#Deluge's Top 3

[delugedecade]

For MHA, what are your top 5 thighs?

5: Mina Ashido

Tastefully thicc, but not too up there

4: Toru Hagakure

Considering this is official art~

3: Rumi Miruko

Part of the uniform and perfectly muscled~

2: Momo Yaoyorozu

Weapon storage by technicality? Either way, Thicc~

1: Asui Tsuyu

I'd eat these frog legs~ Delightfully thicc and appropriately for her frog quirk~

(gonna tag this as top 3 by technicality)

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

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

Chapter i. to forget

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 car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

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

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach. 

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?  

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you. 

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume. 

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea. 

"Okay," you concede. 

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known. 

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.” 

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table. 

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates. 

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care. 

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you. 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you. 

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door.  “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads. 

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair. 

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again. 

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it. 

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas. 

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun. 

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield. 

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye. 

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him. 

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite. 

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart. 

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment. 

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours. 

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence. 

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first. 

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital. 

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night. 

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over. 

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm. 

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane. 

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it." 

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball. 

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout. 

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest. 

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard. 

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears. 

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?” 

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

 “My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words. 

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout. 

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most. 

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.  

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask. 

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it. 

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips. 

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?” 

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back." 

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out. 

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries. 

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now. 

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room. 

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho. 

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?” 

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much. 

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree. 

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

 “I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears. 

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep. 

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us. 

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain. 

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own. 

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.” 

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking. 

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory. 

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze. 

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho. 

'My heart will always remember you'. 

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low. 

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him. 

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul. 

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home. 

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are. 

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to. 

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday. 

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms. 

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known. 

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on. 

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call? 

He couldn’t survive another call.  

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone? 

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right. 

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care. 

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders. 

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you." 

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks. 

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.” 

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?" 

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips. 

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed. 

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised. 

"Because you are." 

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away. 

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge. 

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground. 

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly. 

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?" 

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap. 

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand." 

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-" 

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this." 

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?" 

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us." 

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness. 

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn." 

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave." 

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them." 

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.” 

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek. 

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat. 

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft? 

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away. 

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.” 

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat. 

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You think you remember. Or at least you’ve convinced yourself that you do.

You go through the painstaking steps as the dark presence looms across the counter. The man walks along, just on the other side of the machines as you steam the milk. Toffee nut, yes, you’re pretty sure that was it.

You put it all together, step by step, hands shaking. Your lips move as you talk yourself through your work silently. You can do this. You still feel how the man scratched you through your shirt when he grabbed you, your skin fiery.

You give one last look to the foam and send a prayer up to whatever deity will hear it. You slowly move to the till and place the cup down. You wet your lips and clear your throat.

“Almond, toffee nut, half blond, half regular, cinnamon on top,” you declare, voice quavering as you stare at the bristle across the man’s upper lip. “Mr. Hansen.”

He clucks and leans on the counter, hooking one foot behind the other. He wraps his hand around the cup and slides it closer to himself. He stares down into as you fidget. You glance around at the baked goods.

“And a cinnamon bun?” You suggest but before you can carry through on the offer, a splash of liquid washes over you, hot despite the layer of steamed milk.

“Oat milk,” he crushes the empty cup in his large hand and throws it at your face. You sputter and blink as the foam drips down your cheeks.

“Sorry, sir, I’ll make it again.”

“Fucking right, you will, sweet lips,” he growls and stands straight, crossing his arms.

You pull the bottom of your apron up and wipe your face. You bend to pick up the empty cup and turn away. Your eyes sting and you wiggle your tingling nose. It’s fine. You can do this.

Oat, half blond, half regular, toffee nut, cinnamon on top. The smell of espresso and syrup clings to you as you make the death march back to the till. You set the cup down without a word.

Mr. Hansen, Lloyd, the boss, whatever he is, considers you as he lifts the drink and examines the careful leafy art in the foam. He turns it and inhales the scent, some of the foam catching in his mustache. He takes a breath as if about to dive into water and has a taste. The tip of his tongue pokes out as he pulls the cup away from his mouth. He hums. Does he like it?

Splash.

Another searing dousing and you stand there with a gasp, shaking off the dredge of his displeasure.

“Mr. Hansen, I--”

“First thing’s first. Shut the fuck up. You talk too much,” he tosses the cup. Bonk, right off your forehead. “Second, I changed my mind. Get me a mocha. Extra whip.”

You nod and keep your head down. You pick up the cup and stand, nearly slipping in the puddle around your feet. You dispose of the empty cup and go to the coffee machine. You begin your new task, hands clumsy and trembling. You add the whipped cream and return to the till. You put the cup down and grab onto the counter to keep from sliding through the liquid at your soles.

He lifts it and you wince, bracing for another deluge. He repeats the same deliberate examination. You swallow tightly as he samples your work. This time he doesn’t make a noise. As he lowers the cup, you flinch and take a step back.

He cackles, “relax, cupcake.”

You stare at him grimly. You flick your lashes and blow out your nerves. You hide your shaking hands behind you.

“Now you know who the fuck I am,” he says, “clean yourself up and get back to work.”

He grabs a package of the cookies along the small shelf beside the till then turns on his heel and struts to the door. You watch after him, damp and dripping. As the door opens and closes, you turn to face the mess. You sigh and go to grab the mop; you can clean the floor but you can’t do much for yourself.

You work at soaking up the excess then spray cleaner on the floor and wipe with paper towel to prevent it from getting sticky. As you work at sopping up the errant droplets from the counter, the door behind you swings open. You glance over your shoulder as Bre sweeps through.

“Alright, your turn--” She stops short as you face her. “What happened?” Her face slackens with dread and shock, “what did you do?”

“It was Mr. Jansen—Hansen,” you correct yourself, “he came by and--”

“I told you not to talk to him,” she hisses.

“I... I didn’t have a choice. He wanted a drink and--”

“Fuck. Fuck! What did he say? What did he do?” She snaps.

You recoil at her accusatory tone, “he... he threw coffee in my face? He took some cookies? I don’t know? He just... said now I know who he is. I didn’t really understand--”

“You don’t. You don’t understand. You don’t get it.”

You frown and cross your arms, “I’m sorry, Bre, I did my best--”

“Not good enough. You think it’s all fun and games. It’s not. That man is dangerous. Not just here, everywhere,” she shakes her head, “you’ll see. Out there, on your own. Give me your apron.”

“What?” You murmur.

“Get out. I’ll call Maurice and let him know it didn’t work out.”

“What? No, you can’t--”

“I am. Give me your apron. Now.”

You pout and sniffle. You reach back behind you and unlace the apron and lift it over your head. You hold it out to her, “it’s wet--”

“Just go.”

You hang your head and turn away. Your eyes begin to stream before you even get through the door. You grab your stuff from the backroom and give one last look around. You got fired. What are you going to do?

You fold your jacket over your arm and sling your bag from your shoulder. You let yourself out into the alley and head down to the street. You stop at the end and cover your face, sniveling behind your hands as you lean on the brick. You don’t want to go back home. You only just got there.

“Whatsa matter, sweet lips?” The low drawl is followed by a loud slurp, “bad day?”

[hballegro]

So Alright, Cool, Whatever

its not like i've got something grand to say to you

'So Alright, Cool, Whatever' by the Happy Fits [from Concentrate]

first time makin one of these so. could be shitty. created because spotify recommended i add this song to my BJ playlist and i went 'ur so right bestie' and here we are. the most polished section is from the shoulder nuzzling to 'same size same shape'. if u couldnt tell. rip. i had like 80% of that section done from the start lol

HERES MY CITATIONS READ EM AND WEEP cause i did; there arent timestamps because im incredibly tired. some of the scenes should be 'hallmarks' though to help u find ur way around. it SHOULD all be in order tho.

The smell of music

Lil

GFA

Where theres a will theres a war

GFA

Novocain mutiny

Joker is wild

Aint love grand

Hepatitis

Morale victory

Welcome to korea 1

Welcome to korea 2

Deluge

Preventative Medicine

War for all seasons

Mail call 3

The Kids

Aint love grand 

Trick or treatment

Private Finance

Private Finance [same scene]

Hawk’s nightmare

Soldier of the month

Morale victory

War for all season

Preventative Medicine

Lil

The Winchester Tapes

Tea and empathy

Are You Now, Margaret

Preventative Medicine 

Mr n Mrs Who

Yalu brick

None Like it Hot

The Tooth Shall Set You Free

Hepatitis

None Like it Hot

Bj papa san

Yessir baby

The Most Unforgettable Characters

Oh how we danced

Oh how we danced

Aint love grand

Period of adjustment

Mail call 3

War Co-Respondent

Life time

The Life You Save

No sweat

Preventative Medicine

Flagg

Depressing news

Father’s Day

War Co-Respondent

Mr n Mrs Who

War for all seasons

Soldier of the month

Peace on us

No Laughing Matter

No Laughing Matter

Mr n Mrs Who

Rumor at the Top

Patent 4077

Letters

Morale Victory

Mr n Mrs Who

The Bilford Syndrome

Morale victory again 

GFA

Tell it to the marines

Tell it to the marines

Morale victory

Soldier of the month

Birthday girls

War Co-Respondent 

Soldier of the month YET AGAIN

GFA

GFA

shoutout hawkeye for not once but twice looking at bj's lips on beat without me trying to make him do that

also i kept going 'wow i kept using these episodes a lot of times' i am lucky i managed to contain myself and only do the hugs from Aint Love Grand ONCE. there were FOUR HUGS there. and i picked ONE. thats restraint.

[karatekels]

KarateKels Story Masterlist

Hi everyone! I’ve decided to (finally) get my act together and make a masterlist post for all the requests/stories I’ve done so far. I’m going first by character, then adding Dark Desires October and TIGmas posts for if you’re looking for a ~vibe~. Links that have a * indicate the presence of smut, for if you just want to get to the good stuff! 😉

(I'll be going through these posts and updating them slowly when I can't bring myself to write, so if you see anything that needs fixing or you want to suggest ways to make this... less of a clusterfuck, please feel free to let me know!)

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Currently Writing:

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1. Cold Outside (a Jack Blaylock x Reader fic for TIGmas #12 - sorry for taking FOREVER, @babylonianqueenie; I'm really struggling to make this good!)

2. Solar Flare (a Jan Valek x OC fic)

Note: I am taking requests, but seeing that some of them are around a year old at this point, note that it may be awhile! I'm not planning on starting any of my own projects or theme-months until I clear out most of what I have, and thank you all for your patience!

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Terry Silver:

Silver Seduction: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3* | Part 4* | Part 5* | Part 6*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader is the older sister of Jessica Andrews and has taken it upon herself to make sure young Daniel LaRusso stays safe after Jessica returns to Ohio. This includes accompanying him to seek out the training offered by Sensei Terry Silver and learning a few moves yourself from the handsome older man. When his true intentions are discovered, you completely cut him off, but he isn’t willing to let you go so easily. (Reader is in her 20s)

Chef’s Kiss: Part 1 | Part 2*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader is dragged to a charity event by her parents where she meets Terry Silver. They discover that they have a mutual acquaintance, Daniel LaRusso, and Reader joins Danny at the dojo as she grows closer to Terry. Wanting to surprise him one day, she catches Terry relishing Daniel’s torture – now Terry has to make her see reason. (Reader is in her 20s)

Deluge: Part 1

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You get stranded in the rain trying to make your way to Terry’s place for Valentine’s Day, but Terry comes to your rescue, professing his love for you and taking you to his home where you belong.

An Honest Man: Part 1 | Part 2* | To be continued…

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You meet Terry at a party and aren’t impressed by his smarmy exterior, making him determined to win you over. Colluding with your easily wooed coworker, he talks you into a date and slowly seduces his way past your timid, untrusting nature.

Payment Plan: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader sees Terry training in the Cobra Kai dojo while on her way to work and develops a crush on him. They finally meet face-to-face and Terry invites her inside for a free lesson.

Bath Toy: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Terry takes a business call while playing with you in the bath but is interrupted by you not being able to keep quiet. To make up for the inconvenience, you let him use you underwater while he goes about his business.

Cat & Mouse: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader is a rising star at Dynatox and has caught the eye of the boss himself. Despite being the Terry Silver, however, you adamantly reject his advances, forcing him to take more drastic measures to help you see reason. The two of you engage in a game of cat and mouse that culminates the night of a gala celebrating Dynatox’s successes.

Discipline Training: Part 1* | Part 2* | To be continued…

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Terry comes home early from a work trip and catches you touching yourself without his permission. He decides to punish train you in the third 'D': Discipline.

All's Fair: Part 1 | Part 2* | Part 3*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader has been dating Terry for awhile, and he's been patient. When she surprises him with a date at their local funfair, he thinks she'll be willing to finally make their relationship physical. At the top of the ferris wheel, he makes his move. Dubcon.

Unjust Reward:Part 1 | Part 2*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Daniel warns Reader that Terry is nothing but trouble, and she tries to avoid him, but when she's being chased by a group of men she turns to Terry's dojo for help. He swoops in to save the day, but it turns out he was just saving her for himself. Non-con.

Clear as Mud: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You’ve tried to get Terry to open up about his time in Vietnam on more than one occasion, and while he’s been doing his best to help you understand, he ultimately decides that the best way to help you is to put you through something similar, hunting you in the middle of a forest at sunset.

What You Do To Me: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You and Terry have been together for quite awhile now and he is crazy about you. Before he can tell you that he loves you, he decides to test your loyalty by seeing how you respond to another man trying to seduce you at a gala. Once you pass his test with flying colours, he sneaks away with you to confess his love, and shows you just what it’s like to have his full devotion…

Turtle Doves: Part 1 | Part 2

(KK3 Cobra Husbands - Terry/Reader/John) It’s your first Christmas spent with both Terry and John, and everyone is nervous about what to give the others. While you’re confident in Terry’s (often overwhelming) love for both you and John, as well as your own feelings for both men, you’re still unsure of John’s feelings for you with the spirit of Betsy still a looming presence in everyone’s mind.

Songbird: Part 1*

(Terry through the ages) A series of snippets of Terry and his wife in the 90s, 00s and the present. Reader is a singer at the bar that Terry frequents as he hits rock bottom, and the two of you fall in love. Years later, the return of John Kreese into your husband’s live threatens to tear your marriage apart.

Lesson Learned: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3*

(CK Terry x Reader) Reader is a student in Cobra Kai’s adult class and you and Sensei Silver are both clearly attracted to one another. After a month of teasing, Terry decides you’ve both waited long enough.

Strike First: Part 1 | Part 2*

(CK Terry x Reader) Reader and Sensei Silver have been eyeing each other during the dojo’s adult class for awhile now. While you never think it would escalate past flirting, Terry has had other plans, luring you to the dojo when no one is around so you two can get to know each other.

Prized Possession: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) You accompany Terry to a charity event for the first time as a couple and he doesn’t appreciate the attention you receive from the other men in attendance. Upon returning home, he needs to make sure that you both know who you belong to.

As I Am: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) You witness Terry and Daniel’s fight in Stingray’s apartment and desperately want him to lose control with you. Upon making you confess your desires, he gives you exactly what you need. Size kink.

A Better Offer: Part 1 | Part 2*

(CK Terry x Reader) You are Daniel’s assistant at the dealership and a close family friend. When Terry drops by to gather information for his schemes, he decides to scoop you up and make Danny-Boy regret his mistreatment of you, giving you a dream opportunity: organizing the charity auction for Eva Garcia. The two of you develop feelings for one another as you work closely together, and as the events of the auction unfold, the tension between you reaches its boiling point.

Legacy: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) Terry has fallen for the most promising student in his adult class, though she remains oblivious. Though he desperately wants to have her for himself, he fears rejection and settles for privately training her just to be close to her and build a legacy. Eventually, he runs out of things to teach her.

Fresh Start: Days 4 & 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | Days 8 & 9* | Days 10 & 11 | Day 12-A | Day 12-B | Day 13-A* | Day 13-B* | Day 13-C | Day 14-A* | Day 14-B | Day 14-C

(CK Terry x Reader) Reader is visiting LA for a few weeks and accidentally wanders onto the estate of Terry Silver, who immediately falls hard for the young woman. With only a few days to convince her to stay with him, he knows he has to pull out all the stops.

Scream for Me: Part 1 | Part 2*

(CK Terry x Reader) Part of the "Fresh Start" universe! Reader makes the mistake of telling Terry that she can't believe he was ever scary, and certainly isn't that way now. Terry decides to teach her a lesson, hunting her in their own home until she admits that he is still very much something to be feared.

Wrapped in Red: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) Part of the “Fresh Start” universe! You and Terry are invited to a Christmas Eve charity gala by your rival for Terry’s affections, and you’re sick of having to endure her flirting with your man. Surprisingly, Victor has an idea that will make it certain who Terry Silver belongs to.

Eye of the Storm: Part 1* | To be continued…

(CK Terry x Reader) Trapped at the airport on Christmas Eve, Terry grows tired of seeing everyone around him with their families and loved ones, and impulsively decides to start a family of his own. Today. He sets his sights on you to get the job done, with you being none the wiser.

Guided Meditation: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) Terry is fed up with your attitude lately, and decides to help you learn how to channel your pent up frustrations through more enjoyable pursuits... for him, anyway.

Party Favours: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) You really don't want your birthday to be a big deal, but Terry is determined to strike the perfect balance, finding just the right way to spoil you...

The Steadfast Tin Soldier: Part 1*

(Twig Terry x Reader) Terry returns from Vietnam on Christmas Eve, and you are the first and only person he wants to see. After years without so much as a letter, you two try to get to know each other once again.

Cash Ewing (Black Friday/The Kidnapping):

Disorderly Conduct: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4* | Part 5 | Part 6

A dark, tragic fic. Reader is a cop who has been working at the same precinct as Cash for awhile, and gets the vibe that something is... off. Trusting her instinct, she follows him to an abandoned building one day and catches him in the act. Unfortunately, he also catches her, and keeps her as a hostage while he tries to figure out his next move. (Takes place before events of the movie)

Person of Interest: Part 1*

You and a friend attend your precinct's Christmas party; the first time you'll be seeing your coworkers since you went undercover almost a year ago. Rather than the happy reunion with your partner and friend Cash, he seems anything but happy to see you. Locked in the basement together, you call Cash out on his BS and finally confront him about his feelings and your own.

Jan Valek (Vampires):

Heirloom: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6*

An enemies to lovers fic with Jan Valek. Reader is Jack Crow's daughter and a vamp-hunter-in-training. When Valek attacks the old Catholic school where the Black Cross of Berziers is kept and discovers his nemesis’s daughter, he kidnaps her in hopes of using her to lure him out but finds himself falling for her instead.

Saturnalia: Part 1*

Valek catches your scent on the wind and plans to feed on you, but after a single conversation with you can’t bring himself to commit such an act. Instead, he plans to find you at your friend's Winter Solstice Masquerade to be close to you, even just for the night.

Solar Flare: Part 1 | In Progress...

As vampires become a growing problem and the number of Slayers dwindles, the Catholic Church decides to perform another ‘miracle’, attempting to create a weapon that will be able to find the despicable creatures in any and all shadows that they may hide. Similarly to the botched exorcism of Jan Valek, the experimental ceremony that Rose Hanlon undergoes doesn’t go exactly as intended, and she escapes the city with a set of abilities she doesn’t even understand.

Gus Travis (Black Point):

In Deep Water: Part 1 | Part 2* | Part 3*

A dark non-con with Gus Travis. Reader is an undercover cop who has gotten in with Gus's gang to get the dirt on him and Malcolm’s crime ring. Gus gets wind of your deception and decides to punish you - for lying, for making him fall for you, for everything.

Terry McCain (Excessive Force):

Yule-Tied: Part 1* | To be continued…

You manage to get Terry to swear off work for a whole week to come with you to visit your family in New York City for the holidays. He has (unsurprisingly) charmed his way into everyone’s good books, so you decide to reward him with an early Christmas present when you get back to your hotel room the night before Christmas Eve.

Jack Blaylock (Ulterior Motives):

Coming soon…

The TIGverse (stories with more than one TIG character):

The NSFW Alphabet: Part 1* | Part 2*

A character study for both KK3 Terry and CK Terry. (I want to do more requests like these, so feel free to send in requests for my thoughts/opinions rather than full on stories if you want!)

A Tale of Two Terrys: Part 1* | To be continued…

(KK3 Terry x Reader x CK Terry) You and your husband (CK Terry) are somehow joined in bed by his younger self, who had been wondering how his future would turn out. Initially protective, your husband talks you into letting his younger self have his way with you before joining in himself.

Mediation: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5* | Part 6* | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9* | To be continued…

(Terry McCain x Reader x Cash Ewing) You are assigned as Terry McCain’s new partner after his previous partner – Cash Ewing – goes to prison for the crimes he has committed. Cash returns to Chicago years later, after his release and rehabilitation, and while he can’t be a cop anymore, he wants to make amends to those he has disappointed with his actions, most of all his former close friend Terry. Terry isn’t receptive to Cash’s attempts at reconciliation, and warns you to stay away from him, having grown very protective of his “work wife.” But you find something of a kindred spirit in Cash and want to help him get a second chance at life, deciding to do what you can to support the man and bring the two friends back together.

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Themes/Challenges

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Dark Desires October 2023:

Unjust Reward Disorderly Conduct Heirloom Scream for Me All's Fair In Deep Water

TIGmas 2023:

Person of Interest Saturnalia Clear as Mud Eye of the Storm The Steadfast Tin Soldier Wrapped in Red Yule-Tied What You Do To Me Mediation Guided Meditation Turtle Doves (Cobra Husbands) It’s Cold Outside (Jack Blaylock) Coming Soon...

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AMAs (ask me anything):

Just in case you are, for some reason, interested in asking me about things or reading about what other people have asked me! (These are fun and I'm happy to answer pretty much any question you feel like asking!)

AMA1 | AMA2 |

[ryttu3k]

Theory: Gale isn't a wizard.

He's a sorcerer.

"The Sorcerer is known for its innate magical abilities. Unlike wizards, who study and memorize spells from spellbooks, Sorcerers possess an innate connection to magic, usually through their bloodline, ancestry, or some other mystical source."

He mentions he's been in touch with the Weave since he was little, that he could compose it like music. That doesn't sound much like a wizard thing, who learn how to use the Weave via books and writing, and does sound more like a sorcerer, who can access it intuitively.

(Specifically: I'm thinking Storm Sorcerer: "Whether crackling with the energy of ancient deluges or pierced by gales and hurricanes, your lineage is a strange tapestry scrawled by a tempest." Not just for the pun, also because there's at least two pieces of early art [here] and [here] that show him using lightning magic.)

Mystra is intrinsically linked with wizards, not sorcerers; her in-game description talks about how she's all about knowledge and lore, and preservation and protection:

"As the mother of all magic, Mystra oversees the Weave and spreads arcane knowledge to mortal spellcasters. Her clerics preserve ancient lore and protect bastions of magical energy."

If she sees an incredibly talented young sorcerer, I can see her appearing to him, nudging him on to the path of the wizard to almost... keep some level of control over him? If he's doing things only by the book and not by his own intuition and power, he's a lot more controllable than someone who can start electric storms with his brain, y'know?

I'd kind of love to see someone hear about magical prodigy Gale and be like, "Dude, if you were doing magic innately from childhood, you're a sorcerer, not a wizard." I suspect his brain might melt a little, but what's one more existential crisis on top of all the others? And imagine him being able to really tap into his abilities once he sheds all the restrictions Mystra had placed on him!

(Disclaimer: I'm still in act 3 and I haven't played any D&D before BG3. I have no idea if this is larger-lore-compliant, just going by what I've seen in-game so far.)

[therealvinelle]

Would Alice tried to have stopped the sinking of the titanic?

This ask fills me with such restrained joy, you have no idea. Suffice to say that last time I posted about the RMS Titanic, expecting a deluge of asks wanting to hear all about the ship, I received a single "are you autistic?" anon instead.

Good times.

That being said:

Why did the RMS Titanic sink?

A non-comprehensive, very brief overview!

This is important if we're answering the question of whether Alice Cullen, a psychic whose gift kicks in when people whose life impacts hers make decisions, could predict the Titanic sinking in time to prevent it.

To that end I will look at some of the human decisions that led to the RMS Titanic sinking.

(TLDR: the ship sank due to the wrath of God. This much bad luck, this many coincidences, and so many minor decisions and insignificant mistakes all leading up to the loss of fifteen hundred lives can only be chalked up to God smiting the ship. The RMS Titanic didn't stand a chance, Alice could not have stopped this.)

1. The hull of the RMS Olympic is designed to have multiple compartments (The RMS Olympic, for the ignorants, was the RMS Titanic's precursor and sister ship. Minor alterations were made to the RMS Titanic, such as less open space but ultimately larger size, but they were otherwise nearly identical.) The hull design was a large cause of the confidence in the Titanic. The hull had sixteen watertight cells, separated by transverse bulkheads (a bulkhead is a partition wall on a ship that prevents flooding and stiffens the hull, that it's transverse means it extends from side to side on the ship) and the idea was that up to two of these could flood without compromising the ship. The trouble was this: they weren't actually watertight. The first four cells interacted with the higher levels, where the passengers were, and safety was sacrificed for comfort. Only bulkheads D through O were actually watertight. More worryingly, for a cell to be watertight, the top has to be closed as well, forming a cube. It wasn't, and as the ship was struck across the side, along the front where the bulkheads weren't waterproof, just under the waterline, several compartments were flooded right away, dooming the ship.

(Source and image courtesy. I also used this source.)

The design choices here were the process of long and arduous process, and started with the RMS Olympic, many years before the Titanic's construction even began, but while Alice at times has incredibly vague, ahead-of-time, "we've moved to Forks... I should get Edward a sleeveless shirt", decisions, this decision in no way concerns her. Alice would not see this ahead of time, and if she did there would be very little she could do about it.

2. The wrong type of iron rivets are used for parts of the hull The iron rivets used for the bow and stern that held the hull plates together were not optimized for the freezing Atlantic temperatures, causing them to snap when they were put under strain. The iceberg happened to strike the bow.

The iceberg may have opened a tear in the ship's hull, but the hull plates falling off as a result was the result of choice of material (the same as was made with the RMS Olympic and the RMS Olympic was fine! She survived several crashes without any plates falling off! Keyword being, as I understand, her crashes were not in sub-freezing Atlantic temperatures) and another that neither humans nor Alice would have seen coming.

Just really, incredibly, bad luck.

3. The man who had the key to the cupboard hold the ship's binoculars that the scouts in the crow's nest would use to spot icebergs, was on leave and the guy replacing him didn't get the keys before the RMS Titanic left port

What I just said on the headline.

Several small human decisions happening here, none of which Alice would see because none of them lead directly to the ship sinking. They would not have an actual impact until the iceberg spotters are sent out to scout for icebergs, at which point they realize they're spending their night playing a game of "is that an optical illusion or an iceberg?"

Even at that point, Alice isn't going to see anything because the scouts did spot the iceberg, the problem was the timing of when they spotted it. Had they had binoculars the timing would have been different and the ship would not have sunk, but even without them the ship might not have sunk.

4. The ship is warned about an iceberg: the captain doesn't get the memo

Icebergs were a known danger in the area at this time of year, and ships would warn one another about particularly hazardous ones. 1912 happened to be a year of unusually many icebergs, leading to (and don't quote me on this part because I'm going off memory) the captain taking a different route, hoping to evade them. Sadly, the fateful iceberg had also gone off route, where it was spotted by the SS Mesaba. The SS Mesaba warned the RMS Titanic, but Jack Philips (a hero who alongside his colleague is to thank for there being any survivors at all that night) made a typing error, changing the telegram tag from "MSG" to "MXG". "MSG" would have made the telegram urgent and seen it delivered straight to the navigation officer, "MXG" saw it discarded. (source (I also used this source for double checking other things in this post))

This isn't a decision, it was a mistake: Alice would not see this.

5. The iceberg is spotted and the scouts sound the alarm

Bad decision: the RMS Titanic was headed straight towards the iceberg and built to withstand collisions. Had it crashed bow first, only the first hull would have flooded (as RMS Olympic had proven was indeed survivable) and the ship would in every likelihood have been perfectly fine, if in need of repairs.

By reporting the iceberg, however, and only moments before impact, the scouts triggered the next bullet point.

(And no, Alice isn't seeing them either, because it's not the scouts' decision that sinks the ship. Remember, she sees only direct outcomes. The scouts' decision leads to other people trying to make the right decision in time, and she can't see what that decision will be, nor what its outcome will be, until that decision has been made.)

6. First Officer Murdoch gives the order to redirect the ship's course

Rather than crash directly into the iceberg, First Officer Murdoch hoped to avoid the iceberg altogether. He is widely believed to have ordered the ship to move "Hard a-starboard", and the ship pivoted at exactly the wrong time. The ship is struck along the side, opening multiple compartments along the front and dooming the ship.

(Source and image credit)

That decision Alice would have seen had she been aboard, but things happened so quickly I don't think there's anything she could have done by that point.

Alice does not prevent anything and at best gets to save a few people by retrieving collapsible A, a lifeboat which floated off the deck shortly before the ship sank, and help with collapsible B, which floated upside down and had survivors clinging to its hull(x).

Special source credit to this documentary.

Those interested should also check out this very short youtube animation of the ship's sinking, just ignore James Cameron's "badabing badabom" and you're good. If you're a real one, this real time rendition of the ship sinking is really good, impeccable research and to my recollection not sensationalist the way a lot of these real time sinking of a given ship tend to be (and I know that's an incredibly damning sentence).

Also: I can't stress enough this list of reasons why the RMS Titanic sank is non-exhaustive! It is however the ones coming to mind now and that are various levels of man-made and therefore possible, in theory, for Alice's gift to pick up on.

[andreal831]

So that’s really creepy… you have the exact same favorite moments as me in both. I will say that the scene in 3x20 (I think) of them cuddling but not saying a single word to each other is a very close second though.

Now I’m gonna take it a step further, what are your top 5 haylijah scenes in the entire show?

I love that! Great minds think alike <3

I do adore any haylijah hugging/cuddling scenes. That scene is surrounded by so much pain it takes me out of it sometimes. I do love that they don't ever really have a conversation of them being together, they just get together. It was just inevitable.

This list was so hard to make and somehow so basic at the same time. I had trouble narrowing it down but I think these are my top favorite Haylijah scenes.

Top Five Haylijah Scenes

5. 1x06: Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

I don't think I can talk about haylijah and not talk about this scene. I feel like the writers made it very obvious from the very first episode of TO that haylijah was going to be a major ship, but this was the first time I feel like the characters really acknowledged their attraction.

I love Elijah taking care of Hayley and then them both getting caught up in the moment with each other, completely forgetting about everyone/thing else. It caught them both off-guard and I just love this scene so much.

I also adore Rebekah realizing it and her soft smile.

4. 1x15: Le Grand Guignol

This scene is just so precious. Hayley can't stop smiling and Elijah's small, shy smile is so perfect. We thought we were going to get a first kiss, but then he goes in for the sweet forehead kiss. Celeste watching it all and realizing how deep Elijah was. Elijah realizing he would do anything to keep Hayley happy, even if that meant she would leave him in the end. *chefs kiss*

3. 3x22: The Bloody Crown

This scene is peak haylijah to me.

It brought back their cute and flirty banter that I feel like was missing since season 1. But on top of that, we got their deep feelings. This was always so important to me for this ship. Haylijah isn't just some 'caught-up-in-the-moment' ship. Their love was built on a deep respect and understanding of each other. They were friends and family before anything more. This scene is the show finally giving us that support that we saw from the early seasons.

2. 1x11: Apres Moi, Le Deluge

Speaking of the early seasons. I've said it so many times, but my favorite season for haylijah is seaon 1. They are just so flirty and cute. Things go downhill after this scene, but I love Elijah being flirty and putting aside all of his fears. I also love Hayley getting all shy. They are just too cute. This scene just captures season 1 haylijah so well.

4x1: Gather Up the Killers

I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is my favorite scene. I love their reunion in season 4. I truly thought the show writers were going to do right by haylijah at the beginning of season 4 since they spent so much time in the first couple of episodes solidifying them, but then they just throw it all away. This scene at least gives me something to look forward to when I start Season 4.

Thanks for the ask!

[sotwk]

WIP Snippet Game: Taken (Eomer x Reader)

I was tagged in a few snippet games last month, but I haven't had anything decent to share until now!

Thank you for the tags, @hobbitwrangler @lathalea @sverdgeir @cuarthol! (and I might have missed someone else, it's been that long, LOL). And a tag for @scyllas-revenge is mandatory at this point.

Snippet from Taken, Part 3

It is only for several weeks, you told yourself, to ease the weight of doubt that sat upon your chest. As you turned to walk back toward the cottage, a fierce wind rose and ripped off the cloak that was loosely draped over your shoulders. With a startled cry you grabbed for it, but not quickly enough to save it from landing in a large puddle. You retrieved the soaked fabric from the mud with a sigh. A fat raindrop landed squarely on the top of your uncovered head, and was immediately followed by another and another. Spontaneous rain had been pouring on and off over Gondor since the King’s coronation, and you heard the locals welcome and praise this tumultuous weather as a blessing, a sign of war’s filth being washed away to cleanse the lands for rebirth.  Shielding your eyes from the sudden deluge, you looked up at the roiling clouds overhead, further entranced by the sight of jagged lightning flashing over the White Mountains.  But when your gaze dropped back down to the horizon, you were alarmed to notice a horsed figure crossing the fields through the storm, approaching fast, in your direction.  It was him. Without proof of his face or voice, or even the support of logic, you just knew. It was him.  The very thought of that froze you, mind and body, in place. Pale and immobile and increasingly drenched, you stood like a deeply rooted tree while the rider drew closer and closer, on a horse powerful enough to sustain its determined gait over the sodden ground and lashing winds. Dumbfounded and dazed, you remained, until at last he came to a stop just several yards away. He dismounted Firefoot, his heavy boots squelching in the muck, and that sound snapped you to your senses.  “My lord,” you rushed forward with the soiled cloak twisted uselessly between your hands. “The stables are around the back. Let me take Firefoot there while you get out of this rain.” “I shall stable him,” Éomer said sternly, but not unkindly, to warn you against arguing. “Go and wait for me inside the house.”

The Tumblr post for Taken (Part 1) is just 3 notes away from 500 notes, which is the highest count by far that any of my fics have!

I am so happy this story has resonated with readers and Éomer lovers, and I am so grateful to everyone who continues to support it even though I'm so very slow with updates.

I keep your kind words in mind as I work hard to finish this "last" chapter. <3 Please wish me energy and inspo. Lots of love to you all!

[ptn-imagines]

as hcs, what are suspect r’s reactions to f!chief’s fashion? if possible, could you also include the upcoming cny event’s attire (f!chief looks so handsome, 10/10 cutie pie <3)?? no worries if not, i’m technically at ch11, and chief already has like five skins (tho rip me i’m at medium bfl + f2p only :/)

follow up on r’s reactions to chief (not sure if i could ask both together so i split it just in case <3): as hcs, what would f!chief’s thoughts be about her Wife’s- i mean suspect r’s attires? i know she technically already saw her in the prologue (and later in the iconic wet dream- i mean her surprise appearance in ch6) but lmao she just woke up, groggy and totally clueless and first thing she sees is a half revealed chest? and what about the dress and cute hat r wears in the trailer and the crimebrand? also do NOT ask me how long i stared at creation i’m gobbling up every suspect r crumb (oh ho ho hooo i spy expensive gloves and an even more expensive purse looks like a certain suspect is super rich but what peek? what experiment?? (ok that one is probably connected to paradeisos) whAT SECRET??? WHAT PROMISE???????) ALSO i’m sorry for rambling a bit more but before r woke her wife- i mean f!chief did r seriously change her dress to a shirt and unbuttoned the top five buttons and rolled up her sleeves and made sure her skirt shows her fine booty perfectly even if chief can’t even see or feel it fhsadhakjdhakj truly no one does it like suspect r pls never change ma’am

Hi anon! The deluge of Suspect R asks startled the shit out of me but it's okay because I love her. I decided to combine these two requests because otherwise the one about Chief reacting to Suspect R's fashion would've been reaaaaally short. I hope that we see more of Suspect R in act two of the story, I'm begging for crumbs... It's been over an in-game year since we saw her! And I'm pretty sure it's also been around that much time irl too. Aisno is edging us. I need to know what she knows about us! She acts way too much like our ex-wife! Clearly she knows us and she speaks of us fondly, who were we to her?!

Suspect R and F!Chief reacting to each other's fashion

The Bureau uniform is what Suspect R is used to, of course. She doesn't think much of it, beyond what she thinks of Chief herself: that she's absolutely stunning no matter what she wears. R longs to run her fingers through Chief's hair… and of course, she would've gotten Chief some clothes more to her taste if she'd managed to scoop her up and whisk her away. She also finds the jacket cute – and she has no room to talk about wearing your jacket properly. She thinks it's a way in which they match, which she likes.

The Stalker attire just adds a hood and cloak, but R thinks Chief wears it extremely well. If she could, she'd love to tease about how she looks like a “true Syndican” now.

R is more enamored by the story behind the Passage of Time attire than the outfit itself. She thinks the colors and patterns look nice on the Chief, but what truly makes it shine to her is Chief's interactions with OwO. She also thinks the braid looks very nice. Overall, it's a bit of a different look to what she's used to from the Chief, but she likes it anyway.

She thinks the Traveler attire is adorable. She honestly can't pick a favorite part about it because her eyes are too busy roaming everywhere, though she definitely appreciates the good view of Chief's legs. This is a strong competitor for her favorite outfit, because she thinks it brings out Chief's heroic spirit and kind heart by the vibes of it, which is by far her favorite aspect of the Chief.

Her reaction to Nightfall Soiree can be summarized as “lol cute.” She prefers seeing Chief in blue – not that she's biased or anything – but she admits the red is a good look on Chief. It's bolder than what is standard for the Chief, and she thinks her fluffy curls look adorable. It's an easy contender for her top three.

Her thoughts on the upcoming attire is that she wants to pull on Chief's ponyta– ahem. She's a big fan of the subtle touches of red against the black and white. While her bias is definitely Chief in dresses, she's a big fan of looks like these as well – she prefers it to Passage of Time, as far as celebrating the Chinese New Year goes. Once again, she feels like this outfit brings out her beloved Chief's heroic spirit.

As for Chief…

When you awaken with amnesia, you don't expect your first sight to be… anything at all, really. But if Chief did have expectations, Suspect R and her appearance would've been low on the list.

It actually took a moment for Chief to take note of R's fashion, held spellbound by the striking glow of her eyes – but when she did tear her gaze away, her heart did a flip in her chest and she had to swallow as her mouth suddenly felt drier than a desert.

R was stunning, simply stunning. Her blonde hair cascading over perfect shoulders, slender fingers tracing over Chief's cheek, breath hot on her face…

Oh, and it didn't help that her top, uh… left little to the imagination. A physical one was not the only awakening Chief went through in that moment; if Nightingale hadn't showed up, Suspect R would've probably succeeded in whisking her away.

When Chief finally gets to see R's alternate outfit, she'll be stunned as always. It's not something she'd ever imagine R wearing, but she can't deny that R looks amazing – and white has always been a good color on her.

Still, Chief prefers Rebecca's more casual outfit – if you can call it that. Her fancier outfit feels like it loses some of R's spirit, the spark that draws Chief to her in the first place – making her look like any other rich Eastside (or Paradeisos…?) lady.

[voraciousvore]

The Giant (1/16)

A giant/ tiny vore romance fantasy about a tiny woman that finds herself trapped in the clutches of a very large, hungry giant.

Total Word Count: 44,030

This is the first full story I ever wrote, and I didn't write it initially with the intention of sharing it, so it's a bit rough around the edges. It's also very bizarre and cringe, but if the idea of being eaten alive by a hot giant man titillates you, you'll probably enjoy it. If you decide to give it a chance at least read to chapter 3 because that's when the good stuff starts (lol).

This story contains tons of vore, mouthplay, fluff, some violence, and some sexual content.

------ Chapter 1 ------

The storm was terrible. My car practically swam through the rain. The windshield wipers, despite their frantic swiping, failed to make a dent in the deluge. Occasionally a flash of lightning lit up the black storm clouds, followed by rolling thunder. Even though the sun had just begun to set, the sky was already dark as night. I sighed and glanced at my cell phone. Still no service. I was driving through the middle of nowhere and had a long way to go. With the weather this bad, I wasn’t making much headway. Even with no other cars on the road I had to drive slowly due to low visibility. 

Just as I considered pulling over and finding a motel, a bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and slammed into my car. The suddenness of the event caused me to swerve off the road as I was momentarily startled by the loud explosion and blinded by the bright flash. My car rolled down a long, steep embankment, crashed into something, and everything went dark. I sat for a moment in shock, listening to the pouring rain. Tried to start my car. Nothing but smoke. Tried again. Nothing. The lightning bolt had fried the electronics. Great. 

I sat for a moment, pondering what to do. I couldn’t call anyone without cell service. I certainly didn’t want to go out in the rain, but staying in the car was not exactly a viable option either. The windshield was broken, allowing rain and cold to seep into the car. Waiting here would not solve my problems. My car needed to be towed and repaired. If I got lucky and followed the road I might be able to hitch a ride from a passing motorist. Resigned, I grabbed my raincoat, phone, and flashlight and stepped out into the rain. 

I started to trudge through the mud toward where I assumed the road would be. My car had slid down pretty far into the tall weeds. The vegetation here was odd, like grass but the blades were thick and came up to my chest. I stepped over a few fallen tree limbs on my way up the hill. When I finally reached the top I stopped, confused. The road was gone. I tried looking around with my flashlight but the terrain was completely different, just more mud and that weird tall grass. What the hell was going on? I turned and shined my flashlight toward my car at the bottom of the hill. The way it had rolled, the road would have to be here. Maybe the car had slid farther than I thought? I continued walking in the only possible direction the car could have come from. 

The rain continued to pour in huge fat drops splashing all over, obscuring my vision even with my flashlight. Not to mention the night seemed to have gotten even darker, except for the sporadic flash of lightning. I walked past a large boulder, another tree limb, large wet puddles. A deep consternation began to well up inside of me. None of this was right. I should have reached the road by now. Unexpectedly, I stepped on something crunchy and looked down. The sight gave me pause. I had stepped on a leaf--but this was no ordinary leaf. The leaf was bigger than my entire body. I pondered this mystery for a moment and looked around. What about the trees? I hadn’t noticed before because of the darkness that I hadn’t seen any trees, but now I could just make out massive silhouettes spaced out around me in the gloom. If those were trees, they were the biggest trees I had ever seen in my life. Forgetting about the road for a moment, I waded through the muck towards one of the large shadows to get a closer look. 

I didn’t think that redwoods were native to this area--hell, I hadn’t seen any on my drive over--so naturally I was curious. Finally, I got close enough that my flashlight could shine a light on one of the huge shadows. Except what I saw wasn’t a tree, rather than bark it was a smooth brown texture, almost like leather. I felt the rounded surface with my bare hand. Whatever it was, it was not a naturally occurring structure, but rather man-made. As I shined my light over more the mystery object I felt a jolt of shock as I recognized the details. I was touching the toe of a gigantic boot that was easily the size of a school bus. And the boot was not alone. I slowly raised my flashlight up to illuminate cloth pants, a towering leg, and the colossal shape of a man so gargantuan the light beam could not reach high enough to illuminate his whole being. 

My blood ran cold and I froze in place, unable to make the slightest movement. Had the giant seen me? I was so miniscule compared to his massive size. He towered over me like a skyscraper. A crash of lightning flashed across the sky, and for just a moment the colossus was fully visible. He was staring directly down at me from a terrifying height. At that moment my heart jumped into my throat and I turned to run as fast as I could. Despite my panicked efforts the mud sucked at my shoes and I could not run very fast at all. I blindly sprinted into a puddle and started treading water frantically, adrenaline coursing through my veins. In my haste I dropped my flashlight and one of my legs got tangled in some roots. I cried out in fear and struggled to free myself. Before I could escape an enormous hand plunged into the water all around me and scooped me up with ease. I couldn’t help letting out a squeak of panic as huge strong fingers thicker than my torso closed around my body, pinning my arms to my sides.  

I was then lifted up what felt like hundreds of feet into the air as the giant straightened to his full height. I felt dizzy and disoriented. Another bolt of lightning revealed a huge human face with intelligent eyes closely scrutinizing my tiny form. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I must’ve looked pathetic--drenched in water, shaking uncontrollably, like a drowned rat. Hopefully I didn’t look tasty to him. I felt a wave of nausea at the horrible thought that I could easily fit inside his mouth. He could probably swallow me whole without even chewing. I started to cry tears and squirmed in his iron grip, knowing all the well how futile my actions were. 

After staring at me for a long, agonizing moment, the giant opened the lapel of his coat and gently placed me underneath it against his vast chest, as if to shelter me from the rain. This action was the last thing that I had expected but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Finally, I wasn’t being pelted by pouring rain; his shirt was thankfully dry, his body soft and warm. I could hear the slow, rhythmic beating of his massive heart, so different from the frantic knocking of my own. His chest rose and fell with steady gusts of breath from immense lungs. Despite my fear the sensations were strangely soothing. The titanic wall of flesh I was pressed against began to move as the giant walked forward with powerful strides. I shivered and curled up as best I could to get comfortable.  

I felt confused, frightened, and exhausted. I was powerless to move or try to escape. What was going to happen to me? I could only speculate. Would I be gutted like a fish? Dismembered in a gory mess, my limbs torn off one by one? Dropped in a pan of sizzling oil and boiled alive? Or perhaps eaten raw, savored on the tongue like a piece of candy before being sucked down a dark gullet and dumped into his cavernous stomach still alive? As brutal as my imagination was, it was the last thought that made me shudder in particular. I collapsed inward on myself and wept until I was completely drained and lost consciousness. 

Chapter 2

Table of Contents:

Ch. 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Writing Masterpost

[delugedecade]

Top 3 Overwatch Women?

Deluge's Top 3 : Overwatch Ladies

#3 : D.Va

You know I love me some girls in skintight suits

#2 : Mercy

Need I say more?

Honorable Mentions:

Tracer (Cheers Luv)

Echo (Robotitties and can turn into anyone)

Widowmaker (Dat Ass)

Kiriko (Fox Girls)

Brigitte (Mace to the Mace to the Mace to the Mace to the Mace to the Face)

#1 : Sombra

I like her skins better tbh.

But also consider

[existslikepristin]

I edited this post with my (essentially) finished paint job as well as a rundown of how I got crushed in the first game, in case you're curious to hear about my utter failure that kept me from posting this for a week, lol. If you're not, there's smut after this Keep Reading line

Tags: NSFW, S.M.U.T., genie, anal

(Story Index)

On the table again…

You rub at your temples and finish stepping out of your shorts. You’re hearing a lot of things that feel rather unnecessary, and frankly, you’re more than a bit tired. “Can we just… let’s go with the table again.”

Joy snorts back a laugh and nods. “Sure thing, master.” And with that, she floats into the air again, drifts horizontally over your head, and settles onto her back on the table. The mug of tea lands next to her face and a curly straw appears, allowing her to sip at it without getting up. She points her legs straight toward the ceiling, blocking her face from view, and, like a dancer—imagine that—, she slowly spreads them to either side. Her ass is still plugged, and her lack of a vagina is still very weird.

“Not trying to be presumptuous with the missionary position, master. Just thought you might like to see how my titties bounce this time. Or feel them. They’re yours to do with as you please, after all. Like the rest of me is.”

You step up and pull the plug out of her ass, taking a bit less time to appreciate the beauty of the action than before, as you’re just in it for the fucking this time. You take note of the brief deluge of your cum that follows, but ultimately pay it no mind, shoving your cock past it and into Joy’s butt.

For a second, Joy gargles sensually, but then swallows the mouthful of tea and moans instead.

It’s just as effortless as the first time, fucking Joy’s asshole. You glide in and out, getting massaged all the way. You could get used to this.

And yup, you’re used to it! You’ve already grown accustomed to it. It’s only been like half an hour since meeting Joy, and you can see yourself buried in her ass for probably forever. Not that you’ll literally do that. Probably.

Joy pulls her legs up a bit, and you take in the view except for her weird lack of pussy. Her thighs jiggle with each of your thrusts, her lips gape as she pants, and her boobs tempt you with their bounces. She did specifically say she was getting on her back so you could see them, and she did say they were yours, so…

You lean forward, scooping Joy’s tits into your palms. They’re just barely too large for your hands, which, as you think about it, doesn’t quite make sense as a measurement for boobs. It’s not clear exactly how you’re supposed to define a handful. Like, Joy’s tits aren’t that big. If you had to guess, they’re even a little smaller than the average (or so you assume from all the porn you watch). With the way they spread out from your fingers a bit as you squeeze though, you're not so sure you can call them a handful or even know exactly where to measure from. The bottom of the tit is pretty easy to determine, but where it ends on top is more nebulous. You could measure a handful if they were upright and you were behind her, cupping them. You suspect then she’d be just about a handful, but so could any number of other boob sizes. You might have to start specifying between heaping, rounded, and leveled handfuls perhaps, like in recipes. Then, of course, you’d need to take into account the size of your hand—

“Something on your mind, master?”

Options:

Yes. It’s time to go to a strip club, so you can take some scientific measurements. Right after you’re finished here.

Oh shit, right! You’re supposed to be meeting with a friend of yours tonight! Right after you’re finished here.

Suddenly you want to bake something. Tell her to help you bake something. Right after you’re finished here.

You’re still thinking about other exotic fucking locations. That was the second place vote… You don’t even have to finish here.

[probablyfunrpgideas]

Item Idea

The Rain Staff While this hollow wooden stick is perpendicular to the ground, it emits a constant sound like light rain, as tiny beads tumble through it. Any beads that reach the bottom are teleported back to the top of the staff! The outside is plain, but has a few blue geometric designs in bands that could be used to measure the depth of water.

It is impossible to move quietly with the Rain Staff unless you hold it parallel to the ground so the beads stop falling. It takes an action to restore their motion and reactivate the magical properties. The Rain Staff grants a +3 bonus to Diplomacy checks that take over a minute, as well as checks to negotiate a bargain. The soothing sounds tend to keep all parties calm. Also, while you are outside you can call down a sudden deluge to soak an area you can see with a radius of 60 feet or less. The rain extinguishes any natural fire, as well as fires caused by spells lower than 5th level. This effect is available 3 times per day. Once per week, you can cast Control Weather with the staff, only to create rain. Finally, once per year you can use the staff to create a rainbow bridge, which can carry any number of creatures to another plane of existence.

[mmmmmmky]

response to tags time this got pretty long but if you reblogged my limbus status poll i answered here :)

mhm lmaoooo. idk i somewhattt enjoy charge they are cool but it is kindaaaaa gets boring sometimes. i am honestly not too sure. i thinkkk i recall seeing a team built around suncliff i thinkkk it was rupture sinking but idk i havent looked at his kit. BURNNNNN real asffff burn is fun i did a silly run with them. i wish i had the liu 000 ids. ooo liu yisang sound cool. @melonisopod

real asf! mhmhm real i love sinking, boat trio is fun.

FUCKKK YEAHHH real asf. tremor is cool, i havent gotten the chance to use the silly tremors but i liked tremor before it was cool. idk i like the silly bursting and raising stagger is neat. "oh oh just do damageee you will stagger them faster" :( it is fun (silly). cant fucking wait to build the tremor team of my dreams when the event drops. rip charge lmaoo, it is kinda just base doesnt stand out. @gachabastard

real as fuck i also rotate when doing md but idk i enjoy some more than others plus i cant build them all

FUCKK YEAHHHH WOOO SINKINGGG. this is true! the linton gregor is very nice in sinking teams too but yeah that is the core. g greg and nclair is kinda silly slots lmao but real asf. @wavesofstatic07

Real as fuckkkk. true! yeah maybe i was harsh on charge it is pretty fun and i like w ryo and don a lot. ONFGGGG i honestly cant wait for the charge renaissance (and the intervalio in general i am so curious what they are cooking)(no fucking way we go ON a w train right?). @runn1ngn0se

[this one was later but moved up bc it is relevent to above]

mhmhm sinking is very nice i love regular skills doing 100+ dmg a coin andddd sinking deluge getting 9000. but hmhmhmhm charge tremor is big? very neat hmhmhmhm see above but rose meur hmhmhm realrealreallll. burn is also cool! mhm!

Very fucking real sameee, got 9431 dmg just the other day. killed shock centipede in 2 turns and one turn sign of roses on mdh floor 5.

oooo? interestinggg hmhmhm. dungeon only is fair yeah mhm. hmhmhmmmmmmmm. this is very fucking cool. i see hmhmhm. we have a chef in out midst bc you are COOKING. mhmhmmmm very neat. id personally maybe hmm actually honglu still in for tremor hmmm. maybe more tremor units for w meur? (regret faust maybe) idk i just havent heard much good things about w meur. very fucking cool @rumekfuria

real as fuck! i love pirate greg

real asf!!!! id count it as dps bc it doesnt have a real through line its is just what works ykyk? very real.

lmao very real. yeahhh idk if it bc it is metaaa bc other teams totally preform better in there element i think but it is just very simple to use imo which is why. also it got fleshed out early so it has kinda dried up in recent interest. it still is very fun though and i like it it just doesnt stand out as a favorite imo. very fucking true. coolness > meta the animations are some of the coolest. beeg number :) @freiflies

onfgggg i love poise bl is very quite good. i wish i had nelly ryo, i have more then enough to shard her but what if i pull her rolling for others! i need to wait until i spend my lunacy pile (7000). mhmhm yeah the ego gifts make any status really fun. poise pops off normally but guh with everything else on top?? mhmhmh, i regularly get core ego gifts by like floor 3 and the rest of the mdh is swept. @sveta-karelia

WHEW i think that is all of them with text. thank you everyone who responded :):):):):):)

[blood-darkened-moon]

Isolation

Chapter 1

December 12

What do you actually write in a diary? I guess I just write whatever comes into my mind.

My name is Samantha Blair, and I’ve been stationed at the Aurora Research Facility for about a month now. This place will be my home for roughly the next 11 months. I graduated two years ago with a PhD in chemistry. This is my new job. It wasn’t easy to get it. After all, there are only a few positions available in this facility. There are 12 of us in total, and my job is to analyze ice and soil samples. It’s summer here at the moment. The sun doesn’t set this close to the South Pole any more, and at night it only gets a bit dusky, which, admittedly, bothers me more than I thought it would. Doug* gave me this journal “so I won’t lose track of time.” I wonder if that will help. At least I can try.

*Douglas Garry, station leader

December 13

Nothing interesting. After breakfast, I set about sorting the samples from the last research team and finding out which of them still needed to be analyzed and which didn’t. So the same thing I’ve been doing for over a week now. What were they thinking? “We’ll be gone soon anyway, let the next team take care of it?” After me, the deluge. Typical. Half of the samples are not properly labeled, and even for those that are, it takes forever to find out what has already been done with them. It’s all in the lab books, my ass. I can hardly do anything with the cryptic notes there if I manage to decipher the handwriting at all. On top of that, I have to pick the measurement data out of disorganized piles of paper. It was all planned differently. They were actually supposed to measure their own stuff, but towards the end of their stay, one device after another broke down. The devices are working again. Now, we’re supposed to carry out these measurements first and send them the results.

December 14

Sorting samples, searching for corresponding measurement data. Nothing new. Jeff gave me a new drill core. At least I was able to take a few measurements today.

*Jeffrey Norris, geologist

December 15

As I was going about my usual business, John* arrived and said that we were going to be hit by a heavy snowstorm in the next few days. According to the weather data, the storm will last for several days, maybe even weeks. We have to prepare the station. So we spent the whole day outside moving equipment into storage rooms or fixating it. I’m still freezing.

*John Bennings, meteorologist

December 16

Dark clouds have gathered. After so many days of sunshine, the darkness, if you can call it that, is a welcome change.

December 17

It’s been snowing since last night, and the snowfall is getting heavier, although it will be another 2-3 days before it really starts. David* expressed concerns about the dogs, but Marcus** said they don’t mind the little bit of snow. Quite the opposite. Huskies love this weather. Marcus looks after the dogs. He will know best. When I think about it, it occurs to me that we are probably one of the only stations left that still uses dog sleds. We also have snowmobiles, but Marcus always says the dogs are more reliable.

Later, we decided who should clear the paths and when. The work should continue if possible. However, if the storm gets too bad, the research buildings will remain closed until it subsides.

*David Palmer, technical chief

**Marcus Clark, responsible for the dogs, thermal engineering, welding work

December 18

The howling of the wind gets stronger and stronger. Eerie. I have hardly slept a wink. At least I’m slowly making progress with the samples.

December 19

I spent half the day clearing paths. It is a Sisyphean task. As soon as I was finished, I had to start all over because everything was covered in snow again. And the worst is yet to come. If it goes on like this, I can forget about work for a while.

December 20

Jeff was on clearing duty today. He also said there was no point. After dinner, we agreed that we would only clear the paths to the important buildings, everything else would have to wait until the storm subsided. At least the dogs are having fun. And Lena. She built a giant snowman. Lena Fuchs is still a student and the youngest of our team, and you can tell. When I see her so carefree, I sometimes think I’m getting old...

The fact that Lena is here is not a matter of course. Normally, students are not accepted for research stays. However, Lena has excellent grades, so she was selected regardless of the usual rules. At least, that’s the official reason. For those who believe it. Her father just happens to have a lot of political influence and a ton of money. It would be a true miracle if he hadn’t set the whole thing up.

She’s supposed to help me with the measurements, but that will have to wait until the samples are sorted and the storm calmed down. In the first few weeks, however, I had already shown her how to operate the measurement devices. To pass the time, I’ve now given her a pile of papers to read.

December 21

We have a visitor. The last thing you expect at the South Pole in the middle of a snowstorm is a visitor. Her name is Veronica Edwards. She is British and works at the Umbrella facility nearby. She says she is a senior researcher. There’s been a virus outbreak. She hasn’t said what kind of virus it is, only that it’s not airborne and that the likelihood of her being infected is low. In general, she kept a rather low profile. However, she said that under the circumstances she cannot stay in the Umbrella facility. If she is infected with something, we can’t let her roam around freely, but not helping her is not an option either, so we put her in quarantine. Actually, that was her suggestion. Isaac* has prepared a room in the northeast storage building for the purpose. She waited in the snowmobile she came in. The building is quite large, and it also has a shower room and restrooms. Additionally, the supply in the northeastern storage building is largely separated from the other buildings, and we can lock an area from the outside. That could work. It was supposed to be modified into another research building this summer, but the modification has been postponed for another year or so. However, it has already been largely emptied. She said two weeks of quarantine would be enough. For the time being, only Isaac and Harry** will look after her. Isaac is our doctor. Harry has volunteered. They will stay away from the rest of us to minimize the risk of a virus outbreak during that time. In case of an emergency, they have walkie-talkies.

We have offered to contact Umbrella and tell them what happened, but Dr. Edwards said she had done that before she left the Umbrella facility. They’ll send people as soon as the storm subsides. If they’re taking so long, that must mean it’s not that bad, right? Or that it’s already too late, and there’s nothing they can do anyway. Shit. We’re not prepared for incidents like this.

* Dr. Isaac Copper physician, and by necessity veterinarian

** Harold Childs vehicle mechanic

December 21 Addendum I

I have to distract myself from the thought that the woman might have infected us all with some deadly virus. And I forgot to write that our new arrival is rather strange. She was at least wearing a jacket, but underneath, she had only put on a long purple dress, high-heeled shoes, and white velvet gloves. The clothes looked anything but cheap. She looked more like she wanted to go to a gala than work in a research laboratory. Who walks around like that in Antarctica? Well, maybe she wasn’t on duty when the outbreak happened. That would also explain why she managed to escape and, according to her own statement, is probably not infected. But even as casual wear, her outfit looks pretty bizarre in a place like this.

She had to wait quite a long time in the snowmobile until the provisional quarantine was ready. Wasn’t she cold in her thin clothes? She didn’t complain. And I couldn’t see any signs that she was freezing either. Admittedly, I kept a safe distance. Speaking of snowmobiles, judging by the tracks, she was driving as if she was drunk and almost crashed into one of the buildings. Can she just not drive, or are these signs that she’s not feeling well? A fever, perhaps?

Also, I remembered Doug mentioning in the first or second week that Umbrella isn’t even doing research at the facility anymore. It’s supposed to be a materials storage facility or something like that. Well, Dr. Edwards claims she is a researcher there. I’ll ask Doug about the facility again when I get a chance.

December 21 Addendum II

Nicole*** wanted to contact AAD and ask how we should proceed with Dr. Edwards. However, due to the storm, there is currently no way through with our communication system. Always at the best possible time, of course! At least it’s not broken. Nicole has checked it. In a few days, the storm should ease a little, although not stop. She’ll try again then. Until then, we’re on our own. As old as the communication system is, I’m not surprised that it doesn’t work currently. It probably dates back to when the station was founded in the 70s.

***Nicole Windows, telecommunications, electronics, computers

AAD = Australian Antarctic Division

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