always share with my husband. He beta read Alone Together for me (poor guy), and is always willing to hear a snippet from whatever I’m working on. Anyone else, though...it’s going to be somewhat polished before you read anything.

28. And who do you share them with? The husband. Sometimes my little sister when she has the time.

29. Who do you write for? For me. My depression makes it hard for me to stick with things during the day. I always need to be moving around and am jumping from project to project...but writing? I am wearing so many hats as a writer, and my passion is so great that I just chill. I sit there, and I do my mental gymnastics and get shit done.

30. Favorite line you’ve ever written. Well.. series of lines:

"You drugged your foster mom?" Kerrie raised one of her slender hands and combed her long dirty blond locks from her view.  "It's not a habit," Ray spoke from around my middle where he had begun to lightly tickle my hipbone, causing me to squirm in his firm grip. "This is only the what...third time?" -from Whispers in His Ears

31. Hardest character to write. I’m going to go with Ray from my WIP. He’s a genuinely good kid. He was raised right. He shows respect, and cares for others...trying to have him not come off as a cut out character has been driving me insane. He has flaws for sure, but I’m not sure if they’re substantial enough to offset how good he is.

32. Easiest character to write. Frank, from my WIP. Frank is a family man who served in Desert Storm. He’s Ray’s dad, and is also a genuinely good guy--but he’s seen some shit, and he wouldn’t recommend it. He also swears very creatively, which has been fun. My husband is a vet, and so I just ask him how Frank would say something in ‘drill speak’ and husband translates. He just makes me want to create for him.

33. Do you listen to music when you’re writing? Nope. Can’t--too distracting. I do make playlists of what my characters would listen to and play those while doing character sketches/outlines, though.

34. Handwritten notes or typed notes? Handwritten. I have 2 notebooks dedicated to my WIP and NaNo.

35. Tell some backstory details about one of your characters in your story Whispers in His Ears. Okay, a little bit about Samuel Peppard:

Samuel wanted for nothing as a child, and was very much loved by his mother. However, his mother, Sharyl was only able to give him so much because she had taken out credit cards and a mortgage in her mother’s name and then proceeded to not pay. When Hattie, Samuel’s grandmother sued the shit out of Sharyl and took custody of Samuel when he was 10 years old. He has special permission to live in the 55+ active living community where Hattie lives.

36. A spoiler for story Whispers in His Ears. One of the major characters gets partially decapitated.

37. Most inspirational quote you’ve ever read or heard that’s still important to you. “The First Draft of Anything is Shit.” Wait...didn’t I just admit to posing first drafts?.....shiiiiit...

38. Have you shared your outline of your story Whispers in His Ears with someone? If so, what did they think of it? Shared it with the husband, and he’s real with me. He doesn’t blow rainbows up my ass, so when he told me it was a good, tight, sound plot--and then asked about a sequel, I knew I had something good.

39. Do you base your characters of real people or not? If so, tell us about one. Yes. I do base some aspects of my characters on real people. Example: Kerrie’s moral compass is based off my little Sister’s, as well as her body type.

40. Original Fiction or Fanfiction, and why? Both! I got my start writing in fanfiction, so I have a soft spot for it. Really, though, I think it’s beautiful that artists can create something people love so much that they feel the need to expand on the world, and the characters and make it new, fresh, and exercise their own creative muscle.

41. How many stories do you work on at one time? Fanfiction wise: I alternate writing chapters between four separate stories I have going on.Now that I’m delving into original fiction, however, I’m putting my fanfiction on hold to put my full attentions on WIHE and make it the best it can be.

42. How do you figure out your characters looks, personality, etc.

Step 1: I pick a name that I like (or surname) and start there. Step 2: I write in Bibisco (freeware, it’s amazing) and it has a really great character section. There are different sections with interview style questions so you can thoroughly plan your character, AND there’s a space for images. Seriously, it’s amazing. Step 2.5: I sit and think long and hard (lol) about what my story needs, and how this character can fulfill that need in full or part. They need a purpose to be in my story. Once they have their purpose, I think of quirks to individualize them and make them more real. Step 3: Google models/actors for a GENERAL idea of your character, or in some cases, roll through your facebook for someone you feel fits the character--I do this to help with general descriptions.

43. Are you an avid reader? Sadly, no. I have issues sticking with things...so I try to read, but after maybe ten minutes or so, I’m bouncing off to go do something else. I am hoping to change that, though.

44. Best piece of feedback you’ve ever gotten.

“Okay so it's 3000% bullshit that this doesn't have any other comments, so because of that I'm gonna comment the fuck out of this fic because it's phenomenal.You're writing is so good, like the figurative language alone is amazing. Even tho I'm a writer and I want everyone to read every word I've written I'm also shitty person and I like to skim fics when I only wanna read smut. But not this fic. I started skimming and was like oh no wait, this is like actually legit good writing and I went back to start it over, and then stayed after the smut was over.” -a review on my fanfiction Between Love and Hate (Stardew Valley)

45. Worst piece of feedback you’ve ever gotten .It sounds stupid, and like I’m low key patting myself on the back, but I looked through reviews on work I’ve posted and I didn’t really find anything negative other than comments about minor grammar and spelling issues. I’ll get some negative feedback soon, it’s bound to happen.

46. What would your story Whispers in His Ears look like as a tv show or movie? It would do better as a TV show, I think, due to length and depth of the mythos. It would probably be compared to Stranger Things due to the age of the MC and her friends.

47. Do you start with characters or plot when working on a new story? Plot. Always plot.

48. Favorite genre to write in. The spoopy ones!

49. What do you find the hardest to write in a story, the beginning, the middle or the end? The beginning. I put so much pressure on myself to set the story up right so the  reader will continue on.

50. Weirdest story idea you’ve ever had. For the life of me, I have no idea. I’m primarily into fanfiction, so that's easy. WIHE is my first foray into original fiction.