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thesunnyshow · 4 years

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Name: reya

Writing Blog URL(s): @chu-ni

Age: 19

Nationality: african-british

Languages: english, swahili, korean

Star Sign: libra

MBTI: enfp/entp (it always changes lol)

Favorite color: purple!

Favorite food: i really love chicken burgers

Favorite movie: princess and the frog

Favorite ice cream flavor: vanilla!!

Favorite animal: elephants

Go-to karaoke song: fancy - twice

Coffee or tea? What are you ordering? caramel frappe with whipped cream, in general i prefer tea though

Dream job (whether you have a job or not)? secretary general at the UN….or an author

If you could have one superpower, what would you choose? making anyone agree with me and do what i want them to do

If you could visit a historical era, which would you choose? ancient egypt!!

If you could restart your life, knowing what you do now, would you?.....no.

Would you rather fight 100 chicken-sized horses or one horse-sized chicken? neither if i could lmfao but i’d go for 100 chicken sized horses

If you were a trope in a teen high school movie, what would you have been? the nerd who’s actually really pretty after she gets a cool makeover

Do you believe in aliens/supernatural creatures? im not sure about aliens, but i definitely believe in ghosts and spirits.

What are some small things that make your day better? when i can have moments to myself to enjoy my own company. or when someone asks me what i want to eat and they bring it for me 🥺

Fun fact about yourself that not everyone would know? uhm…...probably the fact that i write fanfiction lol..but outside of that! i sing in the shower. and i talk to myself a lot.

What fandom(s) do you write for? nct dream currently, but in the future i want to expand to other groups!

When did you post your first piece? 17th of June 2018.

Do you write fluff/angst/crack/general/smut, combo, etc? Why? i can never write just one genre. predominantly i write fluff with a dash of angst for spice simply because i love a story that has an issue and then having that issue be resolved for a happy ending. when i started my blog i was 17, and so i said i wouldn't write smut. now that i'm older im feeling more and more comfortable writing suggestive content at the very LEAST.. so maybe in the future i might write smut, who knows? i like writing fluff because i like making people feel good, but i like adding angst to it because i feel like the contrast between the two is very *chefs kiss* to me.

Do you write OCs, X Readers, Ships...etc? i only write x readers!

Why did you decide to write for Tumblr? i first got tumblr when i was 13 years old and i was a fresh kpop fan lmfao. i wanted somewhere that shared my interests. of course i discovered x reader fics on here and i was in awe, i guess of how much power writers had in contributing to fandom content and keeping readers satiated. i’d always loved to write and so i’d always wanted to start my own writing blog, and for 2 years i did write for other blogs! it wasnt until 2018 that i finally took the leap and decided to start my own, because i wanted to impact people's emotions and take them on a journey through my writing.

What inspires you to write? what inspires me….teen movies, music!! music is a big one for me, and also the books that i read. i also grew up playing otome games so the plots and writing from those influence my writing a lot.

What genres/AUs do you enjoy writing the most? i really enjoy writing royalty!aus as well as exes!aus. i love to do them cause they require me to build a world and with royalty aus specifically i love weaving together bits of political intrigue, or arranged marriages, etc. its so much fun!!

What do you hope your readers take away from your work? that if this world is too rough or too much, you can always escape from it. it might not be physical, but immersing yourself in a universe that's entirely different for a little while can help soothe you.

What do you do when you hit a rough spot creatively? usually i try and take breaks. the problem with that is that my breaks can go on for longer than i’d like and im trying to fix that. so my other solution is to read read read!! read as much as i can, or go back to books that i loved. ask myself what i liked about the writing, what are some parts that i thought were amazing examples of good writing - i note them down then see if i can apply that to my own work. another thing i do is take a break from writing my longer, fleshed out works and write blurbs! blurbs are a great way for me to write but not feel like its tedious because i don't have to spend as much time on them and it gets me into the groove of writing without feeling stressed out.

What is your favorite work and why? Your most successful? my favourite piece of work is miscommunication. it took me months to write that, even after i lost all the work halfway through, and its the longest piece of work i have written so far, so its kinda like my baby. my most successful is candy jar. its also the work i owe my blog exposure to - it was the first piece i published, and it was also the first piece of writing i did in around 4 years.

Who is your favorite person to write about? i don't have much out for them, but i really enjoy exploring mark’s and jeno’s characters. they're people, but in my work i enjoy analysing them and judging how they’d act in different contexts.

Do you think there’s a difference between writing fanfiction vs. completely original prose? the only difference for me is that fanfiction (depending on the fandom) has some of the stuff fleshed out for you already, such as the world its in. if youre the type to write AUs then the only thing you already have is the characters - the planning, the writing, the drafting, and everything else is still the writer's responsibility. therefore there isn't much of a difference between the two for me.

What do you think makes a good story? a good story, to me, is one that takes me on a journey. it could be any genre, but i like to feel immersed and connected to the characters and the world in it. also aside from the obvious, like good grammar, a good story feels natural to read. i don't feel like skim reading half of it.

What is your writing process like? my writing process consists of me getting inspiration - usually from a song, or a film or a book ive read or a game ive played - i note down my idea and who i want the story to be about, and then bullet point the whole story, with some snippets of particular dialogue i want the reader or the other person to say at certain scenes. i then open another document ( i have a writing app on my phone, called werdsmith, so i use that!) and set a word count goal i want to hit so i can track my progress and start writing the fic, with fleshed out language and exposition. when im done (usually after a couple weeks up to a few months, depends on the length of the plan) i read through it to fix any mistakes, then i transfer it to docs so i can read it again and italicise any areas i feel need it.

Would you ever repurpose a fic into a completely original story? i...don't think so. mainly because the original fiction i read and would like to write for myself is predominantly fantasy, whereas the fanfic i write on my blog is usually non-idol, normal fics.

What tropes do you love, and what tropes can’t you stand? im a SUCKER for enemies to lovers, royalty ofc, “and they were roommates”, and i think superhero aus are really cool but there isnt enough of them :( idol/you as member aus....not feeling her… also abo/werewolf/vampire aus….not feelin em

How much would you say audience feedback/engagement means to you? a LOT. a HUGE amount!! i said before how i like giving my readers somewhere where they can immerse themselves as an escape, even for a short while. hearing about how my work affected them, made them feel, makes me feel less insecure about what im writing and thus more confident to publish it.

What has been one of the biggest factors of your success (of any size)? i’d say reblogs. and also putting out more content. when i first uploaded candy jar i went to my one of my favourite writers (jaeminlore) and asked her if she'd be okay with reading it and giving feedback. to my surprise she loved it and her reblogging it to all her followers is literally what gave me a bunch of followers all of a sudden who loved what i’d written. to keep that momentum i created more and more content, and while i haven't uploaded as often as i've wanted to or written as much as i’d wanted to, i can say i have a good amount of work on my masterlist for people who are looking for more to read.

Do you think fanfic writers get unfairly judged? 100%. fanfic has an unfair reputation for just having bad writing and cringey fics (and i feel like this is because of the way society views the demographics who predominantly consume and create it), when in reality i feel like those who write fanfiction are extremely talented and selfless people. they're on the internet creating content for free for people to enjoy and like any other work of art they're putting time and effort into it. i think it should be respected. any form of art is going to have its good and bad sides.

Do you think art can be a medium for change? hmmm….yes. i feel it can be a way to reflect the thoughts of people and also be a way to inspire people to do more.

Do you ever feel there are times when you’re writing for others, rather than yourself? sometimes. sometimes i feel like i'm forcing myself to write because i feel like if i don't then people will forget about me or they’ll forget about my blog. while what i choose to write about is for me, i feel like the speed of my writing and what im writing isn't to the quality i want it to be cause i feel like i gotta get it out for people to read.

Do you ever feel like people have misunderstood you or your writing at times? i've never felt that way!

Do your offline friends/loved ones know you write for Tumblr? only 2 of my friends know, and i only told them like. a week ago!

What is one thing you wish you could tell your followers? i wish you guys would message me more! i'm quite a sociable person, and i’d love to have regular anons who talk to me 👉🏽👈🏽

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers who might be too scared to put themselves out there? i think one common thing amongst all writers is that we write what we want to read. so don't feel like nobody's gonna read your work, cause somebody will. you gotta act like your work is top tier even if someone says it isn't - always write the best you can, and just do it! like don't even give yourself time to overthink it, write that fic, make it look pretty, upload it onto tumblr and do not be afraid to ask your favourite fic writers to read your work once its up!! i’d be happy to read and give feedback for any fic writers as well so don't feel afraid!

Are there any times when you regret joining Tumblr? ive been on here for 7 years….i grew up on this site lmfao. but i don't think i regret joining tumblr once.

Do you have any mutuals who have been particularly formative/supportive in your Tumblr journey? shes not very active anymore and i miss her very much but user hyuck-s was so supportive and i love her!!

Pick a quote to end your interview with:

she believed she could, so she did.

BONUS ROUND: K-POP CONFIDENTIAL

#@chu-ni #thesunnyshow #featuredauthor #episode 32 #nct dream

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stubblesandwich · 7 years

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Return To Me - Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you everyone who left kudos and/or comments on the previous chapter! The positive feedback is why there is now a second chapter, because I'm an insecure little flower to will wilt without lovely comments like the ones you fine people left me.

Thanks also for your patience in waiting for chapter two. It’s short and not very sweet. I've affectionately been referring to it as an "angst carnival", which I think is pretty accurate. But, it will all be better by the end. All my gratitude goeth to the incomparable Laura aka @welllpthisishappening for basically holding my hand through this whole chapter and lending a second eye to this. I hope you enjoyed it! Or maybe you hated it, in a sort of good way. Come tell me!

Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.

Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. Find on A03 here.

---------------- Chapter Two: Fly Me to the Moon

David, completely unfazed by her belligerent grogginess, chuckled and said, “Come on, we gotta get going.”

Gingerly, he helped her sit up and get out of bed. “Mary Margaret can help you get dressed if you need it,” he went on. “But they want us down there fairly soon. I'm guessing they need to prep you.”

Emma moved stiffly, half on autopilot, half in a daze. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, pounding against her rib cage, and she could hear her own pulse thrumming heavily in her ears. The exertion of standing left her wheezing.

David disappeared, and his wife took his place. Emma didn't actually need help getting dressed, but Mary Margaret hovered in the doorway anyway, clearly too excited to be doing anything else.

Often, Emma wondered if these people she had chosen as her family actually required sleep, or if they ran on consistent optimism and cheer like Buddy the elf.

The entire drive back to the hospital, Mary Margaret was chattering, hardly pausing to breathe. Emma barely registered what she was saying.

Over the past few months, her heart had been slowing, gradually growing more useless by the day. As it beat in her chest then, just as unsteadily as the rattle in David's truck that would sound whenever they hit a dip in the road, a terrifying thought overtook her.

This was the last night she was going to have this heart. A doctor was going to open her sternum, remove the organ that was barely keeping her alive, and replace it with someone else's.

A stranger's heart.

The thought made her want to sing out in joy and scream in terror at the same time.

Admittedly, Emma had thought about the initial phone call portion of receiving a new heart more than the surgery itself. In her daydreams, she thought about what it would be like to receive that fateful call, to be told there was a heart waiting for her. In the end, she hadn't even been the one to answer the phone. She had left her cell on the kitchen counter, and David, her night-owl brother, was fortunately still awake to answer it when it rang.

Now, she had no idea what to expect. She pictured the hospital lobby frantic and busy, with nurses and physicians' assistants darting to and fro, charts in hand, streams of papers flying behind them in a frantic trail. Basically, she pictured it matching what she felt on the inside: pure pandemonium.

In reality, it was the same calm lobby they had left only a few hours ago. The same receptionist greeted them with a sunny smile, and the same light by the restrooms was still flickering, about to go out. By now, they knew their way to the cardiac wing—up the elevator to the fourth floor, take a left and follow the long hall. With the amount of times the three of them had collectively been to this wing of the hospital before, they could likely find their way there in their sleep.

In the elevator, Mary Margaret reached down and took Emma's hand in hers, lacing their fingers together as she gave it a gentle squeeze. David took her other hand. Neither of them said anything.

They didn't have to.

+++

The surgery itself only took about four hours.

During that time, David Nolan sat in the waiting room, letting his attention bounce between a television on the wall that seemed to show only the same few news stories and a commercial for Viagra every few minutes, and the array of home and garden magazines sitting on and end table nearest to his chair.

Mary Margaret had gone home hours ago, despite her insistence to be there when Emma awoke. “You're tired,” David told her, as he leaned in to kiss her forehead sweetly. “It's been a long day and an even longer week.” Mary Margaret had wrapped her arms around his middle and sank against him, staring wearily off into the distance. “What if something happens to her, David?” She asked. Her voice was barely higher than a whisper, but David had heard her. He always did.

He kissed the top of her head. “Nothing will. But if something does, there's no better place for her to be than a hospital.”

Mary Margaret huffed in begrudging agreement. “Okay,” she whispered after a long moment, “But I don't have to like it.”

“Neither do I.”

He drove her home. With a warm cup of tea placed by her bedside and a kiss to her lips, he bid her goodnight, only permitted to leave after promising no fewer than three times he would call if something changed with Emma.

Hours later, Mary Margaret awoke to a Snapchat of the two people she cared about most in the world. David was smiling her favorite smile—big and genuine and proud, with tears shining in his bright eyes—and Emma, with a breathing tube taped to her nose and an IV in her hand, was giving a thumb's up.

Mary Margaret promptly burst into tears.

+++

At 8:15AM, the heart in Emma's chest began to beat again.

She awoke in a sterile room. The first thing she became aware of, apart from the sheer, blinding whiteness of the room itself, was her breathing. Or rather, the fact that she could breathe at all. Her chest, freed from the ever-constant, crushing weight that had pinioned it down for the past year, rose and fell rhythmically.

She felt light, untethered. Something wonderful bloomed in her chest, spilling its warmth throughout the rest of her body. A slow, languid smile spread over her face until she was grinning up at the ceiling like an idiot.

"Emma?"

She knew that voice. It took her a few moments, her brain sluggishly trying to piece things together through the haze of painkilling drugs she was on.

"Emma? Can you hear me?"

David.

David was here. Of course he was. His face came into view, and she smiled as she realized that he was dressed from head to toe in sterilized hospital scrubs, to include a mask and a little blue cap that was perched atop his head. He squinted at her for a second, until his concern gave way to joy. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and although she couldn't see his mouth behind the face mask he wore, she knew he was smiling.

He said her name again, then something else.

She couldn't hear him above the pounding of her heart, beating in her ears like a gorilla rattling the bars of an iron cage.

David's face disappeared from view, and a nurse replaced him.

It was then Emma realized for the first time that there was a breathing tube in her mouth.

Panic seized her. She started choking, the muscles of her throat tightening around it until it made her gag. The nurse spoke in soothing tones, trying to calm her.

You're okay, she heard, over and over until she actually started to believe the words were true.

The breathing tube would remain where it was until her body stabilized and her lungs remembered how to operate again on their own. It seemed simple enough, but few things in life are as uncomfortable as a breathing tube when one is conscious. Eventually, the nurses replaced it with an oxygen mask, and Emma felt like she could fly.

She couldn't even begin to count the amount of tubes that were coming out of her body, when she was lucid enough to notice. Over the next few days, they would dwindle, as IVs were swapped with real food when she could stomach it and intravenous painkillers were traded for more pills to restart her now irrelevant collection of prescription bottles in her cupboard at home.

She felt like Frankenstein's monster, but she was alive—wondrously and gloriously so. While Emma Swan had had anything but a normal or pain-free childhood, she felt like a kid again. She wanted to skip through a field, race through the woods, jump in a puddle and laugh until her sides ached. Having a working heart was, she now knew, not an over-rated thing or a promise made that would only prolong the inevitable for her. It was, plainly and simply, a miracle.

Of course, much of her unimpeded joy could have been from the morphine. But if it was, she didn't care.

+++

He awoke sharply, yanked from unconscious with a violent pull that had every last one of his nerves in its fist, crushing them.

“Jones?” came a voice.

There was so much light in the room.

“Killian,” the voice tried again. “Hey, it's me. It's... it's Robin.”

Robin, he thought. The light bulb went off in his head, and he finally placed where he knew that voice from. A weight shifted on his chest, his breathing calming just a fraction as some of the anxiousness subsided.

He felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder and turned his neck just slightly, letting his eyes focus on it as his pupils adjusted to the light.

Pain, stiff and tense, shot through his neck and the muscles of his shoulders as he moved. He groaned quietly.

“Shhh—easy, mate,” came Robin's voice again. “Just take it easy.”

A lost you're okay hung in the air between them, unvoiced.

Gradually, Robin's hand came into focus. The colors of the room unblurred, weaving together until they formed an image that actually registered in his brain. Slowly, his eyes moved, from the hand on his shoulder and up its arm, until he found his friend's face.

Robin was watching him intently. His eyes were rimmed red, shoulders sagged forward in a slump. He looked terrible.

Speech proved difficult. Killian's tongue was suddenly too thick, too dry in his mouth. He cleared his throat, and the muscles of it tensed, feeling raw and ragged.

“Where...?” he finally managed. The word rasped out, just barely audible.

Robin's mouth twitched sympathetically. He paused a moment before letting out a shaky, measured breath. “You're in the hospital, mate.”

Killian stared blankly, Robin's words slowly piecing together in his mind. “Hospital,” he finally said, uncomprehending. “No, I...” he paused and cleared his throat again, wishing desperately for a glass of water to manifest itself. “Fundraiser,” he finished weakly.

Robin ducked his head for a moment. He took his hand from Killian's shoulder and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Killian,” he started, and the rest of his sentence hung there, heavily occupying the space between them until Killian thought he was going to go mad.

“There—was an accident,” Robin went on, fumbling just slightly with his words. He had averted his eyes, suddenly addressing the wall behind Killian's bed.

“No,” Killian said, interjecting sharply. “That's not poss—no. Milah—she was driving us. She—” he stopped, cut himself off mid-sentence as his hoarse voice faded into a cracked whisper. “Milah,” he said suddenly, jerking himself up into a half-sitting position. “Where is she? Where's Milah?”

Robin looked up at him sharply, but didn't say anything. Something about his silence was infuriating, lighting a spark that had Killian's temper ignited instantly.

“Robin,” he ground out, “Where is my wife?” His voice gave out again, cutting off in a painful rasp. She was driving, he wanted to say, give voice to what little memory he had of their night. It was raining. She hadn't been drinking—he had been—so she drove them home from the fundraiser.

Something in Robin's expression broke, shattered into a million pieces behind his eyes, and Killian watched as a tear slipped down his friend's cheek. He wanted to punch it off his face. “Let me get a nurse,” Robin said, starting to rise from his chair, and he leaned toward the call button near Killian's arm.

Killian gave a frustrated growl as he reached to grab Robin's wrist to stop him.

Sharp, agonizing pain raced up his arm, and the muscles in his forearm spasmed wildly. He cried out, gritting his teeth against the pain. Robin looked horrified.

Killian's gaze shot down to his arm.

His hand was gone.

He stared at the blunted end of his wrist, panting wildly. His left hand was gone; in its place were gauze and bandages, wound around so many times that the end of his arm looked like a thick knob of white cloth.

Robin fumbled a bit with the call button at Killian's side, and it gave a loud click! when he finally managed to press it down.

“I don't need a bloody nurse,” Killian snapped, as he finally tore his gaze away from his arm. “Where the hell is my wife, Locks? Where's Milah?”

Robin offered a weak, “Take it easy, mate,” and simply stood there, frozen, hovering next to his friend's bedside.

“Don't tell me to take it easy,” Killian spat, his tone murderous. He started to swing his legs out to the side of the bed, trying in vain to sit up the rest of the way. His ribs screamed in protest, driving the breath from him, and he gasped against the pain.

“Killian,” Robin said, all the command of his collective military days resurfacing to weave through his tone, as he put both hands on his friend's shoulders and pushed him back down onto his bed. “She's gone.”

Killian jerked his head to look at him. “What did you just say?”

Tears sprang back into Robin's eyes. “Milah's gone,” he repeated.

“Like hell she is,” Killian snarled, starting to rise again. Robin held him down, keeping a firm grip on his shoulders, and Killian felt his outrage growing to a crescendo. “Get off me, Locksley,” he bit out. His voice was hoarse with disuse, gravel against his throat.

Killian jerked his hand forward, and one of his IVs slipped out, dangling uselessly at his side.

This seemed to be the last straw for Robin Locksley.

“She's dead, mate,” he said finally. Killian sat back, breathing heavily. “Milah is dead.”

Killian cursed at him viciously. Robin didn't so much as blink in response. The moment Killian said it, he regretted it, and his eyes flit up to the ceiling, its lights blurring together again in his vision as a sheen of tears arose.

Robin finally relaxed his grip on Killian's shoulders. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn't want to be the one to tell y--”

“She was just driving us home,” Killian whispered, his voice breaking around the last few words. Tears slipped out from his eyes, dampening the hair just above his ears as he continued to stare at the ceiling lights.

“That was over six hours ago,” Robin said quietly.

Killian looked at him, stunned.

Robin's features, suddenly, became horribly distorted by his tears. A lump arose and lodged itself painfully in his already ragged throat, cutting off his words at the source.

As if he had words to follow news that his wife had been dead for several hours.

Pain bloomed in his chest, and Killian tossed his head back against the head of his bed, gasping against it.

It wasn't true.

It couldn't be true.

He gasped again, suddenly not able to get enough air into his lungs.

The door to his room swung open and a nurse entered,

Robin stepped back, inching toward the window, likely wishing for all the world he could just leap out of it. The nurse addressed him, and she and Robin spoke for a few seconds, but their words were lost on Killian. He couldn't understand them above the roaring in his ears.

Abruptly, the nurse was standing next to him, hovering at his shoulder. She offered him a warm, albeit brief smile and spoke something to him in a soothing tone. Out of his line of sight, she fiddled with his IV for a moment, before she reappeared, smiling again, and placed a hand on his bicep reassuringly.

Whatever she did had a quick effect. Within a minute, his thrashing heart slowed to a rhythmic lull. Warmth overtook him like a tide, and the lids of his eyes were suddenly too heavy to hold open any longer. The sedation carried him off like a gentle wave, bringing him out to sea, and he let himself be drowned in it.

+++

The room was light when he awoke.

It was quiet, almost eerily so, and he had the sense he wasn't supposed to be awake.

Robin and the nurse were gone, had been for some time. It was likely Killian wasn't expected to be conscious again for hours, after what his nurse had filtered into his IV.

Yet, he was.

Daylight had begun to filter in through his room's only window. It danced across the end of his bed, splashing its golden light across his blanketed legs between stripes of shadow cast by the long, vertical blinds. They swayed just slightly as the air conditioning kicked on from a near by vent.

A few murmurs of distant conversation drifted his way from the hall outside the room's door, but apart from that, the hospital was serenely silent.

A clock was ticking.

Lazily, his eyes tried to find it. It was a simple, white-faced clock on the wall opposite his bed. The numbers were over-sized and easy for patients of all ages to read.

8:15, it read. Morning, he assumed, by the light filtering into the room.

He stared at it, watching the sweep hand tick away seconds as it made its way across the clock's face.

An odd thrumming overtook his ears. It was unsteady at first, somewhat erratic. The noise was familiar, but it took him a moment to place the usually unmistakable sound: a beating heart.

It was not his own heart beat; the pulsing in his ears didn't quite match the rhythm in his own chest, which had slowed considerably after he'd been sedated. No, this was a different beating altogether.

He wouldn't give it much thought, later. He didn't know enough about anatomy to question whether someone's pulse could sound differently in their ears than the rate at which their actual heart was pumping. But as 8:15 gave way to the next minute, and the one after that, the sound of the beating heart in his ears began to even out, until it became a steady, normal rhythm to match his own.

Something about it calmed Killian, reassured him in some way. His lids grew heavy again, and the face of the clock blurred, its numbers twisting together in his vision as he began to drift away into a deep, tranquil sleep.

-------- gonna tag a few folks who I think might care this is up: @bleebug @spartanguard @sunbeamsandmoonrays @caprelloidea @kmomof4 @queen-mabs-revenge @ahsagitarius @galadriel26 @t-tamm-

@lavendersoapsuds @its-imperator-furiosa @midnightswans @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky @withheartfulloflove @captainswan-middlemist @sarahreadsff @princesseslikepirates @winterbaby89 @pirateherokillian @wordslovedreams

@hannah-mic @thecraftyartist @blackwidownat2814 @once-uponacaptain @kylalovesbabeme @swiftmicheles @emmaswanstlk @captainswanslay

@the-tones-of-wallflowers @kday426 @krystalsficpage

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fanfiction #cs fanfic #millian #captain swan fanfiction #cs angst #return to me

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