Hi! Iâm Lo!
đ writer of soft chaos & slow-burn dreams
đž dog cuddler | book hoarder | tea always half-full
đż 90s baby | Namjoon biased, OT7 always
⨠fanfic is my love language. welcome to my cozy corner
Mention the any 2 authors and let people know (maybes they need to shine and are underrated or people need to know them) ( mention so let them know)who do you think is best at expressing feelings and putting words together beautifully? âHow can someone be so skilled at portraying emotions in words and crafting a unique storyline?â Kind of authors you have even read a Drabble , one-shot, series or anything⌠also that I have seen you have been reading a lot!
- đ§ cheese anon on the way to ask everyone
Heya đ§ anonie, yesh, I am reading a lot this year compared to any other year, Iâve completely abandoned my actual books đ. Thank you for noticing. Itâs also because I keep getting tagged in so many fics, and my TBR has grown into its own universe. Meanwhile, my reading pace is painfully slow. Iâve been trying to finish this one Yoongi fic since last month, and no progress. Anyways, sorry for the rant ~
Choosing just one or two authors wouldnât do justice at least not to me. I honestly think everyone who writes, who brings their imagination to life for us, for free, literally free to read, thatâs a blessing in itself. The fact that someone can sit down and write something so beautifully, without the help of AI, thatâs already incredible.
So instead of two names, Iâll mention all the writers I read and love because they all deserve to shine â¨
I hope u dont mind me asking, but u mentioned once u were gonna turn the Jk D1 Kinktober fic into a series (or that it inspired a whole series)?? Do u still plan on releasing it cuz HHAHAHAH Im excitedddđĽšđŠˇ
- Lula
hi, hello đđ˝ âşď¸
yeah i came up with an entire storyline after writing that short. i remember calling my friend and explaining it all out in a 15 minute monologue đ
it wonât see the light of day for quite sometime though, since thereâs a lot to come before that. i also havenât gone any farther past developing the plot and a rough background for jk & my oc. nothing and no one has a name (outside of jk obviously), thereâs no title, and no concrete word building has been done.
but i do have this moodboard with a few inspo pics taken from the pinterest board i made for the story đ¤ enjoy!
i think ive landed on a name for this story. itâs been i my head for a few months and i told @vidalajoon about itâŚi like it but iâm not 100% sure if i love itâŚanyways, happy almost friday
â˘genre/tropes: ANGST , toxic relationship, loathing... my god is it lots of loathing, revenge, gaslighting, smut, more heavy angst. Did I mention toxic?
â˘rating: explicit
â˘word count: 3.1k 1/8
â˘status: series || COMPLETED.Â
â˘warning: if the tags and the genre list didn't make it clear this story is not lighthearted, it is one of something that is twisted and cruel and depending on how you look at it... beautiful. If this is not for you then please feel free to read another one of my stories. Mentions of domestic violence, mental health issues and some extreme gaslighting.
â˘authors note: If you or anybody you know is in a bad situation, please do not hesitate to reach out for help. You are worthy :)
At what point does love stop being beautiful and become something sick?
She was the closest thing to a goddess that existed on Earth.
Everything about her was joy and peace and happiness. Wherever she went, she found beauty: to her, city lights were the same as sunrises; a bag drifting in the wind held the same majesty as leaves in the breeze. Everything she touched was made better for it; every person she met felt honored to have even just briefly been in her presence. She was so sweet, they said, so kind, so beautiful and so genuine, as warm as her golden-brown eyes were in the basking light of sunset.
His eyes were brown but they should have been blue. Icy, cold, intense: a brown so beautiful it was almost a new color. They were focused eyes, hard eyes that slashed at her softness. They absorbed everything, those eyes, picking out details that tried to scurry away and hide like beetles, only to be revealed by a hand plucking the stone away like it was nothing.
Most of all, they absorbed her. They took in every bit of her, every gentle curve of her perfect body, every shining smile and every gasping breath, every inch of skin covered with the sheen of desire as he fucked her, every feather-light touch of her hand as she clutched him closer, urging him on, begging for more, writhing beneath him until those eyes squeezed shut and he was coming inside her.
At least, thatâs how you pictured them together.
âRaevyn?â
You knocked your wine over, jumping out of your thoughts at the sudden touch of Minahâs hand on your arm. The glass shattered and red liquid sprayed across the table.
âThe dress!â Natasha shrieked.
There was no need for that kind of noise; the liquid wouldnât dare to dream of sullying Minahâs wedding dress. Not a drop splashed within a foot of her, choosing instead to soak the pristine tablecloth and drip onto the skirt of your own lavender bridesmaid dress.
Still, Natasha shrieked, Minah gasped, and the wedding guests moved collectively, heads snapping towards you in hive-mind unison. Natasha pounced between you and Minah, a bodyguard against the blood-like red wine stain threatening the immaculate dress that graced Minahâs immaculate body.
Silence hovered through the hall.
You werenât bold enough to risk a glance at Hoseok, but you could feel those intense eyes watching from the other side of the head table.
âIâm so sorry.â
Your voice wavered, not from nerves but because it always did. You truly were sorry; no one wants to be the person who nearly destroys the brideâs wedding dress.
There was a moment when you thought she might⌠something. A moment when you didnât give her enough credit.
Her eyes flashed, her jaw clenched. You imagined she would scream at you, tell everyone, tell them all what you were and what you had done.
You were wrong.
Ever graceful, Minah laughed musically.
âItâs nothing,â she said in that melodic lilt. âEven if it was something, itâs only a dress.â
Chattering murmurs returned to the hall as people looked away.
Natasha drifted away at the slightest touch of Minahâs hand, and then she was resting her comforting palm against your shoulder.
âI only meant to ask if you were okay,â she continued. âYou had that lost look, like when youâre writing.â
You doubted you had that look, but Minah was giving you an out.
âJust daydreaming. I thought I might⌠you know. Inspiration.â
Minahâs face lit up.
âA poem?â
âMaybe.â
âOh, Raevyn! That would beâoh, I hope you do. Please, if you write about me and Hoseok, youâll share it with us, right?â
You nodded, though it was about as likely as you sharing the details of the daydream she had interrupted. Surely, sheâd love to hear your detailed description of how you imagined her new husband fucking the daylights out of her.
Even still, that strange, creeping feeling came over you again, and you knew Hoseok had glanced back over. You risked a look in his general direction as a waiter scurried over to mop up the wine.
Sure enough, Hoseokâs gaze was focused directly on you.
His lips twitched into the tiniest of half-smiles as you met his eyes.
He knows.
You forced a smile past your trembling lips and tore your eyes away, patting the damp napkin the waiter had brought against the red wine stain on your skirt.
He doesnât know, you told yourself. Itâs impossible.
He can hear you think.
âImpossible,â you said out loud.
âMiss?â the waiter asked.
You coughed, trying to make it sound like a laugh.
âSorry. I need more⌠excuse me.â
You felt Hoseokâs eyes on you as you walked to the bathroom, but when you looked back, he was dipping Minah for a kiss, a grin on his face as he focused on her.
Only her.
You didnât want him when you met him.
You shared two classes together: Screenwriting, and Studies in Literature and Film. You were a year ahead of him and you had different majors, so the crossing of your paths was unlikely to begin with, but you missed the universeâs memo that it was a sign.
It wasnât that you didnât notice him. You did; everyone did. Half the women in your classes swooned because he was brooding and quiet, the mysterious enigma, the handsome, haunted art student whose secrets were buried beneath the chiseled lines of his statuesque face. The other half swooned because he was an athlete. His body was as toned as his face was perfect.
He seemingly had no interest in any of them. Some tried to seduce him with low-cut shirts and flirty hair-tosses. Others tried appealing to his mind, waxing poetically about art house films and the brilliance of pioneers like Dreyer. They were the embodiment of the woman who would come and go, talking of Michelangelo, like a patient etherized upon a table, like yellow smoke sliding along the street. All of them wanted to know his secrets. All of them wanted to be the woman who would earn the fixation of those startling eyes, who would carve out a path to his heart and make him bare the secrets of his soul to them.
Except you.
You found him dull. Oh, yet another artsy, sensitive romantic who wore black sweaters and carried a canvas messenger bag and had a stupid pretentious name. Jung Hoseok â almost like his parents knew he would be a brooding old soul. Yet another college boy with longish hair and pouty lips and a permanent scowl on his face as he pondered the injustice of life and the illusion of liberty and the lack of inspiration to be found in the world. Another tortured creature that stood amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore, contemplating if all we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
He bored you.
Intimidating and unapproachable, he sat alone in class, either ignorant or unaware of the mooning girls batting their eyelashes in his general direction. You thought you were above him, more than him, too good to be a clichĂŠ like the rest of them. So what if you were a poetry student? So what if you dressed the part, flowing black wraps over black shirts and black jeans and black hair? You didnât need to be the entirety of a clichĂŠ and obsess over the volatile being who mused alone in the corner.
As it turned out, Hoseok was just quiet and not very good at making friends.
You discovered this when you were paired with him as your peer reviewer in Screenwriting. You believed it to be a misfortune at first; rolling your eyes, you slumped across the classroom and settled in the chair next to him, staring moodily at the professor as he waited for everyone to pair up.
âIâm Raevyn.â
âHoseok.â came the response.
You tapped your fingers against the desk twice.
âIâm pretty critical when it comes to reviewing, so donât expect me to take it easy on you.â
âYou shouldnât. It would defeat the entire purpose.â
You turned your head and found yourself trapped in the prism of his gaze, caught like a spider under a glass, mesmerized by the strange color of his eyes and the depth of his stare. Then the professor spoke, you turned away, and forgot about that moment.
You found him to be almost surprisingly articulate, thoughtfully perceptive, and infuriatingly silent. When you exchanged assignments for review the first time, you were blown away by a story of cold revenge. His main character was horribly wronged, treated maliciously by everyone who was supposed to love her, and yet she did nothing. You found yourself angry with her, frustrated by her lack of response, until she methodically destroyed the people around her.
Every word was gold. The bastard wrote better than you could ever dream of writing.
âYouâll be an amazing screenwriter,â you told him when you gave it back.
âI want to be a video editor.â came the muted response.
It was almost sad that he didnât want to utilize that kind of talent.
Slowly, Hoseok and you became acquaintances. Not friends, really, not anything more than the kind of people who nodded in acknowledgement when you passed each other on campus. As the semester passed, though, you became the kind of acquaintances that met to study or to brainstorm in the library, then the kind of acquaintances that went to the campus bar to have a drink after a midterm.
âYou should meet my roommate.â you told him.
âWhy?â
âI think youâd like her.â
He didnât shrug, didnât nod, didnât say yes, no, or maybe. His eyebrow twitched, which was as much of a response as you could hope for. You didnât think heâd actually like your roommate, but she had just gone through a breakup and you were desperately trying to find a rebound for her so she would stop moping about the apartment all the time. It was less for your benefit than hers; you hated to see her sad.
When Minah walked into the campus bar, his eyes went to her immediately.
He watched as she quietly made her way through the crowd, people swishing away like reeds to let her through, an aura of calmness spilling behind her as she made her way to you both.
âThis is my roommate, Minah. Minah, this is my⌠classmate. Hoseok.â
Neither of them heard you.
You had never seen Hoseok smile, not really. That day, you watched his face unfurl, opening the way a flower blooms for the first time, feeling the first resplendent rays of sunshine on petals of silk and finally seeing, finally understanding its purpose.
Two people fell in love that day, and you were one of them.
â
You denied wanting him.
He spent hours that felt like days and days that felt like lifetimes at your apartment. Hours upon days upon months. Their love didnât develop over time, the seed wasnât planted and nurtured until it took root and sprouted and flourished. No, their love was dandelions: one moment there were none, and the next it was an infestation.
And lucky you, you were the one who had breathed on the puff.
Day after day, Hoseok was there in the morning when you woke and after every class when you returned. He was a better roommate than Minah, even though he didnât actually live with you and you would never have said anything negative about Minah. The constant presence of her yoga mat spread across the living room where the coffee table was supposed to go and the thick hair that clogged your shower drain were small prices to pay for her friendship.
At first, you were logical about it. He was good-looking, you told yourself. It was a physical attraction, nothing more. A school-girlâs crush, a daydream. One could admit Michelangeloâs statue of David was attractive and know that it didnât mean they were in love.
After the first few weeks of their relationship, Minah sat down with you on an evening that Hoseok wasnât over. It was before he started spending the night, back when it was still just you and Minah, back when you had a break from seeing his face every time you turned around.
âYou donât mind if I date Hoseok, right?â
You looked up at her sharply.
âWhy would I mind?â
She was biting her lip, dark eyes wide and vulnerable, and remained silent.
She knows.
You shook the intrusive thought away. They popped up every now and then, those thoughts. Thoughts you didnât think, thoughts that werenât your voice, little whispers that said things that might have been true and might have been lies. You never spoke of them, never told anyone.
It was hardly the first time youâd had a thought like that, though it was by far one of the most insistent, and you didnât need people thinking you were crazy.
Even if it was a little bit true.
âHeâs all yours.â
But I want him.
âI donât want him, donât worry.â
Minah looked at you sadly, silently.
She can hear you.
You laughed at that one, causing Minah to look at you strangely. She couldnât hear you, you told yourself. That was excessively paranoid, even for you.
The silence stretched, even more awkward.
But what if she can hear you?
âYou and Hoseok make a great couple,â you said. âYouâre perfect for each other.â
Her face brightened, waves of glowing delight flowing from her and filling the small kitchen you shared.
âI really like him,â she said. âI mean, I really, really like him.â
You swallowed a lump of resentment and another one of guilt. Minah was perfect; she didnât deserve your thoughts. You had your chance with Hoseok; you didnât want it. You didnât want him.
That weekend he spent the night for the first time.
They tried to be quiet. It made it all the worse, knowing how hard they tried to muffle their noises on your behalf. The walls sponged up the sound of Minahâs high-pitched cries, the low resonance of Hoseokâs breathless groans, the rhythmic thump of her bedframe against your shared wall, and wrung each noise out into your ear as you lay on your bed.
You tried to tell yourself the prickling sensation that started in your heart and seeped through your bones was embarrassment, or maybe annoyance that they couldnât have just asked you to leave for the night so you didnât have to hear it.
When you left your bedroom the next morning and found Hoseok sitting at your kitchen table with a cup of coffee, you tried to twitch your mouth into a smile. He looked up at you, eyes patiently focused, and asked how youâd slept.
âGood,â you said.
âWere we, uhâŚâ
âNope.â
He nodded once, stoic.
âGood.â
Minah bounded into the kitchen from the hallway.
âGood morning!â she chirped, her voice bright and soft and warm.
âRaevyn, do you want some pancakes? I thought maybe Iâd make pancakes this morning.â
You did love pancakes, and you were adamant that you felt nothing for Hoseok, so you said yes and ate breakfast with them.
Days went by where you insisted to yourself that you didnât want him. They screwed all the time. All the fucking time. Youâd put headphones on. Youâd try to write. Youâd study. Youâd read. Youâd turn the sound on your laptop up and try to drown them out, but it was constant, the beating of a hideous heart. Each day it grew louder, each day you insisted it was nothing, each day you felt you would fade, fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget until the night you found yourself listening to what you still insisted was nothing.
You sat on the edge of your bed and stared at the floor, a beautiful and sick song of stifled moans and slapping bodies echoing in your mind, slow at first and then growing, crescendoing, climaxing in an explosion in another universe only a few feet away from where you sat.
The next night, you listened again.
And again.
They grew less concerned with their level of noise and the song changed. It became more poignant, more passionate, infuriating and arousing and intoxicating. As the song changed, you changed. Your laptop lay abandoned, your headphones not even in the same room.
You sat at the edge of the bed, then cross-legged in the middle of the bed, then lying on your back.
You told yourself again and again that it was nothing. He was nothing. You felt nothing.
You finally admitted to yourself that it wasnât ânothingâ on the night you slid your hand into your panties, touching yourself as you pictured Hoseok making love to Minah, pictured his smooth, pale skin pressed against her toned body as he impaled her on him. You pictured them together; just them, never imagining yourself writhing beneath him.
The image of that was too much, too painful, too impossible.
You came with them, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled, twisting on the bed as you muffled your own pleasure far more successfully than either of them.
Not that it mattered. They were absorbed with each other, and you were alone.
It was just a crush, you told yourself that night. And the next night. And the one after that.
You didnât admit to yourself that you were in love with him until the night you were still trying to catch your breath when you heard him say it, his voice as quiet as a pebble dropping in a lake as it splashed through the walls.
âI love you, Minah.â
Your hand was nearly underneath your shorts, your heart squeezed and clenched and cracked, and you could see them. You could see him over her; you could see his lips move as he spoke; you could see eyes of dark brown trained on her face and her face alone.
You didnât want him until she had him. You didnât want him until he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.
You loved him, and he loved her, and you cried.
Love left forgotten and unfelt will rot. It will mold and fester, turning rancid and toxic until thereâs no hint left that it used to be something beautiful. Once itâs toxic, it starts to spread. It creeps along, black fingers sulking forward and sidling up into the darkest recesses of the mind. Then it feeds there, grows there, and if itâs not caught in time, it takes over.
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