#your feedback literally makes every hour i spent on this fic so worth it

[astraystayyh]

this is me reading btw if u wanted to know I LOVE UUUUUUUUUU I LOVE USER FELIXSBAKINGBUD I LOVE THEM 💓💘💗💘💗💘💗💘💗💗💘💗💘

Echoes of love

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

Chapter ii. to remember

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

pairing : minho x reader.

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

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

word count : 11k words.

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

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

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

Day 33. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago. 

Day 17. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19. 

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

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

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

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.” 

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? They’re really ugly.” 

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 22. 

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

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

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

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

“I can try.” 

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

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

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

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

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you drive safely?” 

“Of course. I promise you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did.” 

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

“Of course.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 26. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, this is your home.”

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you, Yn?” 

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

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

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

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

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-nothing,” you stammer. 

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he loves you. 

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

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

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

Day 30. 

Minho is sick. 

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

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

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

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

“I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

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

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

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

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

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

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

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

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I take off your shirt?”

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

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

“Because I don't mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is that?” 

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

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

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

“Anything.” 

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

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

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

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

“Did I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you want him?

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

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows. 

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted. 

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds. 

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days. 

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again. 

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean? 

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep. 

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name. 

He prayed you’d call his too soon. 

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean? 

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips. 

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of. 

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways. 

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh. 

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!” 

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?” 

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him. 

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh. 

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.  

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card. 

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify. 

“Hey, yn!” 

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them. 

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.  

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run. 

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey. 

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat. 

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by? 

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be. 

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both. 

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all. 

Day 33. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” 

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?” 

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him. 

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table. 

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here. 

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines. 

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger. 

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you. 

“But how does that make you feel?” 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.” 

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?” 

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.  

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.” 

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?” 

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.  

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core. 

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table. 

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder. 

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around. 

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it. 

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart. 

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room. 

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind. 

“Minho?” 

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to. 

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.  

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again. 

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho. 

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.  

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one. 

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?” 

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.” 

[rassvetsky]

hi! can i request a fluffy halloween fic with scott lang where he and reader does those couple costumes? 🫶 tysm!!!

i am literally in love with you for requesting this. my love for scott is beyond words and this is way too late and rushed but still pls feel free to request again whenever you'd like ily

88 Miles Per Hour

scott lang x reader

"Through costumes put together in a rush and water fights with resident trick-or-treaters, you found a moment of peace to memorize every single detail Scott held."

[2k] | just short & cute nothing worth warning u about except for. scott's beauty. obviously. halloween themes, feelings, kiiiinda friends to lovers but mostly just flirty banter, scott is a cutie and he deserves the world and i love him so much your honor

reblog and/or like for a kiss, feedback much appreciated! not proofread.

Time spent with Scott Lang felt like a whiplash- the dopamine high he tended to give you with his jokes and compliments could rival ecstasy. He wouldn't let you think about anything else; if life was stressing you out, he was definitely the man to go to because through the pointless conversations and intrusive DIY projects, his main priority was to make you feel good, safe and appreciated. And of course, to get you laughing so hard that you wouldn't even be able to remember what you were stressed out about in the first place.

But just like everything else, that went both ways. Scott didn't tend to show it when he was down, but through the decrease in energy, you could sense it. Hell, even from his tone through the line when you called him to ask him about his day- you'd immediately sense that something was wrong, and it needed to be fixed, immediately.

Because in your eyes, Scott deserved much better than what he already had in this life.

So when you showed up by his door with a bag of clothes picked specifically for Halloween and demanded a few hours of his time to prepare after a short call, of course he wasn't going to say no. It surprised you when he announced that he'd much rather stay at home for Halloween, knowing damn well that he was a sucker for the holiday. You didn't have time to ask him what he wanted to wear, since you were already sure that he'd say no if you offered to handle everything and force him out of his place; so an imposition was necessary.

Truth is, Scott didn't feel down. Not in a traditional sense, at the very least. But when you quite literally forced him out of his t-shirt to pull a vintage shirt on him and top it up with a lab coat, he couldn't hold back the bittersweet smile that took over his chiseled, beautiful features; the proximity making him feel all warm and fuzzy. When you rambled on about how you had to scramble everything at the last minute to pull off a Marty McFly and Doctor Brown outfit for the two of you, knowing damn well that he loved the movie, he felt nauseous with how deep his feelings laid within.

If only he could find a way to tell you.

He watched you as you took off your work shirt to change into a white check grid design short sleeve one, and pulled a denim vest on top, letting the signature red puffer vest lay on the couch for the moment before approaching him again with a grin. "The wig is a bit… Low quality, but we don't need anything more," you hummed, mostly to yourself, before pushing him by his shoulders to sit on the couch again- wig fitting materials already ready by the coffee table since you ordered him to go grab some of the stuff you missed earlier on. "Just don't move too much. Sit pretty."

"As long as you don't glue it down to my actual hair," he chuckled, watching as you shrugged nonchalantly.

"Not gonna glue much," you whispered, as if you were giving him a secret. "The lab goggles. They're gonna keep it in place- I feel like my genius is seriously under-rated…"

"It so is." he joined in, the top secret topic of the conversation hidden between your hushed, childish whispers as you giggled along, before you sat by his side and made him face you, slowly brushing his hair back. Your hold on his chin was so delicate that he could cry just by looking at you, and he probably would if that wouldn't make him seem like a complete idiot.

You made him feel things that he didn't even know he was capable of feeling.

And it wasn't anything new. Even back then, when everyone saw him as just another ex-convict, you saw a different light in him. Never discriminated against him, never said anything that could even slightly decrease the hope he had for the future. To you, he was the guy who would show up by your door with a bag of take-out that he bought with his last pocket money just so he could be sure that you weren't skipping meals. He was the guy who always knew just how to cheer you up, just how to hug you so well that all of your worries would disappear.

But then you'd hold him. Like he's this porcelain piece, afraid that he might break if you were any less gentle. You'd play with his hair and massage his scalp while telling him all about your dreams, and how he'd be there to join along. How you'd take him to Europe and then Oceania, then maybe Asia, and show him everything beautiful about this world.

You were so precious that he could feel his stomach filled to the brim with butterflies. Or moths. Big, fluffy, ugly moths that made him want to vibrate out of his body.

His bright eyes followed yours as you focused, carefully putting the short white wig on place and setting it down with the help of the goggles. He looked idiotic in an extremely endearing way that you couldn't help but coo, plopping down in between his arms a second later. "You're adorable."

"You're adorabler."

"That's not a word."

"But it's convenient," he hummed, pulling a chuckle out of you as you excitedly got back up.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, Doc. Are you telling me that you built a time machine out of a DeLorean?" you quoted, rather dramatically, as he laughed along with you and reached for your red vest, so you could put it on and the two of you would get going.

"If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 miles per hour, you're gonna see some serious shit."

You were so proud of yourself.

Firstly, for knowing Scott like the back of your hand. Second, for being the reason he was already out of that gloomy mood- singing along to whatever 2012 pop song was playing, with a bottle of beer he snatched from somebody's table and a small packet of chocolate truffles that he held between your linked arms, as you two walked around the busy streets. People were all dressed up, shiny decorations everywhere- yet through all that light, Scott's eyes shined the brightest.

And you figured that there's nothing in this world you wouldn't do to have those gorgeous green orbs shining that bright with excitement all the time, just like this.

Feet dragging you to a familiar route, you practically pulled him towards the park, filled with kids comparing their trick-or-treat victories and grown-ups trying to get some calming going. Plopping down on the cold grass with a relaxed sigh, you waited until he sat next to you with a grunt, before leaning back on your elbows. "That was fun. But please don't spray kids with water next time."

"It was mutual spraying, why are you trying to make me sound like the villain here?" he feigned innocence but you knew better, judging by the victorious grin he held on before giving the kids their water gun back. You shrugged, instead deciding to sit up again. The lightning didn't allow much through the trees but he had a mature, yet boyish type of beauty that you could appreciate even in the dark. His eyes met yours when he noticed how carefully you were staring at him, though he had to avert them- much to your dismay, as you slowly lifted your hand to trace your fingertips against the laugh lines right by the sides of his eyes.

It only took a gentle touch to get him to look at you again.

"You've got two tiny hazel dots on your right eye," you whispered, trying to hold back a smile upon his attempt of stealthily popping a truffle in his mouth. "The other one is greener, I think. I can't see well from this light but- it's pretty. Have I ever said that before?"

"You explain me to me approximately seven times a day."

"Stop being an ass," a soft snicker left both of you. "I'm trying to memorize you."

He almost gave in. Almost. "What for? You see me a lot."

"I don't see you enough." you shook your head to both sides. Was it the liquid courage or the festive season, you'd never know; but the way he was still smiling gave you all the green lights you could've asked for. "You started to grow some whites on your beard. That's also pretty." your fingers moved down to his slight stubble. "Suits you."

He didn't know what to say. He wasn't even sure if words could actually leave his mouth at that moment- so he just let you memorize him. Slowly. Centimeter by centimeter.

But he didn't expect you to just stare at his lips for a full minute, and then reach in to leave a quick peck on them. "And these- still as soft as I remember."

He let out a laugh at that. "We were drunk when that happened, though. Years ago, if I may add."

You shrugged, nonchalant. "It was the first thing I remembered the next morning though. And it was also so gross, God, you salivate a lot when you're drunk."

"You weren't complaining then," his tone was lingering on playfulness. "Can't believe I never kissed you after that to actually prove that I'm actually a better kisser."

"I have serious doubts."

"Do you?" he hummed. "You're a few inches from finding out."

Instead, you aimed for his cheek this time. Scott was content with just that, too, as he let his hand fall on top of yours on the grass, providing shelter from the cold. "Is it scary for you too?"

"Terrifying." he replied right away. "But- you know what? Doesn't matter. As long as I got you."

"Yeah. And- we can do whatever we want. We're unsupervised adults."

"We really should be supervised."

It was slow, from then on. In slow-motion, almost. Because neither of you were in a rush as you stole kisses from one another here and there, never feeling as if you had to put a name on it so quickly. You two were just… Each other's people. And meanwhile that wasn't even near being enough to carry the weight of the feelings you harbored for one another, it felt just right.

[sluttywonwoo]

study buddies || k.mg x reader

Pairing: frat!mingyu x fem reader 

Summary: studying for midterms with the guy you’re hooking up with goes exactly how you’d expect

Warnings: swearing, light smut (18+)

Word Count: 1.6k

a/n: reworked this old blurb originally posted on my tom holland fic account ( @wazzupmrstark ) for my gf’s birthday :)) happy birthday @hotgirlmingyu

Masterlist

You woke up to banging on your apartment door. Groaning, you rolled over to check your phone and saw that it was six am. You pushed yourself up and out of bed and padded into the kitchen to answer the door. You were surprised the relentless knocking hadn’t woken up your roommate, but she was a pretty heavy sleeper.

You yanked the door open to see Mingyu with a handful of textbooks. You squinted at him in confusion, wondering if you were seeing things. Mingyu had never been to your place before, you didn’t even know he knew where you lived.

His appearance startled you a bit. His hair was messy where it was usually slicked back or styled and he was wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him in anything other than khakis and a douchey printed shirt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, rubbing your eyes.

He frowned. “You said we should study for midterms together.”

You thought back to the last time you’d seen Mingyu. You couldn’t remember saying anything like that.

“Was I drunk?”

“Probably.”

“So why are you here?”

“To study. You agreed that we could help each other out.”

“Mingyu, I don’t even remember agreeing to that.”

“Well I’m already here,” he said and pushed past you into your apartment.

“Seriously? It’s Saturday.”

“Yeah, and midterms are next week.”

“Couldn’t you have waited until the sun was up?” you grumbled, mostly to yourself and shut the door behind him.

“We’ve got a lot of material to cover.”

You cursed under your breath as you watched him set up at your kitchen table, knowing you should probably study even though you desperately wanted to go back to bed.

You and Mingyu had met at a party at his fraternity and woke up the next morning tangled in the sheets of his bed. To say it was awkward would have been an understatement. You didn’t think you’d ever see him again, but to your horror, you saw him in your stats lecture on Monday and your mythology class on Thursday. This was a pretty big university. Why did the same asshole have to be in two of your classes?

As much as it annoyed you, you couldn’t stop thinking about Mingyu, and apparently, he was having a similar dilemma because every time you went out he seemed to be there, and every time you hooked up.

That was the extent of your relationship, though. You didn’t even speak to each other in class or at parties. The only time you talked was behind closed doors when one or both of you was naked. Even then you kept your guard up because you refused to let yourself fall for a frat boy with commitment issues who never wanted to be seen with the same girl twice. A boy who wouldn’t even talk to you in public.

But you couldn’t ignore the way your heart fluttered when he said your name as he was about to cum, or the way his lips felt against yours. He could be a total dick, but you’d also seen a softer side of him that he didn’t show many people. You forced yourself to forget about that side. It was easier that way.

“Okay, what are we starting with?” you asked with a sigh.

“We have the stats exam first, we should work on that.”

You made a face. Statistics was the harder out of the two for you. In fact, it was the hardest class you were taking this semester.

“I can’t believe I’m doing math before seven am.”

“You won’t be complaining when you ace the midterm,” he quipped, already working on a practice worksheet.

You watched him solve problems like he was checking items off a list. You knew he was good at statistics, but you didn’t know he was that good. Figures, a guy like him was good at pretty much everything. Everything except mythology apparently, because once you’d switched to that he was flustered and frustrated. You would quiz him on myths only for him to get every single question wrong.

“Mingyu, did you even read any of these?” you asked, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Yes, y/n, I read every one. How do you think I passed all the reading quizzes?”

“Cheating?” it slipped out before you could stop it and Mingyu gave you a hard glare. You held up your hands defensively. “Just a joke.”

“I don’t think it was.” He licked his lips. “But for what it’s worth I read them all. I just can’t keep them straight.”

You sighed. You felt bad, but you were getting frustrated too. And not just because Mingyu wasn’t grasping the myths. This was the longest you’d ever spent together (at least while you were awake) and you hadn’t even had sex. He just smelled so nice and looked so cute when he was concentrating that you couldn’t help feeling a little impatient. You had been at it for hours, you thought you would’ve done it at least once by now. But Mingyu was more serious about studying than you thought. It was kind of admirable and kind of annoying.

“Okay well reread through the Egyptian myths and I’ll quiz you again.”

“Alright.”

He pulled out his reading packet and flipped to the section you took out your phone and scrolled through social media mindlessly as he read, but it quickly got boring. You wished Mingyu would take a break so he could rail you. He was still reading intently, but you figured a little distraction couldn’t hurt.

You started by taking your hair down from your bun and shaking it out so that it fell around your shoulders. You knew your shampoo drove Mingyu crazy and hoped it would have an effect on him today. He shifted his seat, but didn’t look up from the packet. Next, you leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder. You’d never done something so domestic like this with Mingyu, but it seemed to work because he cleared his throat and adjusted his sweatpants.

“You know you could be working on math.”

You shrugged. “We already did stats for hours today. I think I’ll jump off a bridge if I look at one more differential equation.”

He fell silent and tried focusing back onto the reading, but you moved your hand to his thigh and kept it there as you continued to through twitter, not even reading what was on your screen.

“Stop that,” Mingyu muttered, making you jump a little.

“Why?”

“Fuck, because you’re distracting me. You look too hot right now.”

“I’m wearing pajamas.”

“I really don’t care. You still look hot and I’m trying not to fuck you senseless right now.”

“Well what’s stopping you?” you asked lowly and nipped at his ear.

“Need to finish this,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“I can’t convince you to take a break?” You moved the hand on his leg up so that you were cupping him over his pants.

He shook his head. “After.”

You leaned over and kissed his neck, then his jaw, and felt him get hard under your hand. “If I have to stop what I’m doing you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

“That sounds like more of a motivator than a deterrent,” you admitted. “I’ll suck you off,” you offered and hooked your thumb in the waistband of his sweats, trying to bribe him.

“If you let me finish I’ll eat you out,” he countered.

You straightened up. It sounded like a pretty good deal.

“Fine.”

A few minutes passed in silence and you were waiting patiently, typing up a rough draft of an essay you had due for another class when Mingyu groaned.

“What?” you asked, wondering if he needed help.

“Can you please stop that?”

“Stop what? I’m literally doing nothing.” You were genuinely confused now.

“Just- I don’t know you’re making it so hard to concentrate.”

“Am I making it hard?” You smirked.

“Very funny.”

“Would it help if I put a paper bag over my head?”

“Probably.”

“Come on, keep reading about Osiris.”

“I don’t want to read about Osiris anymore, he’s a dick.”

“The faster you finish the faster you can get off.”

“I thought you didn’t want to wait,” Mingyu pointed out, trying to deflect.

“I think I recall something about you going down on me if I let you finish reading.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, but didn’t turn back to the book. Instead, he continued to gaze at you with those big brown eyes. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“What?” You felt your cheeks get warm.

“I just really want to kiss you right now.”

You smiled and raised your chin, challenging him. “Then do it.”

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. You closed your eyes and kissed him back, savoring the moment.

When you pulled away, Mingyu’s eyes were dark with want and you could see that he was now fully hard in his sweatpants.

“How about I eat you out now anyway?” He suggested, leaning forward to kiss your neck.

You moaned and brought your hands to his hair.

“You trying to bribe me?”

“Is it working?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Mingyu stood and picked you up from your chair. You wrapped your legs around his waist again. He pulled on your bottom lip with his teeth and smirked.

“Promise you’ll finish studying after?” you asked.

He considered it. “Does what we’re about to do count as studying mythology? Because it’s going to be legendary.”

You scrunched up your face in distaste. “No, I take it back. Put me down.”

Mingyu grinned. “Hey! You know no ones gives it to you as good as I do.”

“That confident are you?”

His grin turned into a smirk. “Is that a challenge?”

lmk what you think i always appreciated feedback!!

forever tags: @haven-cove

shoot me an ask to be added/removed from my taglist

[mysticpetals]

Farewell, sunshine

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: Jake × f!mc (Syianne)

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: angst, a sprinkle of fluff

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 4.9k (oof)

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: All Jake ever wanted was to find his sister and protect the person who had helped him more than anyone. Only, he slowly began to realise that bringing Syianne into this had caused more harm than good.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: mentions of blood, physical attack, violence, hospitals, medical coma, panic attack.

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙨: Anonymous asked: 5. “Wake up! Please wake up.” MC and Jake finally get to meet for the first time, but everything is heavily dipped in angst. 😂 Also I adore your writing and keep up the good work!

Anonymous asked: Can you give us the most angsty jealous filled over protective short with Jake x MC i want all the ANGST to be seeping out of my screen

@mnrangera asked: Here's a nice angsty scenario for you: MC is in Duskwood continuing their investigation but is caught out in town after dark. They are on the phone with Jake when they are attacked by the Man Without a Face like Jessie was.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨: I know this has been LOOOOONG overdue and I apologise for the wait. Thank you to all my followers for being patient, especially those who sent the requests in. I hope the long wait is worth it and you enjoy it. Also, please read the warnings before proceeding, I don't want any of you to be triggered by something I wrote. There may be inaccuracies in how I progressed medical conditions and general working of the hospitals so I apologise for that. Please do not repost or translate this fic anywhere else!! I'm literally begging you, please don't ruin my hard work like this. I would love if I could get some sort of feedback, whether it be reblogs or comments or just anon asks. I've tried to improve my writing and I hope it shows a little in this. This is my Christmas and New Year present all wrapped in one! I hope you all have a great 2021 <3

It was a cold, winter evening with the sky painted in a plethora of warm colors and Jake felt like finally things were going his way.

He, along with Syianne, had been working tirelessly for the past few weeks to find out what happened to Hannah. They had faced a lot of challenges along the way, with cryptic diary entries and threats directed towards them and their loved ones, but still, they'd prevailed and spent every ounce of free time, getting more information about Hannah's perpetrator.

They finally had the facts about what happened the day she was kidnapped and only the identity of the criminal was hidden. Syianne had suggested that she should go to Duskwood to try and find the last puzzle piece, to which Jake had been a little apprehensive. She argued that the rest of the group had already been through enough, with getting stalked and receiving threats and insisted that she should be the one to carry out her search in secret.

She never once asked for him to come along because she knew how dangerous it would be for him and she didn't want him to get caught. Jake was instantly warmed by the thought that someone cared so much about him, to think of his well being first.

So that night, as she called him to update him on her findings and plan after she went to Duskwood, he found himself speaking his thoughts impulsively.

"What if I came too?"

There was silence on the other end and Jake thought he might have overstepped or made it weird but she answered before he could stammer an apology.

"I'd like that. But only if you're comfortable and safe."

She told him to ruminate on it for a while and bid him goodnight. Jake thought about whether it was a logical thing to do. If Syianne planned to go undercover, he couldn't very well let her go into the lion's den alone. So he made up his mind and texted Syianne to let her know.

Jake [10:46 pm]

I'll come to Duskwood too.

Is it okay if we don't meet straight away?

I...I don't think I'm ready yet.

Syianne [10:47 pm]

I was lowkey hoping you'd say that ahaha

And of course! Take as much time as you need :)

That night, he slept with a smile on his face, excitement churning in his stomach.

⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰

Syianne was looking forward to her trip to Duskwood.

She knew it was a potentially dangerous situation and she was only going there to investigate but knowing that Jake might be there too, sent a spark of thrill through her body. They had been speaking non-stop for the past few weeks and she really liked talking to him. His answers to questions about him or his life were adorably confusing and Syianne realized that she really wanted to get to know him, be his friend or possibly something more, if their flirty banter was anything to go by.

Her bag contained all the essentials she could need, along with a sketchbook and pencils to use in case of boredom. She couldn't leave Matrix with any of her friends as they were either busy or allergic to cats so her only option was to take her along.

She had never booked a flight so fast. Knowing she would have to take a car from the airport to the rest of the way to Duskwood did nothing to damper her excitement. She couldn't wait to meet everyone once they found Hannah, some more so than the others.

The trip was nothing eventful, just a lot of travelling and it made Syianne a little tired but the idea of meeting her friends and finally putting a stop to all this madness, made her keep going. She wouldn't admit it if you asked her but she was looking forward to possibly seeing Jake as well. She knew he might not be comfortable enough to meet her yet and she completely respected that, but the thought still lingered.

She checked in to the only hotel Duskwood had, not meeting the receptionist's - Lilly's - eyes and was eternally grateful that she had only leaked her number and not her photo in that video. It would have been much more difficult to move about Duskwood, if that were the case.

The room they had was pretty basic, but not too bad for a few nights. Matrix prowled around the room, getting herself comfortable in the new environment while Syianne slowly unpacked the few clothes and necessities she brought.

In the corner of her mind, there was the thought that Jake might be staying at this hotel too and that sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. But she was a woman of her word and would wait until Jake was ready and would not try to look for him.

She had a mission here and she wanted to be damn sure that that's what she would be focusing on and save Hannah.

⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰

Jake was supposed to be in Duskwood about two nights ago.

He had encountered some issues with removing his tracks from the internet, as well as trying to find a safe way to drive to Duskwood without exposing himself. Working as a hacker did have some benefits and finally he managed to find a guy who made him three fake number plates that he would interchange every once in a while, so his whereabouts couldn't be traced.

He had let Syianne know of the unexpected delay but to his surprise, she was enjoying herself in Duskwood. She had told him that Jessy gave her a virtual tour of the town once and she was excited to explore all those places in person. She talked to him at night, describing the beauty of the small town and Jake felt himself growing wistful, wondering what they could do together if he had been there. But then again, hadn't he said that he wouldn't show himself right now? He was cautious - just as he had been all his life - but something about Syianne just made him want to let his guard down, to just be selfish for once.

He had no time to think further on it because finally, all the preparations and precautionary measures were done and he could drive to Duskwood. He couldn't leave Glitch at home because he had attachment issues and couldn't go without Jake for a long period of time. So he ushered him into his carrier and told him he could claw all the wood he wanted when they reached their destination and Glitch meowed in agreement. He had always been a smart cat, after all.

Changing the number plates every hour was exhausting, especially when he didn't do much manual work but he endured it, if it meant he was one step closer to finding his sister.

When he finally reached Duskwood, he was in awe of how normal it looked, how silent; how someone who didn't know that a girl had been kidnapped would think of this place as the perfect getaway. But he knew better, didn't he? This town held dark secrets, secrets that people weren't willing to acknowledge and he was going to expose them for what they were, no matter what it took.

Signing into the Duskwood hotel was as awkward as he imagined it to be, his half sister having no idea who he was and looking at his dark, baggy clothes suspiciously. He wasn't blaming her, he would have probably done the same if a strange man came out of nowhere to stay in Duskwood of all places. Lilly gave him a tight smile as he picked up his bag and key and made way to his room.

Syianne had texted him earlier that day that she would be checking out the lake in the evening, where Jessy was attacked. Jake was against it from the start but he should have known how stubborn she could be and eventually, he had to agree but only on the condition that she stays on video call with him the whole time. Syianne was evidently bewildered by his request, judging by the way she kept writing and erasing her reply but after a while, she managed to ask if he would be comfortable with that. Jake's heart warmed at her considerate words, never really having anyone who would care about his emotions, he was always surprised when Syianne said something like that. He replied that he would just turn off his camera or point it at the lamp or something but he had to be sure about her safety.

And that's why, he was sitting with his phone in front of him in the evening, camera turned off as he watched her fondly, pointing out the strange birds she saw.

"Ah, I wish you were here! The lake is so pretty this time and the light from sunset is reflecting off the water and it makes an amazing view," she said, voice breathy with the exertion of walking for a while and a tone of awe towards the scene in front of her.

"That's sufficient sightseeing, don't you think?" Her voice suddenly took a serious note and Jake straightened up in his chair. He was afraid but couldn't say anything. He had already agreed to let her go with a condition and he feared if he asked her to not investigate, she would probably end the call and keep looking for clues by herself. At least on the phone, he could look at her surroundings and made sure no one sneaked up on her.

"If you say so," he said half-heartedly, glancing at the surroundings behind her as she narrowed her eyes at his dismissive tone.

The next twenty minutes were spent with Syianne looking around the lake and Jake looking over her shoulder virtually. She had scouted the edge and went a little deeper into the forest, looking for a car, a boat, a mask - anything, really - but the search had proved to be futile so far. Everything was as peaceful as ever, no signs of any disturbance and it made Jake a little antsy. Nothing was ever this perfect.

"Well, since we can't find anything here, I think you should come back. It's getting late," Jake said, looking at the already darkened sky. It was an ominous red color and Jake was getting more and more worried as people left the lakeside.

Syianne frowned but didn't argue and that made him sigh in relief.

"Yeah, you're right. No use trying to find something that isn't there," she said and started walking again.

"Wait, you walked here? Didn't you bring your car?" Jake asked and she shook her head.

"Nope, I wanted to enjoy Duskwood and being in a car wouldn't have helped," she smiled at the camera and Jake let out an almost inaudible sigh. Why couldn't she care about her safety a little more? She was going to give him grey hair before he reached his thirties, that was for sure.

As he began to reply to her, he caught movement from the left side of the screen and instantly grabbed his phone, expanding the background.

There was a silhouette of a hand.

"Syianne, run!" He shouted, as the figure's arm came into view and she looked back in surprise before starting to sprint, the camera shaking from her movements.

Jake scrambled to get his car keys, not bothering with what he was wearing and ran towards the hotel parking, getting into his car and connecting the GPS to his phone, all the while listening to Syianne's panting breaths as she ran away from the man without a face.

Getting her location was no problem for him and he just hoped he would arrive there on time.

"Jake, I'm scared. I'm hiding behind a big building and I think he went on ahead," she whispered, voice shaky and trembling and Jake's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he glanced over at his phone to watch her looking around herself in a panic.

Five more minutes and he would reach her location. Jake had never been more thankful that Duskwood was a small town and the hotel wasn't so far away from the lake.

"I'm coming, Syianne. Just a little while more and we'll go back together."

"Okay, I think I'm safe for now," she said. There was a sound of slow careful footsteps as Syianne came out from behind the building.

The abrupt sound of a gasp almost made him lose control of the steering wheel and he increased his speed as he heard what sounded like a scuffle. Syianne had probably dropped her phone because it only showed the dark sky and sounds of her struggling against her attacker.

"No! Let–"

Jake let out a harsh breath, jaw tightening as he heard Syianne's scream. He drove straight for a bit and turned the next corner and saw the man trying once again to restrain her. His eyes saw red and he honked and honked like it was nobody's business, speeding towards them.

The man without a face seemed to have realised that someone was coming to help as he pushed Syianne roughly into the wall and ran away towards the forest. As much as Jake wanted to go after him, Syianne was his first priority and he quickly got out of the car, dashing towards her crumpled form, lying on the ground.

He fumbled with his phone, calling the local police and asking for an ambulance, his body shaking all the while, as he knelt down next to Syianne.

He felt tears welling in her eyes as he looked at her battered form and realised that she was bleeding.

"Syianne?" He spoke in a scared voice.

"Syianne!" He said more forcefully, repeatedly patting her face in hope she'll look at him but her eyes were still glassy and unfocused as if she couldn't comprehend anything.

"I'm...so sorry. I…" her voice trailed off as she struggled to breathe and Jake cried, seeing her in so much pain, when he couldn't do anything except wait for the ambulance to arrive.

After a moment, Syianne's eyes fluttered closed and Jake's panic rose to new heights.

"No, no, no! Wake up! Please wake up!" He shouted and begged but she didn't respond to his calls.

His hand was soaked in her blood from where he was applying pressure on the wound at her side. The blood hadn't stopped flowing and Jake was worried that she was losing too much, too soon.

"What do I do? What do I do?" He muttered to himself, adrenaline coursing through his veins, with only one thought in his head – to save her.

He heard sirens in the distance and was relieved to know that help was coming. He pushed up the fallen hood of his jacket up on his head and looked at Syianne for any signs of consciousness. Her breaths were shallow and eyes still closed.

Soon enough, paramedics rushed to the scene and immediately started tending to Syianne's wounds. Jake felt as if he was just a spectator, not being able to do anything but watch. Someone came up to him and started asking him questions, about how he found her, who he was to her and if he knew anything about the attack. He answered all the questions as carefully as he could, giving a fake name, because he still wasn't sure if the police department was in league with the kidnapper or not.

As soon as he was done with the questioning, a paramedic approached him, letting him know that they were taking Syianne to the hospital and he would have to come there for a bit of paperwork. Jake hesitated and said he'd drive there in his own car and the paramedic nodded in response and left.

He got in his car and put his head in his hands, shaking at the unfortunate turn of events. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Syianne was just going to check out the lake and then surprise her friends the next day by telling them she'd be here for a few days and enjoy Duskwood together.

Jake was even thinking of meeting her in person and telling her that she had changed his life for the better. But his cowardice, his meticulous nature to not let anyone know who he was or where he was might have cost Syianne her life tonight. Even thinking about it had tears pooling in his eyes and he took a deep breath to bite back the sobs that were threatening to break once again.

He felt guilty, so so guilty and couldn't bring himself to start the car. He was pretty sure that if – no when – Syianne woke up, she would want nothing to do with the man who put her life in danger. With that thought rooted in his mind, he opened his phone and with trembling hands, sent Jessy a text about Syianne's accident. He received a reply almost immediately.

Jessy [8:46 pm]

What?

How did she come here?

You know what? If she's not okay, I'm going to hunt you down and make you pay.

Jake had no trouble believing she was telling the truth. All he wanted to do was help and now everything was falling apart. Taking a deep but shaky breath, he started the car but instead of going to the hospital, he turned towards the hotel.

⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰

Jessy had no trouble believing that the hacker was telling the truth. His texts were frantic and he practically begged her to go to the hospital to see Syianne. She had no idea how she got here, but hearing that she got attacked, just like she was, was enough to make her worry and drive to the hospital, after letting Cleo know. She figured that the rest of them deserved to know too.

She rushed to the front desk, breathless and worried, and one of the nurses told Jessy that the doctors were with Syianne and she'd have to wait until they were done to know how she was.

After some time of relentless pacing, Cleo arrived and Jessy filled her in on everything that the hacker told her, which wasn't much, but it gave them a good idea of what had happened. Cleo said that she hadn't told anyone else yet and that they should do so as soon as the doctors had an update on Syianne's condition.

About an hour later, a nurse came upto Jessy and Cleo, asking if they knew Syianne and upon their confirmation, led them to the room she was kept in. They weren't allowed to enter yet as the doctors were still in the room, but Jessy gasped when she saw Syianne's scratched up face, with bandages covering her head.

"Oh my gosh." Cleo breathed and Jessy felt a rush of sorrow as she averted her eyes.

The doctors after completing their examination, told them that Syianne was stabbed in the side but luckily it didn't puncture anything important and they closed up the wound to allow it to heal. What was more concerning, was the fact that she was hit on the back of her head.

"She most likely suffered from a concussion, in which case, it is of the utmost importance that the patient doesn't fall asleep," the doctor said and Jessy and Cleo looked at each other uneasily.

"But Syianne fell asleep…" Jessy began and the doctor gave her an apologetic smile.

"That's right. She was unconscious when she was brought here. The superficial wounds are taken care of, we just don't know when she'll wake up."

Both of them were too stunned to say anything and a call for the doctor from one of the nurses broke them out of their stupor.

"So, she's in a coma?" Cleo asked.

The doctor hesitated before answering.

"Essentially, yes. But we can't know for sure without further observation. If the injury isn't severe she'll wake up soon, we just have to monitor her constantly and look for any changes." He then walked off when his pager went off, most likely to see another patient.

"Don't worry, Jessy. She'll wake up soon," Cleo said, placing a hand on her shoulder, as they looked into Syianne's room, seeing her sleeping peacefully, as if nothing was wrong and she was just taking a nap.

⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰

As soon as she got home from the hospital, Jessy sent out a row of furious texts to the hacker, clouded by her anger and hopelessness. In her head, it was all his fault that Syianne was twittering between life and death. He was the one who asked her to come to Duskwood without letting any of them know, which caused her to be in such a terrible condition.

Everything was crumbling.

They were a tight knit group, always there for each other but when did it turn into a nightmare, Jessy didn't know. Emotion overtook her and she suddenly collapsed against the wall, keeping a hand on her mouth to muffle her sobs, and cried.

She cried for Hannah, who she had no idea whether she was alive or not. She cried for Syianne, who had become such a great friend to her. Most importantly, she cried for her relationship with everyone, that was slowly but surely, withering away.

⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰

Jake had been pacing in his hotel room ever since getting back, waiting on a word from Jessy. Glitch watched him with big eyes, as he stubbed his on the bedside and cursed. Sighing in defeat, Jake realised that it won't do any good to worry himself to death, but that didn't mean that his mind didn't drift off to the earlier scene.

Syianne lying on the ground. Blood pooled around her.

He shook his head in frustration, trying to get that image out of his head but to no success. Glitch, sensing that something was wrong, strolled towards him, rubbing and purring against his legs. Jake softened at seeing his efforts to calm him and he picked Glitch up, moving to lay down on the bed. He petted him, smiling at the way the cat burrowed himself further against Jake, curling his tail around his wrist.

After a few peaceful moments of cuddling, Jake's phone lit up with a text, which had him scrambling to grab it from the bedside. Glitch meowed in protest but Jake was too wound up to notice.

Jessy [10:25 pm]

She's in a coma

They don't know when she'll wake up

Jake felt all breath leave him as he read Jessy's text. He didn't know what to think, what to do, what he could do. Jessy didn't give him a chance to respond.

Jessy [10:26 pm]

Don't contact any of us ever again

I don't want to find Hannah this way…which leads to everyone else getting hurt

Please leave Syianne out of this

Saying her mind, Jessy went offline again. Jake took a shaky breath, trying to ground himself. Syianne might never make up.

No, he told himself.

He couldn't think like that. He knew she'd wake up, it might take a little time but she will. Because if she didn't, Jake wouldn't be able to live with himself.

He got another text from Lilly, saying she was sorry that it happened but he couldn't bring himself to write back. His mind was empty, body numb to everything around him and he was cursing himself for being so careless.

If he hadn't been so selfish, if only he didn't put all of this on her, if he had just reached on time, if, if, if.

That's all he thought of, as tears continuously trailed down his cheeks, an arm covering his eyes, the only thing on his mind being Syianne, just as it had been ever since he started talking to her.

⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰

The next day, Jake found himself holding a large flower bouquet and walking to Duskwood hospital's reception. He was trembling, scared out of his mind but he just had to see Syianne. So, he had braved his anxiety and was now standing in front of the receptionist, who looked at the abnormally large bouquet in his hands and raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat.

"I'm here to see Syianne King, she was admitted here yesterday."

The receptionist's gaze sharpened as she looked him over and he partially hid behind the flowers.

"Only family members are allowed to visit," she spoke slowly and Jake bit his lip in frustration.

"I'm her fiance," he said and before the surprised receptionist could say anything, he continued, "I drove here as soon as I got the call but they wouldn't tell me what happened. Only that Syianne had been in an accident and I needed to get here as soon as I could and I—" he cut himself off, shuffling nervously and wiping away the tears that had managed to escape from his eyes.

The receptionist softened, seeing his genuine sorrow and care for his fiance and warmed her voice.

"Of course, I'm sorry for what happened. She's in room 309, third floor. The elevator is down the hall," she pointed and Jake thanked her profusely before walking ahead.

Him being Syianne's fiance might have been fake but everything he had felt was the truth and he felt overwhelmed now that he was here. Should he see her? Did he even deserve to see her after he put her in danger? Thoughts like this plagued his mind all the way to Syianne's room and they only stopped when he saw '309' written in bold letters on a grey coloured door.

His breath stuttered in his chest. He was second guessing his presence in the hospital, thinking whether he shouldn't have come. He stood in front of the door for about ten minutes, contemplating but when the nurses started giving him suspicious looks, he swallowed thickly and with shaky hands, opened the door.

Nothing could have prepared him for the utter despair and helplessness he felt, as he saw Syianne's motionless form on the bed, breathing as if she was just sleeping and would wake up any minute. But he knew that wasn't the truth.

She was here and it was his fault.

For the longest time, he just sat on a chair beside her bed and just looked at her. His eyes traced every injury, every bruise that was visible and he felt sick, blaming himself for letting it happen. She was still sleeping and suddenly, it just got too much.

There was too much light, too much beeping, the walls were too white, the flowers in his hands digging into his skin and he got up hastily, dropping the bouquet and backed into the furthest corner of the room.

His breath was coming in short bursts, it hurt to breath, to think, to stay upright—!

His legs gave from under him and he slid down, back against the wall, shaking hands coming up to wipe the wetness on his face.

He didn't even realise he had been crying.

His vision was a blur of dark shapes and in a distinct corner of his head that was still sane, he thought of what Syianne would have done had she been awake. He was sure she would kneel down in front of him and take his hands, running her thumbs against the back of his hands to calm him.

'Breathe slowly, Jake. Deep breaths with me, come on,' he heard her in his head and tried to slow down, breathing harshly at first but after a few minutes, his vision cleared and his breathing stabled to an acceptable rate.

His whole body shook with the sheer suddenness of the panic attack and he slowly tried to get up, holding onto the wall as a support as his gaze, once again, landed on the bed and it's occupant.

All at once, his head cleared and he knew what to do.

Snatching a sheet of paper from the notepad lying near her chart, Jake penned his thoughts, all his anguish, and his apologies on it. Not once did his hand shake as he wrote the note and not once did his mind waver from the decision he had made. At last, when he had said everything he wanted to, he put the pen down and glanced at Syianne's peaceful face.

His throat closed up but he swallowed once to make sure he didn't cry. No, Jake had no time for tears. It was his fault that this happened in the first place, so it was his responsibility that he would make it right.

He didn't know when she would wake but whenever it might be, Jake had everything he wanted to say, already written for her.

He bent down towards her and placed the softest of kisses against her forehead, knowing that it would be the only time he would ever get to do it.

She did not open her eyes and Jake stepped back with a miniscule tilt of his lips.

Yes, he would make everything right.

[astraystayyh]

HELLO WHAT IS THIS I AM CRYING HELLO YOU CAN’T BE REAL 😭😭😭😭😭😭 this is so????? sweet doesn’t even begin to encompass it are you insane. i love you I LOVE YOU SO MUCH IM BLUSHING AND KICKING MY FEET THIS IS THE NICEST THING EVER 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

waaahhhh im so happy you found echoes of love and me by extension because all your comments and msgs have seriously made my blog feel much more welcoming to me :( you genuinely brighten my day sm i always look forward to your feedback and just our interactions in general

stop im actually crying echoes of love means a lot to me, it was so experimental and it took sm of my energy to write so to see you talk about it so highly?? you’re right what more can i ask from life :,))) i always hope that my fics would make people feel and you just WAHHH i dont even know what to say :(( you really made every hour i spent crafting that story so worth it you’re literally an angel i love you so very much and the thought of u liking it sm u told ur friends about it??? you make my heart feel so warm you’re seriously the kindest soul ever YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY

no because that last paragraph my heart actually dropped to my stomach that is seriously the absolute sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me and i cannot believe it is directed to me. ive had such rough weeks lately so this, i cant tell you how much it means to me like “she was created to create” ARE YOU INSANE I NEED TO HUG YOU RN AND TELL U HOW GRATEFUL I AM FOR YOU 😭😭😭😭😭 im screenshoting and rereading it every morning, i can’t believe u are saying that u are not so good with words when im a puddle on the floor 😭😭😭😭😭 i love you i love you i dont know what i did to deserve your kindness but i will accept it regardless :((( thank you for existing and for choosing to be so kind to me :,) i seriously cant tell you how much this healed my soul and beyond 🥹🤍

This is,

Something.

This might be me telling how much I love a fic, or how much I appreciate and adore a person's writing, might be a declaration of love to she who makes people feel things, might be me explaining why I was sobbing my heart out as I was reading this form of art that is Echoes of Love. (My keyboard finished the name for me, it's that used on my tab help)

This is for @astraystayyh .

How I found it.

I have actually found this beauty by accident, as in her and Echoes of Love. Being new to Tumblr and by not having used it for such a long time, I simply typed in 'stray kids' and this came up, and I want to thank the lord for doing so, because this has quite literally changed the trajectory of my life. As in, my standards for writing have increased and reached the skies.

Why it is so important for me.

Now important would be literally an understatement.

I have this habit of imagining things that I read, and in so many, so many, instances this fic has had me in a chokehold. Like I had to physically isolate myself from this story because of the effect it had on me.

This is not a normal fic, it is anything but ordinary. This fic was written so intricately, it has so much detail, metaphors, simile, and quotes used in it. This is how books should be written, this is how fics and stories really should be written. Because if you can make a person cry through the feelings you have portrayed in a book, what more do you want from life? What more must an author seek in life than to make one muffle their cries because it was too loud for the walls surrounding them and all this because of a few words? No no no, these aren't just a few words. These are feelings. This is what a person feels after being projected to pain, misery and utter suffering and oh Sahar, oh Sahar you wrote it oh so beautifully!

You could ask the few people that I call my friends about this story, about how I physically couldn't stop thinking and talking and telling people about this piece that should be exhibited in a museum and no, no I'm not exaggerating. This is not exaggeration. This is me speaking facts for what it truly is. I can't not talk about something so beautiful, I physically can't.

How?

How. How. How.

This question ran marathons through my head because as a mere human being (and not a writing god like Sahar is) I just can't grasp how a person writes so deeply. How. She did this before in Invisible Threads (once again my tab finished the name for me 😭). And she's going to do it again and again and again. Because she writes like it's breathing. She writes like her hands, her talented fingers were made for this sole purpose. She writes like she'll die if she stops writing. She writes for people to feel, for people's feelings to be felt by others. I can't understand, I just can't understand, how beautiful, how magnificent, how stunning her soul is. How exquisite must she be that she wrote not a hundred not three, not even a few thousands but 25.8k words and effortlessly mastered through the whole thing.

Talent. Right here, talent. (Please apply for Oxford they'll be happy to have you, rest assured)

She was indeed, created to create.

I wish her the best and only the best. Because she does only the best, and deserves only the best. I am not the best with my words and so they never do justice to her writing. So I compel you, go read Echoes of Love, read Invisible Thread, and live your best life.

-your biggest fan. (Adopt me please)

[kitasfox]

hii i had a genuine question! if you really love writing and all of that, why do you think it's your followers specifically that took it from you for not interacting with your work? would that not be the want of notes or attention on your work leading to demotivation? just genuinely curious cause if you love it i'd just keep going no matter what notes you get, but maybe i don't fully understand <3

man idk if it's my mood rn but this feels too fucking passive aggressive to me rn but okay. as I screamed out of my ass many times before on this and my old blogs— yes writing is something we do for ourselves, but only partly.

If you write you know how hard it is to actually complete a fucking fic. Daydreaming is something but writing something else. First of all, it takes time. It changes of course but for me writing a linger fic around 3-5k takes me minimum a week, usually 2 weeks. You write whenever you get the chance; on the subway, walking somewhere, in the cafe waiting for you friends, with the friends, hell even on the fucking toilet sometimes because fuck you haven't written for so long and people forget about you and the interaction fuck fuck fuck—

It takes energy. Look if you aren't a writer idk how to explain just how much energy writing requires because holy fuck— you have 50 drafts. You want to write. You really really want to write. But you cant. The characterisation must be right, the plot must make sense and planning feels like fucking hell sometimes because it won't won't you just can't think nothing sounds right nothing sounds good is this becoming boring will people even read this I spent so much time and energy will people read this is this boring fuck im rewriting this you know what I hate this where's my other wip— yall we don't just sit, drink, think, write. That thinking part sometimes doesn't work. Sometimes you literally spend HOURS on one fucking scene and it doesn't work. Just no. You rewrite. The energy you spend while trying to think of another scene to make this rewritten version work because the whole fucking plot changes. I sometimes wake up from my sleep bcs FUCK THAT SHOULD BE THE PLOT THATS HOW IT SHOULD GO and my notes are a fucking disaster of 3 am ramblings for a fic.

You have no idea how frustrating it is to not be able to write what you think. Daydreaming is one of my favorite things but writing it is fucking hard man it's HARD. Cuz be honest do your daydreams make sense? Does anyone else would want to read it? But again, writing can be very very frustrating. I sometimes curse the day I started it.

But then, there's sharing it.

Why do we share? Because every once in a blue moon you see validation from someone, there's that one person who says thank you for writing this, it made my day. That makes my week, month year life. To know that that thing you spent so much energy and time on did make someone happy. It's addicting jts fucking addicting— it's like working so damn hard on a project for school yes? And you present it and that prof you absolutely adore tells you you did amazing. Now you understand how happy it makes us feel?

But then there's you guys who stare us with a poker face, the audience that applauds faintly as an act of courtesy. They don't say anything go you, they just smile and wave until the next presenter comes. No feedbacks, no that was cool! nice idea, no sharing it w the friends to say hey look this was a cool project! nah, just a nod of head and there, you can leave the stage now. That hurts man. Hurts like a motherfucker because you did this for yourself but also you really really wanted to see the audience and your professor tell you that you did good and that was nice because you gave too much for it and you want to know,,,, it was worth it.

Long story short; it makes us feel worthless.

[mooifyourecows]

I'm so tired. I love hq!! but I had a solid couple of months where I didn't post because of lurkers. I was considering stopping posting and just enjoying hq!! media and leaving the fandom. The only kudos and comment emails I was getting were just "please update!" comments on a non-hq!! thing that I wrote for an irl friend(a x-over of a show I don't like w a fandom I hate) In that time my hit counts were still going up. 100 HQ!! fics... for people to tell me it's not enough. Not worth even kudos

I’m so sorry that the lack of feedback has gotten you down like this. 

And it’s like... I get it, you know? I’ve been both a reader and a writer so I totally understand each perspective. Sometimes it’s hard to muster up the energy to type out a comment. I let messages go unread for weeks because the ordeal of communicating with another person is HARD sometimes. I totally get it. Social anxiety is a bitch. I cry over the thought of making a phone call. Bro, I get it.

When it comes to fics and art, I think it’s really easy for consumers to think, “Ah it’s okay if I don’t comment because someone else will.” But the thing is, it’s gotten to the point where it seems like most, if not all, consumers are thinking that same thing.

And it must sound so annoying! To the people who only read, who are out there minding their business, it must sound so annoying to them for content creators to kindly ask for their support. It probably drives people to unfollow, to harbor resentment for the creators who eventually lose their patience and say something in anger or frustration about the lack of feedback they’re getting, despite knowing that people are out there consuming their work.

Back in the day, when I saw a creator making a snide comment online about how people weren’t showing them support, I used to think, “Ugh, that’s irritating. They should just be grateful that people are enjoying their work at all.” 

and omg I want to go back in time and kick that me’s ass. That’s such a shitty attitude! WOW! Creators are pouring hours of their time and baring their souls for the purpose of sharing their passion FOR FREE on the internet for literally ANYBODY to see! That’s INCREDIBLE. The reason why I was able to read full on novel length masterpieces was because this random person out there in the world decided to take the chance and gift it to us all for nothing in return.

And the attitude that “I don’t need to give them anything back” or “they’re annoying for asking for something in return” is such a privileged mindset. 

I was a super introverted kid back in the day. I spent every second of free time I had in my room, reading. Before I found fanfiction, I went to the bookstore every single week and I threw money at any YA novel or volume of manga that piqued my interest. Hundreds, probably thousands of dollars went into my consumption of that fiction back then. Sometimes I’d get home and start one of the books and realize, “I hate this, ugh, I spent 15 bucks for this???” and that sucked. Really sucked. 

Now, I can find writing (and art) for free that far exceeds my love for any of those past novels I actually spent money on. I don’t have to agonize in the aisle for two hours because I can only afford one book but two of them caught my eye. I can start reading something, decide it’s not my cup of tea, and stop reading it without suffering a monetary loss.

Fanfiction readers are privileged consumers.

And it’s mind boggling that any of them would actually get angry at content creators for asking for far LESS than published authors expect as the bottom line.

In the past, I found it annoying to see creators ask for the barest minimum of appreciation for their hard work.

Now, I find it annoying to see posts giving a round of applause for privileged people who give nothing in return. Because they need the validation that they’re not doing anything wrong.

Sorry Babes. If you feel like you’re doing something wrong, that’s your conscience telling you to make a change.

And it’s probably really annoying. I wouldn’t be surprised if a bunch of people stopped following me for these posts. Aren’t I a popular fandom writer? Don’t I get a lot of feedback on my fics already? 

Yep! Congrats! You figured it out! 

It’s not about me! 

I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a good group of amazing readers who go out of their way, time after time, to send me sweet messages about my updates. I’m lucky. But other writers aren’t so lucky. Other writers, despite being AMAZING and consistent and absolutely worthy of appreciation, fly completely under the radar by some unfathomable logic, and they never get the attention they deserve. And that’s why I’m so annoying about this.

I’m tired of how many content creators can admit to me how discouraged they are about their experience within fandom. I’m tired of reading a fic I think is beyond incredible and getting down to the comment section and seeing little to no feedback from readers.

I’m tired of people thinking I’m in the wrong for being tired of this.

Validate content creators. It costs zero dollars and only a tiny bit of time.

Break out of your shell, tell your social anxiety “not today”, and choke out a small little, “thank you” for the people who keep fandom alive.

Because a fandom without creators is just a room full of people who like the same thing waiting for something to happen.

[andrea-lyn]

I thought I'd ask you because you've talked about really needing feedback on your stories. Do authors really prefer simple, often pointless comments over no comment? When I have something to say I say it but now that I'm trying to leave reviews more sometimes it's literally just "I love this!!" because I love the story and it was simple and perfect. Or I'm flailing about emotions. I keep imagining this is annoying for authors to respond to but I keep getting replies. I feel self concious 😅.

2 / Same anon! Also what do I do when I see a story posted both on Tumblr and A03?? Sometimes I have enough to say that I split my commenting between Tumblr and A03 which sort of makes me feel like a stalker but I also feel like I want writers to know someone is reading and appreciates their fic being on multiple platforms. I had way too little sleep last night and am just overthinking commenting hard but short of surveying every author I have no idea what people want from comments. 

Hey anon! I can speak for myself absolutely. For me, the needing feedback comes especially with something that’s a bit longer to craft. Often, something that took an hour or two, it’s easy to let that live on its own and I’m content if it doesn’t do well, versus something that I’ve spent over 100+ hours on (I think no regrets was that much; fun fact, Word will tell you this). I know that it also sucks to see the back-end subscriber count. I’ve had cases where a story had 120+ subscribers, and it would get three comments and it definitely left me thinking “did this chapter suck? Maybe I need to rethink the rest, or back off.” Personally, even a comment that says ‘I loved this’ is worth gold to me and I’ve always been taught to reply to comments to show my appreciation for those comments because short or long, they all mean the same thing - someone was invested enough to take the time to leave that note. In terms of the tumblr vs ao3 divide, it’s really interesting, because I feel like when I do get a lot of reblogs/great comments, it makes it less important to see them on ao3, because the reaction is still there.

And for me, it comes down to that - reaction. When I, as a writer, spend hours and hours writing something and hear silence or limited response, there’s an echo chamber feel that this thing I spent all this time writing for my own enjoyment never needed to be posted. It could have been something shared with my betas and loved in a small circle. Writers love comments. They love them. Often, we lose good writers because they felt like what they were doing wasn’t getting any traction, so they’ll stop writing or move on to other fandoms. If I could crack the code to stop caring, I absolutely would share it. @aewriting talked about writing theses and how that changed the mindset towards creation without expectation and I think that was really well put, and a place I’d like to get to, because the truth is that we’re also not owed anything for our work. It’s just really nice to hear when someone is enjoying it.

As a writer, though, I also know I’m not excluded just because I create. If I don’t feedback, I’m part of the problem, which means I need to try and leave comments whenever I can, even though sometimes at the end of a story, to your point, I just loved it and I find myself not sure what to write. Someone once gave me great advice to copy/paste lines I really liked. I’ve started doing that, just so I can comment on that, or just a piece of description or physicality that resonated ( @sabrinachill had that latest chapter, for instance, with the HANDS, I had to call that out). And okay this got long, but there are my babbled thoughts! 

[kinktae]

i finished to read bitchin pt 3 already and the thing is: ROSE YOU OWN MY LIFE i said what i said

Anonymous said: AHHHH BITCHIN’ PT3 HAD ME BLUSHING AND SHIT

kimcafe said: oh my gDKFHSI !!! when jungkook said “It’s when I fell in love with you.“ i swear my entire soul ascended and my heart fell out of my ass . you are SUCH a talented writer i can’t even begin to explain how much i love your writing 😚 have a lovely week dear ! take care 💖

Anonymous said: WHHHYYYY DO YOU DO THIS TO MEEEEE BITCHEN IS SOOO GOOD 🌈

Anonymous said: OMG BITCHIN!!!!!!!!! I CAN’T 🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀

Anonymous said: THE NEW CHAPTER OF BITCHIN WAS AMAZING 💕💘💗💓💞💝💝💗💗💖💕💖💓💓💖💕💖💓💝💞💗💖💓💓💖💘💕💖💗💞💟💝💓💖💘

Anonymous said: DAMN YOU! YOUR FICS ALWAYS MAKE ME QUESTION MY BIASES! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

not-amundane said: I ABSOLUTELY LOVED BITCHIN'PT 3!! Your writing is amazing, thank you for sharing your work with us.💛💛 I love that the Y/N is a Biology major, i’m a Microbiology major! 

Anonymous said: BITCHIN PART 3 WAS SO CUTE MY HEART IS BUSTING SO MANY UWUS RN AAAAHHH

Anonymous said: I loved the new chapter

louvejoon said: I know I saw this every single time but !!!!! bitchin!!! is!!!! amaZING !!!!!!!!¡¡¡!!!¡!¡!¡!¡

Anonymous said: Girllllllllllllllll **fans self** Imma need more popcorn🍿 Daenggggg I’m sooo invested in this I need more! Was definitely worth the wait!💝

Anonymous said: bitchin’ pt 3 got me like 🥵 whew

Anonymous said: Aw bitchin jungkook is just 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Anonymous said: i found the uh rewind series completely by accident and the bitchin series has grabbed me up by my edges. how dare you take my wig like that with no intentions of giving it back

Anonymous said: BITCHIN’ PT.3 WAS SOO GOOD WTF YOU’RE SO TALENTED AND AMAZING AHHHHHHH

Anonymous said: “It’s when I fell in love with you.” THE WAY I SCREAMED KSBDKSBSKSNSN I LOVE BITCHIN SO MUCH YOURE DOING AMAZING SWEETIE

Anonymous said: Can’t they just fucking already yeah? :) #bitchin i know they will kiss in this chapter. But hickey????????????? Hey i don’t expecting that woahh and as always your writing is so addicting ok! Luv uu

enipi said: OH MY GOD, IM FUCKING SUING!! HOW COULD YOU LEAVE CHAPTER 3 THERE?!! LITERALLY LEAVING ME AS HOT AND BOTHERED AS OC I- *starts pacing, rationalizing* THEY WERE JUST KISSING- IT WAS JUST A HICKEY- IT WAS UNDENIABLY THE BEST PLACE TO LEAVE US HANGING- BUT NOW I HAVE BLUE BALLS?! I- the power of the build up…. of this slow burn… it’s too strong…. ☠️

Anonymous said: i am a huge fan of TATBILB (peter kavinsky is my first love) and i am absolutely in love with bitchin’!!! it’s been awhile since i’ve found an incredible writer and i’ve honestly spent the last hour just reading all your other stuff! keep up the amazing work, you’re truly talented!

IVE LITERALLY NEVER HAD SO MUCH FEEDBACK FOR A FIC MY HEART IS ABSOLUTELY A PUDDLE!! I’m reading every reblog and comment and ask with this huge ass smile on my face :’( thank u!! every single one of you!!

[angelyoonoh]

Sweet

Pairing: Mark x Reader

Warnings: none? it’s literally all fluff BAHA

[a/n: this is my first writing so i don’t know how fantastic it is. but it made me so happy to write it and start something new. this is dedicated to @felixsunshinee since she was my inspiration for this little fic :)) enjoy, and feedback is always welcome]

“Sorry, we won’t be hiring until around August. I’ll be glad to put your application to the top of the pile though.”

The manager of the 10th dance studio you’ve been to today has said basically the same thing as all the others. Job searching has proven to be a lot harder than you originally thought and with time running out before rent was due, your stress levels certainly weren’t going down anytime soon. A lot came with choosing your passion for dancing over any regular job and the sacrifices you made don’t seem to be any help right now. With everything starting to feel overwhelming, you decide to call your boyfriend Mark.

“Hey y/n, why are you calling? You know it’s late in Korea right now.”

A long distance relationship was not something you had planned to have with Mark, but knowing how passionate he is about his work and being in NCT makes you want to support him through everything. It’s been a few months since the group has traveled back to the U.S. and with everything going on, hearing his voice is enough to calm you down.

“I know it’s late babe, I’m sorry. I just needed to hear your voice. I’m not doing so great right now and you’re the only person I wanted to call.”

Mark sighs heavily before answering in a whisper,” You know I love you, right?”

“Yes”

“And you know that I would do anything to be there for you right now?”

“I-I guess so, yeah”

“Then you know that you can get through this, it won’t be easy, but it’ll all be worth it in the end. I want to be able to talk more, but we’re getting ready for a big comeback. I can call you when it’s morning over there, but I can’t talk right now..I’m sorry.”

You can hear the sincerity in his voice about wanting to be there to support you.

“I know you are Mark, I’m sorry for bombarding you. Rest well, and we can talk soon. Night,” with this you abruptly hang up.

You know he doesn’t mean you any harm, and he’s just as stressed out as you. You’ve been calling every night for the past week just to talk about how you can’t find a job and you’re running scarcely low on funds. He knows about your desire to come a dancer, and with his experience, he also knows that’s not the easiest job to pursue. You take a deep breath, try to think positive and head to the last place you had on your schedule today. Home.

Once you arrive, you kick your shoes off at the door. You immediately lay on the couch, emotionally spent after what Mark had told you over the phone.

Everyone that has ever met you, knows that you’re one of the most positive people out there. In this moment though, you can’t help but let hot tears fall down your cheeks. After a few minutes of crying, you hear a noise come from your bathroom.

Upon entry, you see many candles surrounding your filled bathtub. There are bubbles, rose petals and champagne, but most important, there’s Mark. Kneeling down, holding open a small box, within it the most gorgeous ring you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“I know it’s unexpected, and I know I lied to you about what I was doing earlier. I also know that I love you more than anything y/n. You make my life complete and I wouldn’t have been able to achieve my dreams without your support. These have been the happiest years of my life, so, will you mar-“

“Yes!!” you interrupt Mark without a second thought, more tears running down your face as he stands up to pull you into the tightest hug. After some time of standing there, holding your new fiancé in your arms, he whispers to you, “The bath will get cold soon.”

He slowly and gently helps you out of your professional attire. Once you’re naked he begins taking his clothes off as well. You take this time to admire his physique. He always did work hard to maintain it for his fans and his overall health, but now as you look at him you can’t help but think that this wonderful man is yours and you are his.

With a smile he guides you into the rose scented water, “Shall we?”

The next hour is filled with underwater cuddles, goofy hairstyles crafted from the bubbles sitting on top of the bath, and true love.

Mark clears his throat and the air grows slightly cold and awkward.

“Mark, what’s wrong? You only ever clear your throat like that when you have something to say…”

He slowly helps you up and out of the now cold water. Without a word he dries you off, and gives you some fresh panties and one of his clean shirts. Once you are both dressed and sitting on your shared bed, he comes clean.

“I should have asked you first, but, I’ve been talking to some of the managers at SM. It took some convincing and trust me it wasn’t very easy.”

“Spit it out you crackhead,” you say laughing at the nervousness apparent in Mark’s tone of voice.

“You’re one of Red Velvet’s new backup dancers. I talked to Wendy personally and showed her a few videos that you posted on your dance account. She’s super excited about it. That is, if you want the job?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I want the job!” You basically yelled as you tackled Mark to the ground and covered his face in kisses.

“Thank. You. So. Much.” You said in between each kiss you placed on his neck.

“How about we snuggle up on the couch and watch that new show you like?” Mark said while wiggling his eyebrows.

That’s how you end up falling asleep on the couch, cuddled into Mark’s side. You’re wearing nothing but your favorite shirt of Mark’s, and your new engagement ring dreaming about your future with the love of your life.

[fatechica]

Julie julie julie!! This may result in a long response, but how do you 1) find the motivation and time to write so much (and so well) and 2) outline and plan and implement your story? -aj :) ❤️

AJ! HELLO!!

Ooh, this is a good question (and, yes, it’s gonna be a long response). Imma break it down into it’s composite parts and answer them one at a time:

(putting this under a cut since it got L O N G)

Ask me random-ass questions about my fics!

finding the motivation:

For me, I’m so in love with Mileven, that’s most of the motivation right there. I’ve been writing fic for *does the math* 22 years now (haha, holy shit that’s a long time). I’ve spent countless hours thinking up stories in my head, essentially plotting out fic ideas/scenes in my head as a form of story-telling when I’m falling asleep, and jotting down notes and outlines - it’s literally a habit for me to always be creating fiction to the point where I don’t even know how to turn if off. And Mileven (and Stranger Things as a whole, by extension) is the first thing in quite some time to fully, 100% capture and take advantage that habit.

But, that sometimes isn’t always enough to always be actually creating, so part of it is I just write a lot. I try to write every day, even just to play around with something, so I can keep the habit of actually writing going. But I don’t push it most of the time. Sometimes I will if I know it’s just a section that’s giving me problems because I can always go back and fix it. But if I’m feeling lost or unsure or just tired? I’ll write, like 400-500 words and call it a day. Just enough so I feel like I’ve accomplished something but not enough that if I hate it, it��ll kill me to get rid of it.

finding the time to write so much (the “so well” is debatable):

Ok, so, I’m pretty lucky. I work from home most of the time, I don’t have kids yet, and my husband is in class nights and weekends. I have a lot of time to myself. Since almost all of my irl friends are around the same age as I am, we mostly all get together on the weekends with the occasional happy hour after work. So I have pretty much every weeknight after 5 to write and a lot of time on weekends during my down time. 

This’ll probably change when I have a kid and when my husband’s no longer in school, so I’m taking advantage of it while I have it. I pretty much spend most of my free time writing. I’ve been doing other things with it lately (like, haha, playing “The Division” in preparation for the sequel - gotta love that loot grind), but I still spend a lot of my time writing and plotting out fics because it’s fun for me.

And, about writing well? Well, if I’m a good writer, it’s only because I read a lot and I’ve written a lot over the years. Again, I’ve been writing fic for 22 years now. My fic writing career is old enough to drink, you guys, holy fucking shit.

And I’m always looking for ways to improve my writing - either by seeking feedback or emulating other writers’ styles. Sometimes, what helps, is actually printing out what I’ve written and doing hand edits and corrections, like it’s fucking essay or something. I also read a lot about story structure (I highly recommend “The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers” and Stephen King’s “On Writing” as amazing books to help) to help me think about plotting and pacing and overarching themes. 

Overall, I take fic writing very seriously (which is how I approach pretty much everything in life - I’m very much a 110%, Type-A kind of person) and I treat it like a skill I want to spend time investing effort into growing and building.

outlining, planning, and implementing stories:

So, for short fics, there’s not so much outlining that happens. But for long fics (which is ALL I WRITE BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO SHORT) that’s where outlining and plotting become important to know how to keep everything straight and paced correctly.

I’m going to use “together, you and i” as my example for this since I heavily outlined and planned that fic.

First, I think really high level. Like, if I had to tell a story in 4 sentences, kind of high level. “A happened, then B, and then C, and then finally D. The End.” I call it “tent-poling”. What are the crucial points/story beats that make up the arc of my fic? For “together, you and i”, it was:

Mike and El meet as teachers

They start to get to know each other through working together.

Something happens that brings them really close

They get together

And they live happily ever after

Now, there’s not a lot of detail there, is there? This is just the tent poles, though, the structure that keeps it upright. Everything else is what comes next and that’s when I start asking questions:

What kinds of activities can teachers work on outside of their classroom duties? (Answer: chaperone dances)

Is there any thing that will plausibly get in the way of them getting together? (Answer: intrinsic personality traits; Mike is kind of awkward with his feelings and El is sometimes a little too literal about things. Also, timing: getting together right before they both have to go out of town for the holidays to delay that first date.)

Sometimes, though, you can’t ask all the questions you need. Like the origination of the plot twist in “together, you and i”. I’d pretty much had it all plotted out (like, take out the twist entirely and that’s where I was at) and was happy with what I had. But my thoughts started wandering and I ended up thinking about how Hopper in my fic was alone and it made me sad that he wasn’t with Joyce and my brain literally was all “well, why isn’t he with Joyce?” And that simple thought completely recontextualized everything. I came up with the twist and immediately everything snapped into place. So don’t be afraid to ask “why not?” to your plot.

But, of course, then you have planning. With something like a twist, it’s important to keep all your details straight. But that’s pretty much true in general for all writing. Once I have my big, high-level outline, I literally scene-by-scene outline it. I treat it like a movie or an episode of TV show. It’s the literal play-by-play. When it comes time to figure out chapters, I try to see if I can make themes or parallels that will make each chapter feel like a complete mini-story.

And then, with implementing, the key is not to be so married to your plot that you suck all the joy out of it. There were so many times where I started something and along the way went, “ooh, I should put X in there!” So, I paused and found a way to incorporate it and then went on with the readjustment. Part of incorporating those unplanned things is checking to make sure it’s not going to make things more complicated on you in the long run (my issues with my roommates au fic is a prime example of that), so it’s important to think about the ripple effect when adding new story elements just so you don’t end up with your back against a corner.

So...yeah. That’s my process. It’s taken a lot of learning to get to this point and a lot of trial and error and words I’ve written that haven’t seen the light of day, but were crucial for my development as a writer. But it’s fun and y’all seem to like the output of it, so, I say it’s time worth spent!

[sorrowschengmei]

about the fandom and my love for kylo ren [vent post, not poetry][tw bullying]

sometimes i wonder what am i doing here at tumblr, really. they say to encourage every weirdo ‘someday you will be better than everyone who laughed at you’. we study while they hang out with their friends, we work while they sleep, and we never fucking live the life they want, they end up with the life they wanted and we end up being grateful for just being alive.

but there are things that are pure, really, that aren’t tied to capitalism, to survival, to socially fitting in, they are just beautiful and intense and poetic and brutal, and they do exist. he is one of them, the one i call my own truelove, and most people call ben solo or kylo ren.

today i watched tfa, and i could see why i fell in love with him... tlj kylo is a beautiful man, the most beautiful man, yes, but tfa kylo is more than a man. he looks like a dark angel, something that isn’t human and yet is too corrupted to be divine, he has a mystery that can’t be described with words and no one will ever decipher, he’s a poem on himself, more beauty than human.

i looked back into my early tfa days, how i interacted with the fandom, with kylo himself... i’d spend hours LOOKING FOR FANART, reblogging art, reading fic, reading headcanons, writing poetry and making my own doodles without any intention of publishing them. nowadays... nowadays i blacklisted all the artists of the reylo and kylux fandoms likewise, unfollowed all my art friends, get straight up suicidal if my stuff flops and i only publish stuff that is correctly rendered and at the peak traffic times, i got at least 5 anxiety attacks for looking at people with more followers/notes than i do, all of this why?? 

because i wanted people to like me, to like my art, to send me cute anons saying they love my stuff and asking me for requests. i wanted to know middle school was over, that people would appreciate me and my art in here as theoretically everyone loves kylo ren and i’m not a weirdo in here.

but i am a weirdo in here as well. i recently found out someone was gossiping about my love for kylo ren, saying very hurtful things about it, you have no idea of how much i cried when i found out, i think i spent 2 hours crying nonstop until i got exhausted. i look at kylo ren himself, not art, not fic, just the pictures of adam driver and i ask again: why??

why can’t things be simple like they were before? why can’t i just be myself without worrying about feedback? why did i become so bitter to the point i can’t fucking support my friends??? how did i become one of those millenials that value their self worth by the number of likes they get???? why can’t i just love kylo ren, draw him, see cute pics of him, without being crushed by years of trauma and the ‘socially inept’ stigma?? how did literally everything i hate in my life become attached to the thing i love the most?

being in the fandom hurts me, it hurts me so much. several times i said to myself ‘i curse the day i decided to watch tfa and met kylo ren’, and this is the saddest thing ever i could say, because kylo himself never brought me anything else but joy, support, lust, bliss, inspiration, contemplation, melancholy and the purest love i’ve ever felt.

i am afraid of people, and i have very real reasons for this. i’ve been lied, betrayed, deceived, attacked, pursued, tortured or just ignored by people on several fandoms. i can’t see art or fic or meta anymore, i just see the ego of the people who are doing it, how they only interact with the socially apt, repeat the same themes and styles, manipulate people into giving them stuff, gang up to harrass their enemies... people who draw kylo ren, who write about him.

you see, autistic minds work with patterns and organising logical conclusions around these patterns. in a fandom you have people you hate drawing someone you love, your friends supporting people you hate, people that never did anything but you hate them bc people you hate love them, people that hate you pretending they don’t, people that don’t hate you acting hateful just because???, and the most puzzling thing for me, that is people who hate kylo ren claiming they love him and want to see him having sex, a love life, a husband. it’s a complete mess. it’s a complete chaos. so you end up scared, running away from any kind of confrontation, blocking and blacklisting everyone, not speaking your mind because you don’t know if they are gonna agree with you and then attack you, disagree with you but agree later, attack you and then pretend they didn’t, pretend they disagree with you, ignore you...

i think i should leave the fandom, like i did in 2017. but this time i can’t, i already have a name, even a small name, i have ties with the community, everyone already knows my terrible personality and lack of self awareness, i have a place on this fandom and it is the place that always followed me: the weirdo, the outcast, ‘that guy’... 

when i entered here, all i wanted was to meet people that loved kylo ren too, as intensely as i did. i met some good, good friends, but i worry all the time they will leave me, and there are people that im not sure if they are my friends or they are just following the american social code of calling everyone ‘friend’. i wish things could be simpler, really... and unfortunately i have no place to go to enthuse about my love if i leave tumblr/the fandom =/ 

[if anyone thinks they have a thoughtful answer for my problem they are encouraged to send me a chat message]

[sagemoderocklee]

so i was thinkin’ a lot about fanfiction today--as i so often do, being that i am, in fact a fic writer (and maybe someday a published fantasy writer, but i digress). anyone who follows me has probably seen some posts wherein i get on my lil soap box and wax poetical about fanfiction or bemoan how frustrating it is to be a fic writer in fandom these days, which means my handful of followers are probably going “oh boy, here they go again” 

listen, i know i talk about fanfiction a lot--whether it’s talking about my own fics or talking about fanfic in general or talking about the culture surrounding fics in fandom--but it’s important to me. i’ve put a lot of time and energy into my writing, and i know other writers have too, so it really gets to me when i think about how many of us struggle to get any kind of attention outside of a small circle of people

part of being a fic writer means that i’m always checking my stats on AO3 because i obsess over the reception of my works. why wouldn’t i though? i mean, i’ve put countless hours into what i’ve written, i’ve done it for absolutely free, and all i really want is for people to leave comments and maybe even share what i’ve written. 

while it would be nice if writers could have the same sort of support through kofis and patreons; while it would be super if ppl were as interested in commissioning written work as they are in commissioning art, the most i think any of us really hope for is some nice comments on the pieces we’ve worked so hard on

[image: screencap of a fic’s stats on AO3. words: 182,115 chapters: 15/19 comments: 45 (minus 21 of my own comments which =24 comments total) kudos: 53 bookmarks: 15 hits: 1638]

this photo shows the counter for what is to date my longest fic, both in word count and just by how fucking long it took me to write it. the fic itself is fully written–finished in December of 2014 and first published January 2015. The writing process for this one fic started in late July/early August 2010. it took five years to write, and three years later still needs further editing which means it has taken me 7+ years to write. currently, this fic stands at approx. 250k. For perspective: That’s about as long as Order of the Phoenix.

now, usually fics that sit around without updates lose readership. understandable of course, however, part of why it’s taken me so long to complete this is in part the lack of feedback i’ve received over the years. It was so incredibly disheartening to spend literal years writing this to get very little in return. A lot of writers do this, not out of spite or anything, but because it is incredibly frustrating and draining to pour your soul into something and get next to nothing back; it makes you lose confidence. what’s the point in sharing this if no one really cares about it? 

now, as an individual, i struggle with mental health issues, physical health issues, used to be in school for fashion which was intense, and i have to work 40+ hours a week for minimum wage--all of this adds up to one thing: i am quite often very tired, sick, or emotionally unable to write. and when people don’t comment, or even just give a kudos, I have even less motivation. 

if i’d gotten more comments on this fic in the early days of posting, i am positive i wouldn’t have fallen so behind. ultimately i felt–and i think a lot of writers share this experience–that after all that work, all that time and love and energy, no one fucking cared.

and that fucking hurts

this fic was years of writing and researching and editing and fine tuning and love and frustration and losing pieces of it to computer problems and sleepless nights and so much more. this fic that’s nearly 300k words, 19 chapters, and has only 24 comments. and many of those comments come from the same people (who honestly are so amazing and keep me going) which also means that more than half of the 53 ppl who left kudos didnt comment. and based on the views, i’m getting 1 comment for every 68.25 ppl who even click on this fic (this number doesn’t account for repeat hits, though because there’s no way to know that). i have no idea what most of the people who have looked at this fic think of it--if they’ve come back, if they’ve hated it, if they’ve loved it... I have no idea, and that is so devastating. 

no one has to comment, there is no rule that says you absolutely must comment by law or face a fine or whatever. but in the spirit of community, of fandom, of supporting and appreciating those content creators who work so hard to produce things you get to consume for completely free, asking for comments is really not that much. i mean, think about the original source material: someone created that, unprompted, simply for the love of creating something. but what happened? It got published. It got shared. Over and over. People bought it. And they kept buying it. And they bought the merchandise and they built a fandom and.... 

what would the original source material be without the support of the people consuming it? We wouldn’t have these series to love without those very basic things that people seem to forget to do with fanfiction far too often: love it vocally, share it far and wide, and support it with all your heart. 

let me make something clear: I love writing. I will never stop. I don’t think I’m the best, but I’m fairly okay at what I do, and if nothing else I have really good ideas. Maybe I’m not really all that special, maybe i’ll never be one of those writers with hundreds of comments on one single fic, but you know what? I put a fucking lot of work into my writing and I think that myself and countless other writers deserve more than what we get. 

i mean, do you know how much work goes into writing even just one story?

last night i wrote about 10,500 words (unedited) over the course of about 7 hours once you factor out the breaks i took. i sat on my futon typing for at minimum 7 hours. that’s basically a full shift at work without pay. 

let’s assume then that on average for every 10.5k words to a story a writer has spent 7 hours writing them (which is being very generous because there are days where i spend hours in front of my laptop and only manage a measly 2,000 but we’ll ignore those bad days for the sake of easy math)… so without taking into account the editing, research, and the lost words, that’s about 166 hours of work just for this fic. 

and that still isn’t all the work that was put into this fic. editing is a process that varies from person to person, but for me takes at least 3x as long, if not more. the research i did for this fic alone would double the hours i worked on this fic. the words i’ve lost, cut, and that just didn’t make it in would add at least another 50 or so hours.

so overall this fic took upwards of 1,000 worth of work.

and all i want is a few more comments.

all any writer really wants is a few more comments. maybe some more kudos. and definitely some more shares because fics get lost in the sea of fics on ao3 far too easily. all we want is appreciation. all we want is proof that our content was enjoyed. anything so that the hit count doesn’t look so disproportionate to the actual return we’re getting on a fic that we labored over for free because we love writing, and the fandoms and pairings and characters and community. 

so please support fanfic authors vocally. support them passionately. support them so much that they forget all the doubts that the first few months of getting absolutely no feedback brought up. 

support us, please

[zentherainbowunicorn]

Everlasting Party - Mystic Messenger Time Loop AU (pt 36)

<- Previous Chapter | Chapter Index | Next Chapter ->

Summary: You’re caught in a time loop during the 11 days leading up to the RFA’s party unless you can do… what, exactly?

13+ Small spoilers for some stuff revealed around Day 7ish on Seven's route :)

Ahhh exciting stuff, guys. I'm really happy to be writing this ^^ Thanks so much for your feedback! Gives me strength to keep writing, hehe~ Thanks as always to Masdevallia on AO3 for beta-ing!

It’s the fourth day, 11:32pm. V logs out of the chatroom and you glance anxiously at the clock again before replying to Seven. As soon as Seven logs out, you’ll be putting your plan into action. The idea is to time it so that the program you’ve written to extract Unknown’s information starts collecting data right as Unknown logs in. Your code should be just about perfect this time – the only reason you hadn’t gotten the log on the last loop was because you’d started your program too late and the log had been cut short before you could finish collecting the data. But this time should be perfect. Then you’ll be the one chasing after Unknown.

 You let out a breath and double-check the program folder where you’d saved the extracted log. You got it, right? The log is sitting in the folder like it should be. It’s a large enough file, so it probably wasn’t cut short like the last several times – not that you’ll know for sure until you finish decrypting it.

You glance again at the messages Unknown left in the chatroom. Who is he talking to? ‘Saeyoung’? Who is Saeyoung? Is that who he’s waited so long to see again?

You slouch in your seat, your back feeling a bit sore from sitting so stiffly in anticipation. This… doesn’t make sense. Every time before this loop, Unknown’s messages were partially illegible. You have the messages memorized because you’d tried to work out what they said before, to no avail. Even after scanning through some of the partial logs you’d gathered before, the data was too corrupted to extract the original text.

It doesn’t make sense. You’ve literally done this exact thing for months on end trying to get the log. Have you done something different enough this loop that prompted a different reaction from Unknown? But what did you do?

You look again at the chatroom log file you’ve collected. Well, you aren’t going to find any answers until you finish decrypting it. You make a few backups, then run the log through a program you’d written beforehand to decipher the RFA’s encryption, then try putting it through the program you use to get rid of Unknown’s encryption.

The latter program crashes and leaves you with a very complicated error message detailing the problems. You sigh and sit up in your seat again, scrolling through some of the error message before opening the log itself to take a look.

You’re stunned into silence. What is this? It doesn’t even remotely look like the partial logs you’d worked on before. Is it because this is the first time you’ve gotten the whole log? That doesn’t really make sense, but what other explanation is there? You scroll further down the log, looking for anything even passably familiar. If you’re lucky, Unknown will have used a similar underlying structure for his encryption and just changed some of the more visible parts.

Good God. You stretch your arms and roll your shoulders a few times. It’s just a little past midnight, now–-

Wait. Midnight? Shit, you should go. What if Unknown shows up at the apartment? Your heart seems to freeze in your throat.

Calm down. There’s time.

Where should you go? The café again? Oh, but… you won’t be able to bring your hacking computer there. You suppose that isn’t the end of the world, but … wait. If you don’t figure out the log by morning and you’re at that café, you’ll be reset. And then you won’t know what’s in the log at all and your effort will be for nothing. Wow, you really haven’t thought this part through. Or, more like you’d just assumed your programs could quickly decode the log with perhaps some minor modifications, but now… Unknown’s encryption changing had never been part of the plan. Goddamn. Maybe you should have been talking to Jumin again and trying to get more days. Should you risk it and stay at the apartment to decrypt the log? You’ve never been caught by Unknown before… but you’re really rather not take any chances.

Decrypt the log… or play it safe…?

Your heart seems to settle back in your chest and you take a deep breath. The log. Something is up here, and you’re going to figure it out. And if Unknown does come…. You glance at the window he usually comes through. Well, you’ll be ready if he comes. If you’re lucky, Seven might even call you and warn you.

You put on a pair of shoes in case you need to make a quick escape and position yourself so you can see both the window and the door to the hallway. Okay. Ready. You swallow and stretch your fingers again, trying to stop your hands from shaking. Now you’ll really get to see if all those loops you’ve spent learning how to hack are worth anything.

You’ve barely begun typing when your phone buzzes with a new notification.

12:18am – Yoosung★ is now online.

Yoo...sung? At 12:18am? That’s a first. Unless he’s logging on really early to give that odd spiel about how the RFA were all robots… but you haven’t seen him say that sort of thing since before the… since before the bomb went off and your first few days got scrambled up. You’ve also seen him log in and talk about LOLOL on the fifth day… hmm. That was such a long time ago. Was that when you’d gotten Jaehee to go to Zen’s house instead of going yourself? It’s been ages since you’ve gone through the sequence of days when Zen hurts his foot.

Assuming it’s not some excessively early variation on loops you’ve been through before, this is the first time Yoosung has been online at this time on the fifth day. Should you log in as well to talk to him?

No, no. You shake your head at yourself. Decrypt the log first. You can always read what he wrote later. If Seven logs in, though, you should probably talk to him in case it has something to do with the hacker.

Your heart seems to be stuttering the whole time and you feel a bit of hope blossoming next to the knot of unease in your chest. Unusual login times usually mean you did something that will earn you a few more days, maybe even up to the party date… but you’ve also been fooled before. And a few days aren’t really anything to get excited over unless they lead to a way out of the loop instead of just a couple extra days before you’re reset like always.

Still, there’s just something about this particular loop…

<- Previous Chapter | Chapter Index | Next Chapter ->

Yo low-key the next chapter has a reaaaaaaaaaally long chatroom part. Like, the longest yet. So uh... wish me luck Photoshopping it... haha... guys it's gonna take me like 6+ hours to edit that thing whyyy lmao

I always love hearing what you think, so leave a comment or send me an ask! Here’s a link to the masterpost of all my Mystic Messenger fics. Thank you very much for reading! ♥

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Hunted- Part 2

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,844

Warnings: Typical Supernatural violence, angst, language, minor character death, blood, you know the usual, fluffy Bobby and Reader fluff, Gordon being an asshole

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Please, if you want to be tagged for this series, let me know and I’ll add you! If you want to be tagged for my other fics, I’ll add you! I want to hear what you guys think about this. If you want something requested, send it in!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

You walked back into the motel room and sighed.

“He left. I don’t know where but he left. Hey, call him and I’ll call Jo to see if he called her or Ellen.” You said, pulling out your phone. You dialed your friend, waiting for her to pick up.

“Hey, Y/N, I’m so glad to hear your voice.” Jo said when she picked up.

“Hi, Jo, it’s been too long. A lot of shit has happened in the last few days.” You said with a sigh.

“Tell me about it. What’s going on?” She asked, concerned.

“You’re familiar with the Roanoke colony, right? The whole Croatoan virus?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, that literally happened to us and there’s so much about me that you don’t know and I don’t even know what to think about it. I just wish that you were with me. I don’t want to do this over the phone. Um, I called because I need to talk to your mom. Could you put her on for me?”

“Um, I’m not with her right now.” She said, hiding something.

“Alright, can you give her a message then? It’s important.” You asked.

“No, listen, I’m not with my mom anymore. Look, we had this huge fight and she didn’t want me hunting under her roof so I left. I’m hunting on my own.” She said.

“Jo, do you realize how dangerous that is? I mean, I admire the way you took charge and all but you’re only 21 years old. I hope you know what you’re doing.” You said, concerned for her. You knew she was a tough woman but there were things out there that she probably didn’t know about.

“I know and thank you for being a friend and looking out for me but I’ll be fine. I’m getting stronger every day and I do a ton of research before I go in a fight.” She said, proud of herself.

“That’s awesome. But on a serious note, if you ever need help, I am only a phone call away. Okay? Just call and I’m there. I won’t even bring Sam or Dean. I know you don’t like them right now.” You said, sighing.

“Yeah, thanks.” She said. You looked up to see Dean staring at you, wondering what the hell was taking you so long.

“Look, Jo, what’s your mom’s number? I need to talk to her,” You grabbed a pad and pen from the table and wrote down what she said. “Thank you. I’ll call you later to talk to you more, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up first and you sighed, looking at Dean.

“Sam isn’t answering his phone. I’ve tried, like, 10 times. Please tell me Ellen said something.” Dean said, worried for his brother.

“Jo isn’t with her mother right now. Long story but I have Ellen’s number. Why don’t you call Ellen and I’ll call Bobby, okay?” You dialed Bobby’s number before Dean could protest.

“Hello?” Bobby said on the other line.

“Bobby, hey, it’s me.” You said, suddenly shy. You told him that you would start over but it was hard.

“Y/N, it’s good to hear your voice. What is going on?” Bobby asked. He knew that if you were calling him, something must be wrong.

“It’s Sam. Do you know where he is? He left in the middle of the night and I know he won’t come back. Did he happen to call you?” You asked, biting your lip.

“No, I’m sorry, he hasn’t. But I’ll definitely let you know if he has.” Bobby said. It felt as if he was walking on eggshells around you. You hated that.

“Thanks,” You said, waiting for Bobby to hang up. But in reality, you didn’t want that at all. “Hey, Bobby, is it alright if Dean and I stop by? I want to know more about my mom. About you.” You said, very shy.

“Of course, you know, you’re always welcomed here. That hasn’t changed.” Bobby said quietly.

“I know.” You whispered. You knew if you said more, you would cry so you just hung up and took a deep breath. You turned around and watched as Dean paced the room.

“Look, Ellen, please, call me if he calls.” Dean hung up and threw his phone on the bed. He was very tense and you knew if you didn’t step in, he would start throwing things.

“Dean, hey, he’s okay.” You said, walking to him and placing your hands on his shoulders. It didn’t stop the tensing but he did stop pacing.

“It’s my job to protect him and what if something happens to him? What if something happens to my brother and I’m not there to save him? What if…” You cut Dean off by pressing your lips to his. It seemed to calm him down but only a little. He pulled away and he sighed, looking at the floor.

“Listen to me,” You said, picking his head up and making him look at you. “Sam is a big boy. He can handle himself. He isn’t some monster or some child that needs to be watched over 24/7. You are his brother and right now, all that we can do is keep trying to call him. He left for a reason. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do nothing, but if no one has seen him now, I’m sure he will go to Ellen or Bobby in the next day or so. So, until that happens, all we can do is wait. Now, to calm your nerves, why don’t we go across the street to the 24-hour diner and get a slice of pie. Sound good?” You said, flitting your eyes back and forth between his.

“You’re right. You’re right. Of course, you’re right. You’re never wrong.” Dean muttered, walking over to his bag and put on some pants and shoes. You looked down at your attire, deciding to change as well. You were wearing one of Dean’s shirts so you decided to just put on some shorts and flipflops.

You grabbed his hand and the room key, walking outside with him. You closed the door, never taking your hand away from his. You walked across the deserted road and into the diner, the quiet bell sound appearing to be 10 times louder than it actually was.

No one was in here except the workers. You caught the attention of an older lady who grabbed two cups and a pot of coffee. You walked to the farthest booth from the counter and you sat across from Dean just as she appeared.

“Can’t sleep?” She asked, setting down the two coffee cups.

“Not really. You don’t get many people at 3 in the morning, do you?” You asked, grateful she was pouring yours and Dean’s coffee.

“No, my name is Holly so just call me if you need anything, okay?” She said with a smile.

“Actually, do you have pie? Cherry pie?”

“Yeah, do you want the whole pie or a slice?” She asked.

“Just two slices, please. Thank you,” She nodded and left with a smile. “I promise you, he will be okay.” You said, reaching across the table and took Dean’s hand in yours. He looked at you and with one look in your eyes, he knew everything will be okay. Holly came back and set the pie down, walking away after that.

“Would you like to hear what else I was thinking about earlier?” You asked, taking a bite. Dean immediately started eating his pie, moaning at the taste.

“Yeah.” He said, looking at you.

“Okay, well, I left off thinking about how Sam and I weren’t infected. Remember what John said about me having demon blood? I think when I got infected, the demon blood got rid of it, like it was trying to protect me. I know it sounds crazy but I can’t help but think that.” You said, sighing.

“Do you think Sam has the same problem?”

“Yeah, I do. Look, on the last hunt, we were stuck in that building with a damn demon. He made no move to hurt me or Sam so why was he there? Why didn’t he make himself known? Was this whole thing a test? I don’t know what to think at this point. I’m going crazy.” You said, not being able to finish your barely eaten pie.

“You’re not crazy, Y/N. If you were, what you just said would make sense. But it doesn’t. So, therefore, you’re not crazy.” Dean said, eating his pie.

“Then it makes me think of Bobby and my mom. Was I born with demon blood in me? How did I get this in the first place? When I was on the phone with Bobby, I told him we would stop by his place. The older I get, the more I forget my mom. Dean, I can barely remember what she sounded like.” You said, getting tears.

“Hey, don’t cry. It’s okay. We can go to Bobby’s, it’s no big deal.” Dean said, covering your hand with his. You nodded and smiled, pushing your plate to his. He was almost done and he smiled widely at your gesture.

“It’s so weird. I went from having one parent, to none, to one. Even though I don’t consider him as my dad, he still is.” You said. You looked at Dean to see him looking at his pie with unshed tears in his eyes. Damn it, that was an insensitive thing to say. He had no parents anymore.

“Hey, Dean, it’s okay. You know I’ll share. Bobby is probably more a dad to you than he will ever be to me.” He looked up and smiled, wiping his eyes. You sat at the booth in silence, watching Dean eat his pie.

You spent the rest of the night in each other’s arms because at the end of the day, you and Dean felt safest there.

“Hey, Ellen, it’s me. I was just calling to check in if you’ve heard from Sam or know where he is. He’s still not answering his phone and Dean is crawling up the wall. He’s going crazy and I need your help. Call me when you get this.” You said, hanging up when you were done.

“She didn’t answer?” Dean asked, putting on a shirt after he got out of the shower the next morning.

“No, it went straight to voicemail. Sam isn’t answering still. I guess until one of them answers, all we can do it wait right now. Are you all packed up?” You asked, getting up from the bed. You had your things in the car already.

“Yeah.” Dean said, grabbing his bag. He walked out to the car and you sighed, making sure you didn’t leave anything behind before getting into the car. From where you were, it was a day’s drive to Bobby’s but Dean made it worth it. You barely stopped on the road which made the drive seem faster than it already was.

The Queens:

@maddieburcham1 @ginamsmith @mogaruke @whit85-blog @inlovewithbja @spn67-sister @kdfrqqg @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @roxyspearing@supercalifragilistic26 @mishamigose  @cobrakai1967 @essie1876 @wishedworld @crispychrissy @laqueus-ludovicus @nostalgic-uncertainty @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel @potterhead1265 @starswirlblitz @untitled39887 @ta-n-ja @deans-fallen-angel-boy @scarletluvscas @notnaturalanahi @tahbehonest @stay-in--place @innernightwerewolf @dreaminofdean @posiemax @donnaintx @mikey1822 @alexandriajanae4 @li-ssu @just-another-winchester @obsessivecompulsivespn @emoryhemsworth  @newtospnfandom

The Dean Beans:

@akshi8278 @mega-mrs-dean-winchester @winchesterandpie @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @carribear31 @tacklesackles @oreosatmidnight @not-naturalfangirl @missselinakitty @iam-a-cutiepie @kristendansmith @milo-winchester-4ever @jensenackesl @codyshany316 @pheonyxstorm @helllonearth

Series Rewrite Junkies:

@helllonearth @amyisabellal @deanwnchstr @caseykitten6 @roxalya19 @quixoticcat @supernaturalblogging @notmoose45 @crowleysminion @mina22 @tahbehonest @hadleymcallister2177 @destielsangels @spnhybrid @oreosatmidnight @valerieshubin

[imagining-supernatural]

I Just Love Y’all So Much

So I had a pretty shitty day yesterday, but when I got home from work I had some great comments on my stuff and saw that somehow I now have over 5,000 followers? What? It seriously blows my mind that so many people actually read my stuff... then they like it? And they want more? It’s been nearly 2 years and i still can’t wrap my head around that concept. 

Seriously, I cannot find the words to express just how much I really do appreciate and love you all. I know I’m not the best at responding to comments or keeping up a conversation when someone messages me, but I hope you all understand that it means the world to me. 

On a different note, I’ve seen quite a few of these posts floating around, but here’s my not-so-quick pitch to please let fanfic authors know what you think of their work (more under the cut). 

Please leave a comment on your reblog or reply to the fic with even a few words of encouragement. We put our entire heart and souls into our writing. We give you intimate glimpses into our lives and it’s scary to put so much of yourself out there. Even the fluffy pieces can be difficult to get the courage to post, much less the darker views like my Promises mini-series, which gave me a few anxiety attacks after I posted it. 

Beyond that though, you never know what is going on in that author’s life. I’ve really been struggling with a lot of things lately and considered shutting my blog down multiple times, but even the few comments I get keep me going. They remind me that what I write can help other people. 

I know that commenting might feel awkward, or like you’re repeating what other people say. I completely get that, because that’s how I feel when I read stuff too. But, speaking from experience, all comments I get just make my entire day brighter and happier and easier to handle. From the short ones, to the incoherent babbling, to the long and thoughtful comments, I just love all of them. 

I don’t like asking for help or asking for attention. I’m not that kind of person. I like to be independent, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this blog while I considered whether I should even keep posting or not, and why I care so much about feedback and I’ve realized something about myself, and maybe this rings true for other authors on all of the sites where authors post their writing.

I write for myself and only myself. I’ve spent over a decade before I even started this blog writing and showing my work to only my best friend. I have notebooks and folders full of stories that no one but me will ever see. If I like what I’ve written, then I will be satisfied. I do not need encouragement to keep writing. There’s this itch inside of me that makes me write.

However, I post my writing for anyone who wants to read it. I don’t like to ask for attention, but I post my writing because I want people to read it. I want to know that they like it. I want feedback. I don’t have to post anything. I don’t have to share anything. I choose to share my writing with you. I will keep writing, but it’s the feedback that keeps me posting and sharing with you.

This blog is time consuming. It takes time, energy, and an emotional toll. It’s disheartening to post something and not receive much, if any, feedback. I won’t stop writing, no matter what. Writing is who I am. The only thing that makes me keep posting what I write is the feedback I receive. 

This post might sound whiny, bitchy, and stupid to some of you. Some of you might decide to unfollow me, and that’s fine. That’s completely up to you. 

But I just want you to know that each fic you read on my blog, and I’m willing to bet that nearly every fic you read on all of your favorite fanfic writers’ blogs, has taken hours of thought, writing, internal screaming, and tears to write. Consider the effort they put into the fic you just read before deciding that you can’t muster up the effort or minute it takes to let them know how much you liked the fic and appreciate the time they took to share it.

When you read a fic that makes you feel something so deeply, just imagine the writer sitting at their computer and diving even more deeply into that emotion to figure out exactly how the character responds. Consider how many different emotions they went through until they found the perfect one for that particular scene before you decide that their emotional toll isn’t worth your few words letting them know that they’ve made you feel something that will leave a mark.

That fic that you read so many months ago and you still can’t get out of your head? The author literally lived in that world for however many days it took to plan, write, and try to move on from that world. Consider how lost in their head they got and how they’ve mourned and celebrated every single event in that fic and more before you click off the fic without congratulating them on the world they managed to create in their heads, transfer onto paper, then project into your mind. Consider the adventure they just took you on before you head on home without so much as a thank you.

If you’ve gotten so lost in a fic that you lose track of time and suddenly it’s 3 am and you have to get up and work or go to school in the morning, just remember that the person who wrote that fic might have lost countless hours of sleep as they tried to get it just write and calm the raging sea of inspiration inside their chest. Consider the magic they grabbed onto before the inspiration flew away on the wind before you close your computer without letting them know that the spell they just cast successfully ensnared you and dragged you into the cave of sleeplessness along with them.

Writing isn’t easy. Far from it. Getting the courage to share that writing is even harder. But to keep the motivation to continue posting new stories and new pieces of yourself? For me, at least, it’s damn near impossible. 

Life is hard enough. Let’s remember to spread some love and appreciation and lighten someone else’s load. It only takes a few minutes of your day to completely turn someone else’s day around.