#Words cannot explain the experience I had with this fic

[snotman]

ISTG LET ME HOOK Y'ALL UP ON SOME DIVINE TYPE FIC.

fic so good you felt like you were reading a book and was blushing the whole time

Zeus/ody/penelope was something I didn't think I needed.

[eightmakesonebraincell]

and if it stops snowing? then count the stars in the sky

genre: poly doctors!ateez x doctor fem!reader, hospital romance, established relationship, slow burn, fluff, angst

length: 39.7k

c/w: slow burn in reverse, work/life burnout, heavy medical themes (death, cancer) and mentions of medical procedures (medication, needles, chemotherapy, surgery), grief and crying, brief mentions of self-harm (hitting, pinching), mental breakdowns, workplace misogyny and nepotism, profanity, kissing, non-sexual nudity, m x m interactions

synopsis: after transferring during the last year of your residency program, you work alongside your eight boyfriends at kq hospital. it becomes harder to keep your relationship the same as it used to be as you all navigate the respective challenges of being doctors and nurses. you come to experience love and loss in both warmth and coldness, but only one of them will keep your relationship alive.

a/n: please read the tags carefully as this is probably my heaviest fic in terms of the themes and struggles being explored. mandatory shoutout @sorryimananti-romantic for putting up with my snail-pace writing speed the last five months :)

nobody talks about how ironic it feels to work in the hospital during the holidays, particularly christmas.

in any other establishment that is open, be it a restaurant, cafe, retail store or convenience mart, employees are greeted kindly with festive cheer–warm wishes and sincere smiles from one stranger to another. but nobody walks into the hospital on christmas with laughter and gratitude for the assistance of the doctors and nurses, because nobody wants to be at the hospital.

nobody plans to spend the day there, either.

where white embodies the nature of christmas itself–joy, celebration, festivity, snow–it changes the moment you step through the sliding glass doors of the hospital’s entrance. white is the sterile and detached appearance of the tiled floors and coated walls. it is the bedsheets and linen of the ward beds which fall short of mimicking home. it is the authoritative coats of the doctors who are the arbiters between life and death; the very same coat that jongho currently wears over his scrubs.

you are reminded of this dystopian juxtaposition as you and five others gather around your phone from the brightness of the cosy living room in your shared apartment, talking to jongho over facetime while he hides in a storage room for five minutes of respite.

in the background of your video, the fairy lights blink rhythmically on the christmas tree and reflect off the glossy wrappers of the presents placed underneath its bottom branches. behind jongho, there are shelves of medication that you can recognise as the anaesthetics and anticoagulants solely from the colours of their labels, even in the hazy darkness of the storage room.

“you won’t fucking believe the number of grannies i’ve had to explain to today that no, they cannot go home for christmas because they literally just came out of open-heart surgery ten hours ago,” jongho rubs his temples.

yeosang laughs quietly from beside you, amusement poorly concealed behind his hands. you fondly admonish him with a light slap to his thigh but cannot deny the smile that tugs at your lips too.

rushing in for damage control, seonghwa asks, “how’s mingi?”

“tired as fuuuck,” jongho snickers whilst dragging out his words smugly, as if his own eye bags do not reach the middle of his cheeks. the way he lacks the self-control to police his language is also evidence of his utter exhaustion. “last i heard, he was dealing with a couple who had gotten a bauble ornament stuck up the dude’s ass because they wanted to try something ‘festive’ or some shit like that.”

the stories you hear from the emergency department never fail to amaze you with what the human mind can think of doing. it is natural selection at its finest–exhibit a, b, all the way to fucking z. wooyoung gets an absolute kick out of it every single time though, so there is that.

“plain stupidity,” hongjoong rolls his eyes in exasperation. “people need to stop adding to our caseload.”

you chuckle with agreement. “what about yunho? did you get to see him?”

“he’s in surgery,” jongho shakes his head. “not sure what for, but i haven’t heard from him all day so it must be a pretty complicated one.”

the conversation is cut short when his pager goes off. jongho curses, downing the last of his coffee in one large gulp and grimacing from the stale and grainy taste. he crumples the empty paper cup before he apologises, “i have to go. sorry we couldn’t spend christmas together.”

from over the phone, you and your boys refute him with comforting utterances of “don’t be”s, followed by warm exchanges of “merry christmas”s.

“i love you all,” jongho murmurs shyly, the end of a call the only time other than whispered confessions in the safety of a bed where he is comfortable enough to express himself so intimately.

you respond giddily, “love you too,” at the same time your other boyfriends also return the same spoken sentiments. then the youngest ends the call, rushing to attend to an abnormal ECG reading for a patient.

san lets out a sad little sigh as the screen of your phone turns off. his fingers continue to absentmindedly tousle the back of yours and yeosang’s heads whilst wondering, “when will we get to celebrate christmas together? i don’t think all nine of us have ever been free on the same day since we started dating.”

“most of you finish your residency in just over a year, and jongho in two,” seonghwa fondly pinches san’s cheeks, a bittersweet smile adorning his own face, “so maybe the year after that?”

piping up from your other side, wooyoung suggests to the oldest, “or, hear me out–you and hongjoong work while the rest of us stay at home.”

“and do what,” hongjoong narrows his eyes.

“look pretty,” you say in unison with wooyoung, twin grins of mischief flashing at the only registered doctor and clinical nurse specialist in your relationship.

seonghwa laughs endearingly as hongjoong pretends he is not. the rounds of your cheeks settle with warmth when seonghwa leans down to place a sweet kiss against the corner of your mouth in between a teasing, “i wouldn’t mind that.”

it draws out a girlish giggle from you, forever unable to curb the feeling of butterflies in your stomach whenever you are with your boys, even more so with the intoxication of christmas itself–the season of love. wooyoung tilts his cheek out expectantly for his own kiss at the same time hongjoong scruffs the oldest by the neck with a playful chide, “they’re going to actually drop out from the residency program at this rate, hwa.”

but hongjoong is smitten, as you all are for one another, and contrary to his words there is adoration dripping from his gaze…only for it to immediately disappear when wooyoung punches his forearm.

“kiss me, peasant!” wooyoung demands.

“that’s it,” hongjoong snaps and the younger screeches as his neck becomes wrapped in a headlock. in retaliation, wooyoung bites the skin that is within reach, setting off a high-pitched yelp.

yeosang stands up so you take it as your cue to do the same, both of you tucking your chairs under the dining table as san and seonghwa step back from the commotion. you grab your phone then walk away with the three of them to the continued sound of petty slaps and childish bickering.

just another normal day.

“should we sleep in the main bedroom tonight?”

at your suggestion, san wraps his arms around you from behind. his voice rumbles with enthusiasm that you can feel against your back and you sink into his embrace as he agrees, “good idea, love.”

the main bedroom is quite literally a bed room. it consists of numerous platform beds pushed together to make–for lack of better description–an XXXXXXXXL bed. there is nothing else in the room, any and all visible space taken up by the beds as it is the only way to create a surface size comfortable for all nine of you to sleep together.

there are only double or twin beds in the remaining normal bedrooms because frankly, you all need quality sleep for your jobs. between all of your on-call shifts, leaving the house and arriving home at random hours of the day, it is just easier to sleep separately on most nights. plus, despite the fact that you are all earning more than the average salary already, there is still a fuckload of student debt to pay off and mattresses are fucking expensive. hence, you make do with the one room where you splurged your money.

“i’ll let the others know,” yeosang states. he pulls out his phone to send a text to the group chat. mingi and jongho were unlucky enough to have drawn the short end of the stick with a 24-hour shift, and yunho had apparently been placed on surgery. so although it is not the ideal nine of you, you have long learnt to accept that there will almost always be at least two absent at any one time.

seonghwa has already made himself comfortable in the centre of the mattresses when you walk into the bedroom. he lifts the edge of the blanket, arms beckoning for you to cuddle him. you toe off your slippers and crawl into his arms, slotting yourself perfectly against his chest as he tucks you under his chin and covers you with the blanket that is warm from his body heat.

the bed dips again from the weight of somebody else slipping in behind you. he curls around you, a sturdy arm gently cradling your waist with a comforting weight. you can immediately tell that it is san simply from the way his body feels against yours–you would be able to tell any of them apart simply from the way they held you, even if you were to lose your sense of sight.

slowly tracing a finger along the prominent veins on san’s forearm, the bed suddenly rocks with a gleeful shout before the three of you are crushed under an energetic mass. “wooyoung!” you gasp between exasperated fondness and he giggles whilst squirming to make himself space within the cuddle pile.

san moves over so the younger can slot in beside you whilst extending an arm out to his side. it wraps around yeosang to tuck him into the group, and hongjoong settles in last behind seonghwa on the outside edge. there is a bit of further wriggling as you all adjust yourselves comfortably, but eventually your arms and legs twist together snugly. with seonghwa’s fingers languidly combing through your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp with each repetitive motion, you drift off to the boys’ low whispers and enter a dreamy haze of cackling fire and fluttering snow.

it is well into the early hours of the next morning when one of the trio comes home. the soft click of the front door wakes you up, your body used to sleeping lightly from years of on-call shifts. your ears slowly drag you back into the realms of consciousness as you listen.

there is a dull thud and a muffled “ow” that tells you it is yunho, the only one who has somehow made it a habit of his to bump his head on the cabinet every time he bends down to put his sneakers away. as his soft footsteps pad down the hallway, you track his path mentally in your head; to the open dining room to place his messenger bag down on one of the chairs, to the bathroom to wash his face and his hands, then finally to the main bedroom.

to see his lovers.

yunho nudges the door open with bated breath in hopes that he does not wake anybody up. a smile immediately spreads across his face, unable to contain his fondness at the sight that greets him as his eyes adjust to the darkness. within the hands of slumber, you and the boys have slowly spread yourselves out across the mattresses. still, you somehow manage to find each other through the tangle of blankets–seonghwa’s fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist; the tip of wooyoung’s nose nudging your forearm–unwilling to completely separate even in your unconsciousness.

your body dips with the mattress under yunho’s weight when he carefully inches towards you. his sturdy arms hold his frame over your smaller one and you pretend to be asleep just to feel the protective tenderness with which he dips his head slowly to press the softest of kisses against your temple. his warm lips worship your skin with the reverence a butterfly would land upon the prettiest of flowers.

in the magical remnants of an enchanted pre-dawn, yunho whispers bittersweetly, “sorry i’m late, y/n. merry christmas.” then he tucks the blanket more snugly around you, cocooning you in both warmth and love before he pushes himself back off the bed to leave.

as much as he wants to hold you and his boys, yunho has not yet showered. he is exhausted to his very core, unable to bring himself to the arduous task of showering when he can barely keep his eyes open. so he retires himself to one of the other bedrooms instead even though it is the last thing any of you want.

but all of you are used to it. none of you are strangers to coming home in the ghostly hours of night, fighting off debilitating weariness long enough only to check on the others briefly before falling against a mattress away from the clean warmth of somebody's arms.

it is the career and life that you have all chosen. it is just another normal day.

and it is this exact self-sacrificial nature within the medical field that is easily forgotten and overlooked. you and your boys sacrifice your holidays with loved ones to ensure other people get to go back to their loved ones for the holidays. it comes with the price of time, freedom and memories.

but what can also happen is that sometimes…you end up sacrificing the relationships themselves.

for every rapid shuffle you make throughout the house, gathering your things to haphazardly shove into your backpack, mingi trails behind you easily with languid strides of his own.

“i can drive,” you reason half-heartedly as you focus on the stubborn front zipper. “you can be my passenger princess.”

his scandalised look that you would even suggest a thing goes unnoticed even as he protests, “or you be my passenger princess.”

“okay, and how will i get home? your shift doesn’t even end at the same time as mine.” you throw the door of the fridge open to grab your packed lunch, cramming it into the large compartment of your bag.

“yun’s shift does, so he can give you a ride home unless he gets called in for surgery again.”

“and if he does?”

mingi looks at the whiteboard calendar that is mounted on the wall beside him, squinting at the mass of colour-coded letters that are scribbled into the box marking today’s date. “then wait for hwa. his shift ends at five.”

“no,” you roll your eyes good-naturedly, “you know how often he picks up extra hours because he can’t bear to leave his PICU babies. i’ll just take the bus home.”

“no,” mingi mimics you as he holds out your coat for you to shrug on, “the correct answer is to then wait for hongjoong or call one of us. between the eight of your boyfriends, there’ll always be someone who is just ending their shift or is free to pick you up.”

you look up from your shoes to level him with a blank stare, “you know that isn’t feasible every single day, right?” despite your words, you do nothing to stop him from stealing your car keys out of your pocket.

mingi’s doggedness–all of their doggedness–in ensuring one of them will always be accompanying you to and from work is endearing, but the truth is that it is not feasible. there is a reason why you had been commuting by yourself the last three years of your residency, and along with the fact that the nine of you have different shifts that change each week, the logistics of it all will drive you insane, if not them.

“that’s besides the point. it’s your first day of work today so i’m doing my baby a favour,” mingi coos teasingly, pinching your cheeks because he knows it gets a rise out of you.

you swat his hands away with a grunt, jabbing his side for good measure in retaliation to his smug grin. “you talk as if we aren’t both fourth-year residents. and it’s not a favour if you have to go there anyway since, you know, we work at the same hospital.”

“it’s your first day at this hospital, so technically you’re still fresh meat,” mingi argues as he pulls the front door open. while you lock it behind you–everybody else already at the hospital–he continues, “plus, my shift doesn’t start until tonight so i’m sacrificing my sleep for you.”

you give him a little curtsy with exaggerated gratitude then hurry after him when he swivels on his heel, head held high like a noble king with you as his court lady. except, the roles reverse the moment you reach the car and he opens the passenger door for you with a bow.

“m’lady,” he beckons inside.

you snort but settle yourself into the seat, patiently waiting for mingi to get in from the other side of the car. as he starts the fifteen-minute drive to the hospital, you suddenly look at him with suspicious clarity, head now clearing enough to wonder why the most rational of your boyfriends is being irrational. 

“you’re trying to get on my good side for something, aren’t you? did you spill coffee on seonghwa’s scrubs again?” you narrow your eyes at him.

“what?” mingi’s head whips towards you before he looks back at the road, chuckling nervously. “no? of course not. why would you think that?”

at your lack of response, he crumbles with a confession. “it was hongjoong’s idea! he said i should drop you off so i can size up whoever might try and chat you up on your first day.”

“god, you’re all hopeless,” you burst out into laughter.

prior to today, you and the boys had discussed how public you were all going to be at the hospital about your relationship. it had been decided that you would not deny it if questions arose, but at the same time, you were not going to go out of your way to make your relationship with one another general knowledge.

not everybody is going to be accepting of your polyamorous dynamic and neither do you need people questioning whether you successfully transferred into the residency program at this hospital through…favours. because despite the fact that it is the twenty-first century, it remains the harsh reality that the doctoral field is still predominantly male-oriented, with females automatically assumed to be the nurses–lesser in hierarchy, knowledge and skill.

a rumour as such might not affect the boys but it would be enough to tarnish your career.

as mingi pulls into the underground parking lot for employees, you rest a hand on his forearm to stop him from turning off the ignition. “mingi, i’ll be fine,” you reassure. “go home and get some sleep.”

“but hongjoong–”

“–will just have to stop being a big baby. we’re in our mid-twenties,” you chuckle, “not fresh eighteen-year-olds discovering the opposite gender for the first time. everyone’s going to be too busy on their first day to care about flirting.”

you lean over the console of the car and mingi relaxes easily under your hand that caresses his jawline. he melts once you press a soft kiss against his cheek, conceding, “alright.”

“i’ll see you at home before your shift.”

he nods and watches as you get out of the car. from out of the open window, he gives you a cute little wave, waiting for you to walk through the sliding doors before he leaves. you walk to the elevator doors to press the up arrow, fidgeting with your scrubs and hair with nervous restlessness until the sounding of a soft ding followed by the low groan of parting doors. you take a deep breath, then you walk in.

into kq hospital.

boasting over one hundred different core and specialised departments and home to some of the few fields in advanced medicine, kq hospital is the largest and most renowned hospital in seoul. your years of clinical experience in other hospitals and past visits to your boys during their shifts provide you with a sense of familiarity with the place, but it is still easy to feel overwhelmed by its formidable size and bustling urgency.

seeing the fresh interns and second-year residents gathered in the auditorium as you join them for the morning orientation reminds you of your own four years ago. never did you think you would have to undergo orientation again during your residency, yet here you are, having transferred to kq hospital in your final year for the clinical exposure and opportunities in career advancement that it has to offer.

you sit towards the back of the auditorium, a few seats away from a girl who has the nerves of an intern. you give her a polite smile then face the front, not exactly ready to make small talk unless you have to. yunho always jokes that as an introvert you really picked the wrong job–you have no defence as you pull out your phone and pretend to be occupied.

somebody slides into the seat next to yours a few minutes later. however, your saving grace comes in the form of several people walking across the front of the stage, so you do not have to do much more than dip your head in courteous greeting before everybody settles into silence.

a woman in thin-rimmed glasses steps up to the podium. “welcome, interns and residents. my name is doctor heo and i’m the program director of the paediatric residency program here at kq hospital.”

the hours of the morning quickly blur together into a multitude of faces, names and information. you and a few of the other senior residents had only been required to attend half of the general welcome talk, your orientation much faster and tailored to your pre-existing experience. by the time you have gone through the policies, patient populations and workflows of the paediatric department, your head is reeling to digest it all.

only at twelve do you converge with the interns again, this time at the cafeteria. there is a generous spread of catering of finger food and drinks before the joint lunch you will have with the other faculty members from your department.

“this will be a good opportunity for all of you to meet the residents, doctors, nurses and department heads. get to know your colleagues because they will be the ones you are learning from,” dr. heo advises.

your ears perk up, wondering whether you will be able to see some of your boyfriends. san is already a fourth-year resident in the paediatric department, wooyoung one of the nurses, and even though seonghwa works mainly in the paediatric ICU, his position as a clinical nurse specialist likely makes him important enough to at least show his face.

everybody starts to make their way over to the tables to fill their plates as they mingle and chat amongst one another. you have always had a sensitive stomach that often disagrees with food–the very reason why wooyoung makes your lunch most days, which currently still sits inside your bag–but you do not want to appear ungrateful or picky. so you head to the drinks to at least keep your hands filled.

just as you grab a small glass of orange juice, a voice startles you. “it’s you! hi.”

you turn to find a man maybe a few years younger than you with a bright smile on his face. “hi?” you hesitantly answer, unsure why he is acting so familiar with you.

he frowns slightly, “you don’t remember me?”

you could honestly give less than a flying fuck who he is, but you suppose the whole point of this break is to give those fucks, so you apologise instead, “sorry, i’m not great with faces.”

“i sat next to you during orientation this morning,” he laughs like you have just cracked the funniest joke. he extends his hand out for a handshake, “i’m doctor baek, but you can call me cheolmin.”

“nice to meet you, doctor baek,” you return the handshake, setting your boundaries with your response. “doctor l/n.”

he quirks a brow amusedly. unprompted, he reveals, “my sister’s boyfriend’s aunt’s friend knows the director of this hospital,” as if he thinks you would be impressed. you are willing to bet the seventy-two dollars in your savings account that the director of the hospital does not have a clue who this dr. baek is.

as you struggle to come up with a professional response that is not a sarcastic ‘cool’, you suddenly make eye contact with somebody from over his shoulder. they are looking at you with nonchalant amusement, lips tugged up smugly and their hands in the pockets of their coat.

you hurry to wrap up the conversation and make a move to step around dr. baek. “that’s great, nice to meet you. i’m going to go and introduce myself to–”

“are you doing anything after work today?” he cuts you off, stepping slightly in front of you. “it would be nice for us to get to know each other better, considering we’ll be colleagues from now on.”

“uh…” you trail off, distracted when you make eye contact again with the person and they cock their eyebrow, asking for your permission to play knight. you give the subtlest of nods before dr. baek adjusts himself into your line of vision.

“doctor l/n, don’t play hard to g–”

“y/n,” the dependable voice of hongjoong interrupts dr. baek. your expression relaxes into a smile as your boyfriend sidles up to you, presence steadfast and unwavering. “i didn’t catch you this morning–how are you getting home?”

dr. baek’s eyes narrow even further at the implication of hongjoong’s question than when he realises you two are on first-name basis.

“mingi dropped me off so i can’t drive,” you shrug.

“i finish at five-thirty. i’ll take you home,” hongjoong says, absentmindedly brushing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “make sure to put on your jacket while you wait for me. it’s meant to snow later so it’ll be cold.”

you laugh softly at his attentiveness, “okay, hongjoong.”

unable to watch any longer, dr. baek pivots on his heel and stalks away. your boyfriend cannot resist pulling you closer by the sleeve of your scrubs as he haughtily huffs, “i knew people would hit on you.”

“is that why you told mingi to take me to work today?” you tease. hongjoong is also from the neurology department–definitely not meant to be here right now–but you will save that ammunition for another time.

“oh, look,” hongjoong pretends not to hear you as he ushers you away from the tables. “san and wooyoung are over there. let’s go and talk to people who actually matter.”

the laugh you let out this time is unrestrained, letting yourself be led through the interspersed groups of people towards your other boyfriends–the only people who actually matter. san and wooyoung’s faces break out into the most tender of smiles the moment they lay their eyes upon you and hongjoong, and the remaining nerves and tension in your body completely melt away when you feel their subtle embraces around you.

it may be winter and the road ahead to acclimatise with your new job may be demanding, but you know that you will be shielded from the cold of the world by the warmth that your boys will always bring to you.

“patient history and current status?”

selecting the seventh floor, you press the close button to the elevator doors once your team of four have settled inside. you turn back slightly to look at your interns in wait for a response to your question.

dr. son glances at dr. yang before answering, “the patient is kim seolhee, currently six years and three months old. she was initially diagnosed with T-cell acute lymphoblastic leukaemia at two years, eight months. she was admitted into hospital one month ago due to a relapse and is currently undergoing re-induction therapy. she received a chemotherapy dose this morning, so we are monitoring for any potential side effects from the treatment.”

“and how is she responding to the treatment?” you probe.

“slow response–the leukaemia cells are not clearing as expected so second-line chemotherapy is likely to be recommended.”

you nod at the information as the elevator doors open to the paediatric oncology ward. walking out, you ask, “why is the patient not responding to first-line treatment?”

the following silence permeates with flusteredness that shows neither intern has considered this question. “doctor lee?” you cue instead.

the junior resident takes over with ease. “seolhee’s initial treatment when she was first diagnosed required aggressive chemotherapy due to resistant leukaemia. treatment lasted for two and a half years and she achieved remission at five years, four months. however, she relapsed one month ago due to minimal residual disease in the bone marrow.

“from her history, we know that her leukaemia was resistant to initial treatment and there is the persistence of residual cancer cells at the time of relapse. plus, her diagnosis is T-cell, not B-cell, which tends to present with greater quantities of leukaemia cells and thus requires more intensive therapy. all of these risk factors combined makes it difficult for remission to be achieved through first-line re-induction therapy.”

“well done, doctor lee,” you acknowledge as he beams, “all of that and the fact that her relapse is early–merely nine months after remission–correlates to a higher likelihood of treatment resistance.” you address your interns, “it is easy to focus on the patient’s immediate presentation, but it is just as important–if not more–to look at it in the context of their prior admissions and treatment responses. that was a good attempt though, doctor yang.” reaching the door to the room you are about to enter, you quickly wrap up the conversation and head in.

seolhee looks at you curiously, a new face being one of the only interesting things that change up her repetitive days in the hospital. her sickly pallor and sunken cheeks are a morbid juxtaposition against her rounded eyes and braided pigtails. as you walk closer, you can see that her hair has been plaited loosely with care so as not to strain her already-thinning hair.

you lower yourself to the side of her bed with a bright smile as you compliment, “i love your hair! who did it for you?”

immediately, she beams, any prior apprehension clearing as she tells you, “my favourite nurse! he's been braiding my hair for years!”

“has he now?” you gaze at her fondly as she happily shows you the ribbons tied to the ends too.

“are you talking about me?”

seolhee’s eyes instantly light up in response to the voice that enters the room. she exclaims, “nurse hwa!”

“hello, my snowflake.”

you turn just in time to see seonghwa walking in with endearment enveloping his entire face. you let out a small chuckle, your own eyes melting with honey at the sight of him. of course he would be the favourite nurse.

when seolhee questions why he is making his rounds earlier than usual, he leans in conspiratorially, yet in a whisper loud enough for you to hear, “a little birdie told me that your new doctor is very pretty, so i had to come see for myself.”

he winks at you and you shake your head with an exasperated smile. so much for keeping lowkey and professional. clearing your throat, you play along, “ah, are you the favourite nurse who braided her hair, nurse hwa?” you find it absolutely hilarious that six-year-olds are using the same pet name that you use for your boyfriend.

seonghwa nods, “my girlfriend taught me.”

“she must be quite the amazing girlfriend, then,” you joke.

“she is,” he smiles, gazing softly at you.

for a six-year-old, seolhee is frighteningly perceptive as she looks back and forth between the two of you before blurting out, “is she the pretty girlfriend you always talk about?”

you fluster with a bright blush that you try to conceal behind a cough, only to make eye contact with dr. son and dr. lee giving you the most delightful shit-eating grins on their faces from beside you. seonghwa simply laughs, brightly and joyfully like the festive chime of bells. his affirmative nod in response is just as childishly proud as the one adorning seolhee’s face at having guessed correctly. she decides right there and then that you are her favourite doctor, because you are pretty.

“let me give you something,” she beckons with a small wave, little fingers calling for you to look closely.

seolhee pulls a little booklet out of the bedside table’s top drawer. the cover and edges are well-loved and from the way the top of the little booklet is nearly falling apart, you can tell that she has used it often. she flicks through the empty pages one by one until she finds what she is looking for. fiddling for a few more seconds, she holds out her hand to present you with–

“a sticker?” you ask.

“for doing a good job,” she giggles.

you take the circular sticker from her extended fingers. when you look down, you realise it is a little snowflake with a smiley face on it. the corners of your own mouth tug upwards involuntarily and your cheeks round out until they start to feel sore. never did you think a mere sticker would bring you such glee as an adult, but you are going to wear it proudly.

you tug the breast pocket of your scrubs outwards so that you can stick it onto your name badge, right next to the small twinkling star that is the signature additional design on all of the paediatric departments’ name badges. at your response, seolhee beams with pride.

“where’s mine?” seonghwa childishly quips.

“you haven’t done anything yet,” seolhee wags her little finger at him as he swallows the urge to retort that neither have you. “have you drawn my blood yet? inserted an eye-vee line or a…pick line?”

“no,” he chortles in defeat, “no IV or PICC lines today. maybe a blood test later.”

“so no sticker for you,” she reprimands him rightfully.

the conversation draws a laugh out of you, yet leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. a child like seolhee should be talking about the colour of her doll’s dress and the name of her plush teddy, not medical procedures that draw her line between life and death.

seonghwa eyes your sticker mischievously. “i might have to steal her sticker then.”

seolhee glares at him like a ferocious kitten, easily deciding that you are now her favourite out of all the doctors and nurses. “don’t you dare,” she pouts before turning to you with full solemnity and seriousness to pledge, “if he steals it, come back and i’ll give you another one.”

you send him a smug wink and seonghwa finally concedes, arms raised in mock surrender. “i’ll go back to my morning rounds then. see you later, snowflake,” he gives her a wave before bidding you goodbye with playful professionalism, “see you later, doctor l/n.”

on his way out, seonghwa exchanges brief but warm pleasantries with a middle-aged woman who is simultaneously entering the room. it is easy to presume that she is seolhee’s visitor, considering she is not wearing scrubs. just as you are about to introduce yourself, the woman's eyes skim right past yours to land on the taller of the interns behind you.

"hi, you must be seolhee's new doctor," she greets. "i'm her mother."

dr. yang shifts uncomfortably on his feet and glances at you, unsure how to correct the older woman that whilst he is a doctor, he is not the most senior one. with grace, you extend a warm hand out with an even warmer smile.

"lovely to meet you, mrs kim. i'm doctor l/n, and this is my intern, doctor yang," you introduce, before gesturing behind to your left. "this is my other intern, doctor son, and this is doctor lee, my second-year resident."

seolhee's mother rushes to shake your hand as she trails off, "sorry, i assumed he was the doctor because..."

"i know, i get that often. don't worry about it," you pat her hand placatingly.

she responds, "well, it's going to be nice having a female face around."

from the flush on her face and the overcompensatory laugh that leaves her lips, you know she does not mean it as much as she is trying to cover up her embarrassment. the woman before you is not the first person to have dismissed you as a nurse or an intern solely based on your gender, and she will definitely not be the last. so you pretend not to notice, redirecting with a laugh of your own and the question, “how has seolhee been feeling since her dose this morning?”

mrs kim easily jumps on the change in conversation and the attention shifts to the little girl in bed. you listen intently to any side effects of concern, long having learnt to ignore the layered feelings of fatigue, frustration and disappointment in your chest whenever somebody undermines your capabilities, even if it is never ill-intentioned.

because as with any job, there are sacrifices to be made, and putting other people’s comfort before your own is just one of the many.

you do not want to jinx it, but you think that you may not mind night shifts after all.

“what are you thinking about?”

yeosang fills your entire vision, his brown orbs blinking at you curiously with a mellow dusting of blossom pink speckled across his cheeks from your close proximity. you have often been pulled away into a hidden corner or spare room somewhere within the labyrinth of the hospital by one of your boyfriends for a few minutes of company, but this is the first time yeosang has initiated it. his shy nature is endearing though, and it is a much-needed break during your second consecutive night shift.

you tease, "it's a secret," before pressing an innocent kiss against the corner of his lips right where it quirks up bashfully whenever he is around you. yeosang carefully rests his hands on the dips of your hips and brings you in a little closer towards him as you ask, "what about you? what's on your mind?"

“wondering how long we can stay in this storage room for before one of us gets paged.”

his answer stuns you for a second but then you both break out into giggles at the absurdity of his answer. “jongho has rubbed off on you too much," you adoringly flick the bottom of his chin with the tip of your finger. not many people know, but yeosang is just as bad of an influence as all your other boyfriends when he wants to be.

"we could try," he suggests with a grin. "none of my team was rostered on for a night shift with me."

your laugh easily fills the small space, "neither was my team."

“so nobody would come looking for us, unless–”

a discrete tap sounds against the door from right next to where you and yeosang are pressed up against one another. you both fall silent and motionless, pupils wide and breaths held, hoping you have either misheard or whoever is outside will leave soon. but then you hear another tap and it does not stop. the tapping is incessant, obviously trying to gain the attention of you two. yeosang ducks down as you raise the blinds of the small window on the door and you peer out to find–

–fucking wooyoung squashed right up against the glass pane with a cheshire grin. you finish yeosang’s sentence for him, “unless one of our boyfriends do.”

wooyoung perks up immediately at the word 'boyfriends' as if that is his cue. "hi," he announces, "are you guys making out? i heard yeosang."

you sputter while yeosang pops up beside you with a horrified expression at the younger’s uncouth question. said person beams cheekily, “can i join?”

wooyoung’s breath fogs up the glass with every word he says but he is unfazed. your boyfriend simply rubs the glass with the sleeve of his coat, presses his face up against the window again and continues to look at you both with a dazzling, expectant smile. when neither of you respond, he winks for good measure.

wooyoung flinches and shrieks when you tap the glass right between his eyes. he jerks back enough for you to push the door open and step out through the gap with mirth bubbling in your chest. you playfully drag your fingers across his chest, then tease with faux coyness, “break time is over, sorry.”

the indignant whine you receive in response is more than enough for the amusement to spill out of your chest as you walk away. you will make it up to him with triple the amount of kisses once both of you are home. for now, you walk back to your department, pleased that yeosang’s oncology ward is not far from yours.

even during the late hours of a night shift, the hospital is never completely quiet. the rhythmic sounds of beeping machines interspersed by footsteps and closing doors follow you down the corridors of the paediatric ward. what truly sobers you out of the lighthearted moment you just had, though, are the occasional whimpers; of discomfort, of pain, of nightmares.

you enter seolhee’s room alone–your interns and junior resident scheduled only for the day shift–to find the little girl also by herself. her parents must have decided to go home, having already spent countless consecutive nights by her side since she commenced second-line chemotherapy last week.

seolhee received a dose of nelarabine just this morning so you need to keep a close eye on her. a quick flick through the chart on her rolling cart shows that the nurse on night shift had taken her vitals just two hours ago with no abnormalities.

“doctor snowflake?”

you startle at the quiet murmur. turning to look at the bed, seolhee is looking at you with slow, blinking eyes and a tiny smile. your own eyes soften as you lower yourself down towards her, “why are you still awake?”

“couldn’t sleep,” she mutters.

you scan her face with concern, “are you feeling pain anywhere? feeling sick?”

seolhee shakes her head in reassurance. then in a small voice, she answers, “just lonely.”

the tension in your shoulders releases only slightly. the little girl before you may be feeling all right physically…but at what cost? your chest tightens with humbling clarity–you may sacrifice a lot as a doctor, but your patients sacrifice so much more. neither is it a choice for them.

it is a relatively quiet night; you can spend time with her. and even if you did not have time, you can make time for her.

you pull a chair closer to sit down, gesturing for her consent to lift up her blankets to check her skin for signs of bruising or infection. she nods and you ask, “why doctor snowflake?” to keep her mind occupied.

seolhee glances at your name badge. “because you still have the snowflake sticker and snowflakes are pretty, just like you.”

the line insertion site on her chest is free of discharge and irritation and you fix the front of her hospital gown. “that must also be why nurse hwa calls you a snowflake,” you fondly tap the tip of her nose as she giggles.

“my name means snow,” she tells you proudly. “my parents named me seolhee because i was born on the first day of snow.”

“they named you well, seolhee. you really are a special gift, a precious snowflake.” in the muffled quiet of the hospital ward, you let go of your professionalism for a brief moment to make a hushed promise, “one day, you will be able to join all the other snowflakes outside–free to flutter and land wherever you want.”

not confined to the hospital nor your sickness.

seolhee returns a promise of her own, “and when i’m all better, i’ll come back to visit you.” she beckons for you to lean in before she whispers into your ear, “because you’re my favourite.”

you are technically not meant to play favourites, but it is hard when she is far ahead of the others in the unofficial competition. so you whisper back scandalously, like two teenage girl friends gossiping together, not a doctor with her patient in hospital, “you’re my favourite, too.”

the pager in your pocket goes off and seolhee’s face falls with disappointment. one of her hands involuntarily reaches out in your direction, seeking comfort and companionship in a place where people succumb to grief and isolation every day.

seolhee is only a child. she should be sleeping in her own bed at home, the faint glow from her phosphorescent star stickers across her bedroom ceiling guiding her into whimsical dreams. instead, it is the washed out moonlight filtering through the drawn curtains in her hospital room, shadows of snowfall outside drifting gently across her face, that surrounds seolhee’s fragile body in a romanticised nightmare.

“how about this,” you suggest, “if you go to sleep now, i’ll come again tomorrow night and i’ll tell you the story of how nurse hwa and i met.”

her eyes light up. “you promise?”

christmas has passed, but it does not mean that the season of miracles has to come to an end with it. you nod, “i promise.”

this time, when you make a move to stand up, seolhee does not reach out for you. she does not need you to stay; she has your gift of a promise to hold onto instead.

“goodnight, my little snowflake,” you tuck her blanket around her shoulders. affectionately, you brush her thinning hair off her forehead, “love you.”

you almost miss her sleepy response, a mumbled sentence just as you reach the threshold of the door to her room–words from a little girl whose heart is too big for the world to ever truly contain.

“i love you more than there are snowflakes falling outside.”

like the heavy snowfall that comes with the arrival of mid-winter, work quickly starts to pile upon itself into layers that do not melt away easily.

you are not the only one nearly thigh-deep in the snow. besides yourself, yunho, yeosang and san are also residents in your final year juggling demanding caseloads and increasing responsibilities as the seniors. hongjoong has been slaving away in preparation for the annual meeting of the korean neurological association, and seonghwa has recently been tasked with revising the departmental policies and procedures for sepsis protocols.

all of that on top of the nine of you studying for specialty board exams, pouring over journal articles to stay up to date and partaking in research projects, it almost becomes a game of never-ending tag in the house with the small increments of time that are lucky enough to overlap with somebody else.

unable to see one another as often, much less spend time together, you and the boys have to make do whenever you can, wherever you can, however you can. it comes in varying forms; a shared smile in brief passing through the wards, an extra chocolate in your packed lunch, a quick reminder to wrap your scarf snugly.

this morning, it comes in the form of an inconspicuous-looking disposable cup waiting for you in your assigned cubby. you almost miss it and knock it over with the bag you hastily push into the space, but the stark contrast of a black scribble against the whiteness of the cup’s surface catches your eye right before you give your bag a final shove.

it is a cup of takeaway coffee from the cafe downstairs–the one you never buy coffee from because the wait for your order can take up to ten minutes, and that is ten minutes of time every single day that you cannot afford to give up. but for you, there is someone willing to sacrifice those ten minutes of their day.

your eyes soften and eyebrows upturn as you immediately deduce who the coffee is from. if the coffee itself is not a dead giveaway, then the cute, artistic doodle of rudolph surrounded by little hearts around his antlers and the accompanying phrase, ‘you’re my rein-dear’, is.

jongho.

for a brief moment of respite from the unceasing rapidity of the hospital, you are warmed from your very core all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes by your boyfriend’s gesture. one hand starts to reach for your phone to send a text of appreciation when the call of your name jerks you out of the comfort you had been encased in. the cup is set down without finding its sweet home against a pair of lips.

“doctor nam is looking for you.”

you wince. dr. nam, the head of the paediatric department, has never really seemed to take a fancy to you for some reason. you are quite certain you have not done anything to provoke his unwarranted scrutiny, but apparently you can never be too sure.

as you hurry to dr. nam’s office, your legs work on autopilot through the corridors and doorways. your mind bombards itself with a barrage of thoughts, guessing what the meeting may be for, estimating how long it might take, and calculating how far behind you will fall with the onslaught of other tasks you are meant to complete before you are joined by your juniors for your morning rounds.

you do not have time for this, and you most certainly do not have time to–

“–take on an extra intern?”

your eyes blink themselves into a carefully schooled expression of neutrality despite the voiced incredulity in the question you have just asked. dr. nam has summoned you to his office to notify you of an additional intern commencing in the paediatric department and you are to be their assigned senior. what a fucking splendid way to start the day.

it is completely normal for a senior resident to have four juniors to teach, but interns have less experience and confidence, requiring significantly more time and effort–time and effort that you do not know if you have. the thought of another intern in addition to your existing two and second-year resident is enough to make you want to enter hibernation for the rest of your life.

what you also know though is that dr. yoon, another fourth-year resident, only has two juniors under him–both second-years at that. respectfully yet firmly, you bring up such and suggest, “it may be in the best interest of all parties for doctor yoon or somebody else, even doctor ha, to take on the new intern. this can ensure all of our junior doctors are receiving as much one-on-one support and guidance as possible.”

the department head raises an eyebrow, eyes dull and mouth pressed together thinly as he stares back at you dryly. “both doctor yoon and doctor ha are promising candidates to become chief residents. they do not have time to spare to teach interns.”

‘promising candidates’. you are not saying that that is bullshit…but that is bullshit. this is the first time anybody has praised them as such and the only thing that would make them both supposedly more qualified than all the other senior residents is their direct acquaintance with dr. nam himself.

fuck nepotism.

gritting your teeth and taking a deep but restrained breath in what you know is just a losing fight, you yield, “when does the intern start?”

the right corner of dr. nam’s lips raises smugly as he answers, “today. doctor lim will be waiting for you in the resident lounge near my office. orientate him to the department.”

and down the drain goes all thoughts of ending on time tonight. when you stalk over stiffly to the lounge, dr. lim is leaning against the edge of a desk, legs extended and crossed at the ankles in front of him not dissimilar to how his arms are over his chest. one foot taps disinterestedly as he waits. you have a bad feeling you already know what kind of intern he is going to be.

“doctor lim,” you call out.

“you’re doctor l/n?” the intern looks at you snobbishly, very obviously sizing you up and down.

“yes.”

dr. lim takes a lazy glance at the clock on the wall. “you’re kinda late.”

and you’re kinda a fucking asshole, you want to retort. but you have not survived this long without learning how to reel in the burst of flames that erupts inside your chest, so instead you look at him placatingly. “you were not originally part of my planned day. doctor nam asked for a very last minute favour.”

not so much a favour as an outright demand, but he does not need to know.

“i’ll show you around the hospital before our morning rounds,” you state. at his audible sigh whilst pushing himself heavily off the table, you cannot help but get at least one jab in, “an inconvenience for the both of us, but do bear with me.”

after a sarcastic smile, you turn around without waiting to see if he follows. the first place you take him to is where all the personal lockers and cubbies are just to retrieve your forgotten coffee and take a long sip. it spites him as desired, a nose wrinkled in your direction. nevermind the fact that it has long cooled to room temperature–your coffee has never tasted sweeter.

the rest of your day, unfortunately, runs in bitter discord. straight after dr. lim’s orientation, you run yourself dry with morning rounds, acute care and consultations with other paediatric departments, all the while trying to catch dr. lim up to the expected competency for interns. the end of the day does not appear to get any closer within reach and yet, you have no idea where all your time is going.

you end up throwing in the towel exactly seven hours and twenty-three minutes into your shift, when you are trying to teach the very basics of the hospital’s electronic medical record system for the umpteenth time. there are only so many ways you can explain the five steps required to start drafting a progress note for a patient–the very five steps that do not change. if you have to repeat yourself one more fucking time you are going to shoot somebody, doctor’s oath or not, and that somebody has a last name that starts with ‘l’ and rhymes with ‘dim’.

dr. son and dr. yang are sent as the scapegoats to teach the new intern how to navigate the system. with all three of your interns now occupied, you also send dr. lee off to adjust the medication for a few of the patients whose daily lab results had come back this morning with minor fluctuations in numbers.

your body almost crashes the moment your juniors disperse and only then do you tune in to your senses. contrary to the grumbling cavern in your stomach, there is a heavy pressure in your bladder and parchedness in your throat. jongho’s coffee was the last of anything you had consumed today–the lunch wooyoung had packed for you remains untouched in your bag–and you have been unable to step away even briefly to use the bathroom. trudging heavily through the paediatric oncology ward, the one thing that keeps you upright on your feet is that you are not scheduled for an on-call shift tonight. 

“y/n.”

the sweet and low timbre of the voice that sounds from ahead of you immediately turns the one into two things. it takes the remainder of your willpower not to bury yourself straight into san’s arms as he gives you a cute dimpled smile.

your eyes reflect the sparkle of happiness in his once you are close enough, neither of you having planned to run into one another. san is currently in his paediatric haematology rotation and whilst your departments are closely related, it is not very often that your caseloads align for patient consultation directly between the two of you.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, unable to hide the pleasant surprise in your words.

san steps in a little, naturally inclined to be physically close to you and answers, “going to check up on seolhee. have you gotten around to seeing her today?”

seolhee was one of the patients you were planning on fitting into your day. one of the nurses had documented nausea and reduced appetite at lunch time, so you were going to review her current antiemetic regimen and decide if it needed adjusting. but then she had ultimately been pushed back as a medium priority on your list with everything else you had to complete first.

when you shake your head, san proposes, “want to join me then?”

your lips quirk upwards at his suggestion. it is sort of piteous that your time walking together through the ward to see a shared patient is the closest to a date you have had with san in the last few weeks. but as he gives you a playful nudge to your side and you back to him like you are strolling along the snowy streets instead of sterile corridors, you are grateful for at least these short moments of interaction.

seolhee’s voice is spirited when she greets you despite the increasingly dark shadows silhouetting her face. you smile, “hi, snowflake. i brought a friend with me this time.”

when san’s gaze is not focused on you, he looks at the little girl with the same softness and deep affection; you like his moon, his patients like his stars. you are unable to imagine san ever working in a career that does not involve children.

“i’m doctor choi,” he introduces himself gently. “i heard you’ve been feeling a bit tired and didn’t really eat lunch today, so i’m here to see what i can do to help you feel better.”

as you bend down slightly to adjust the corner of seolhee’s blanket, san steps behind you to reach for her chart. he unconsciously places his left hand on the nape of your neck and tenderly squeezes out of loving habit. immediately, san feels the tight knots under his fingertips that only surface whenever you are stressed or overworked.

his eyebrows furrow and he dips his head down slightly to softly murmur, “hey, rough day today?”

“just a little,” you admit, looking upwards whilst placing your own hand atop his in reassurance. “don’t worry.”

there is a giggle to the side. seolhee’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you before she cryptically asks, “doctor choi, do you know who nurse hwa is?”

“i do…” san answers, puzzled by the random question.

seolhee looks at you and giggles again with a very directed comment, “i see.”

you have said this before and you will say this again: seolhee is frighteningly perceptive. if she were two decades older, you just know she would be that friend of yours who you are unable to hide any secrets from. leaning in, you whisper, “there are six more of us.”

her eyes widen with curiosity. “do i know any of them?”

of the remaining boys, wooyoung is the only other one who is specialising in paediatrics and likely to have come across seolhee before. “nurse wooyoung,” you divulge.

she sinks back into her pillow at the revelation and nods approvingly as if she is your mother. “good choices,” she supports, san letting out a bright laugh from beside you now having caught on to what the conversation is about.

the rest of the bedside evaluation continues as such. seolhee badgers you both with questions about the rest of your boyfriends–which department they are in, what their names are and most importantly, what they look like so she can keep an eye out for them.

you indulge her with answers, far longer than you should, but it is an easy decision when it comes to anything involving your favourite patient and your boyfriends. you have long learnt that any amount of time that you give to somebody else even at your own expense will always be worth lifetimes more to them than the luxury of a punctual meal or longer shower that you would gain from the time instead.

so when your shift for the day ends and you still have not completed all of your work, you end up staying overtime and it is only then, during the evening, that you are finally able to sit. your stomach no longer growls, body running solely on cortisol, the caffeine from jongho’s coffee having long depleted. you turn on your hospital-issued tablet and pull out a stack of jotted notes. with mid-rotation feedback for your juniors in two days, you have their paperwork to complete before you can even start to scrape away at your actual paperwork.

you do not realise how stiff your neck and shoulders have become from hunching over for a prolonged period until there is a knock at the door of the resident lounge and a timid, “um, doctor l/n?”

“yes?” a soft wince escapes your lips when the movement from looking up sends a brief stab of pain down your back.

the intern standing at the doorway comes scurrying in. “i’m here to give you the report on the pathology results.”

“pathology results?” you repeat, mind blank of patients who had needed a biopsy or tumour excision.

“from doctor jeong? from general surgery?” the intern’s voice trails off, face blanching at the creeping possibility that he has found the wrong resident.

“doctor j–oh,” you suppress the sudden tug at the corners of your lips to reassure, “yes, my apologies, i forgot. thank you.”

you have certainly not forgotten about an entire pathology report you have requested–this is simply yunho being your boyfriend. waiting until the intern has scurried off, you flick the clipboard open to find exactly what you had been expecting: anything but a report.

there is a sole sticky note, neon green, that grins right up at you with another of yunho's scrawled jokes. 'are you a snowman? cause i wanna stick my carrot into your mou–'

the clipboard slams shut with a resounding clap in the emptiness of the lounge. back ramrod straight, your eyes dart around scandalously even though you are the only person in the room to witness the contents of the flirtatious message.

"oh my fucking god," you guffaw. "jeong yunho!"

(from somewhere within the general surgery department three floors down, somebody lets out a delighted giggle of glee at the thought of a certain message having been received.)

your laugh eventually fades out with a poignant sigh as you peel the sticky note off the clipboard and stare at it in your hands. the start of this year has already been the toughest year in your residency thus far and it is no easy feat for nine people in the same or similar situation to balance a romantic relationship simultaneously.

you must give, and give, and give, but like you have experienced today, you also receive. it is never anything huge; a coffee, some food, a note, a conversation. yet for now, that is enough to keep moving forward even if your feet are buried deep under the snow.

however, you will soon come to realise that the issue does not lie in whether you are receiving enough or not, but in the fact that you can unknowingly give away too much of yourself without even realising.

you give the little boy and his family who are in front of you a smile that conveys both appreciation and apologeticness. if you were in their position, surrounded by inexperienced interns learning to properly insert a central line, you would be on edge too.

dr. yang and dr. son stand off to the side, hands clasped together in front of themselves with concealed nervousness for dr. lim. said man is anything but nervous, when really, he is the only intern who should be nervous out of the three of them. ever since he started, dr. lim has consistently performed with a shocking lack of care and willingness to learn. but you had learnt the hard way the first time you tried to bring up this issue that dr. lim is not somebody you can touch because of his connections, so you have no choice but to tolerate his incompetence.

you beckon for dr. lim to come closer so that you can show him the proper angle of needle entry. he does, at least smart enough to know he needs to maintain some level of professionalism in front of actual patients lest the hospital be sued.

“for an internal jugular vein catheterisation while the head is in the neutral position, what is the angle of needle entry?” you question.

dr. lim guesses, “twenty?”

“thirty to forty-five, and the angle adjusts based on the ultrasound image,” you correct, not having expected him to remember despite the numerous times you have already taught him on physical phantoms. your gloved fingers trace over the patient’s clavicle towards the sternum as you continue explaining, “locate both the sternal and clavicular heads of the sternocleidomastoid muscle. this forms the triangle where your IVJ lies beneath. the needle should aim towards the ipsilateral nipple.”

positioning the tip of the needle at the apex of the triangle for a few seconds, you then pass it to dr. lim with the instruction, “show me the positioning and angle of the needle only.”

the intern takes the needle from your hand, his other hand roughly probing the sternocleidomastoid muscle before angling the needle perpendicular to the young boy’s neck like he is a fucking hostage. your voice is curt as you rush to correct dr. lim, adjusting his hands with verbal prompts, before you slip the needle out of his hands to fully take over the procedure now.

“you’re not ready yet,” you assert when he glares at you, further reiterating, “when you can independently position and angle the needle, and you can demonstrate to me that you can use the correct pressure when inserting the needle in a mannequin, then you are ready.” you do not care if he has connections with dr. nam. you make it clear to your intern that he cannot fuck around with his theoretical knowledge and phantom training and still expect you to let him practice on real people.

outside the room, wooyoung winces in sympathy for you as he passes by and catches the end of your firm reprimand. you have come home far too many times with pent-up frustration for him–and all your boyfriends–not to know about your notorious intern. wooyoung hands over the central line kit he is returning to the ward’s nursing station then dawdles by the desk.

he waits in hopes of catching your eye and giving you a smile to equip you with the patience he knows must be needed to deal with dr. lim. your boyfriend’s face softens unconsciously as he watches your expression, now concentrated with furrowed brows as you steadily insert the needle whilst monitoring the ultrasound, because wooyoung thinks you look the most charismatic when you are working. when a nurse calls out for wooyoung, he takes one last glance at you before walking away.

you straighten up and step away for dr. lee to take over the rest of the procedure, just in time to see the back of your boyfriend’s figure darting away with purpose. his long unruly hair flies around with mirrored chaos that you could recognise anywhere. and as you explain to the patient’s parents the remainder of the catheterisation procedure, the smile on your face is much more genuine than it would have been mere seconds ago.

it continues to linger subconsciously long after the brief glimpse you get of your boyfriend. for wooyoung, too, it is the same. working together at the hospital means that you can still be a source of light for one another even if only from a far distance and that is always what gets you through to the end of your shift.

when five o’clock finally rolls around, you head to your locker whilst checking your phone. there are no notifications from hongjoong, so you type a quick message to let him know you are clocking off and going to his department first. it is one of those rare days where you two have managed to organise a date–just a quick and simple dinner before heading home since your shifts end at the same time, but a date nonetheless.

“good thing i caught you before you left. doctor nam wants to talk to you.”

you look up to see dr. lee already changed into a puffer jacket and his backpack on, a cheeky grin on his face as he delivers the message and adds, “bet you’re in trouble.”

scoffing playfully, you quip back, “probably for something you did wrong.”

he shrugs exaggeratedly and sing-songs, “who knows,” before darting away with a goodbye.

you sigh and delete your drafted text to hongjoong, alerting him that you will be going to the department head’s office and for him to meet you outside if he finishes. then with heavy steps, you go to find dr. nam. with your stroke of luck, dr. lee is probably right about you being in trouble for something.

and he is right.

“did you tell one of your interns that he wasn’t ready for a clinical task in front of your patients?”

dr. nam’s direct question the moment you step into his office is enough to stun your mind into blankness at how a situation could be wrongfully warped like so. blinking distractedly you start to explain, “doctor lim was tasked with simulating the correct needle placement against the skin–nothing more and nothing less. i had to reiterate those expectations when he–”

“so he was not allowed to insert the central line, correct?” dr. nam interrupts.

you frown involuntarily and parrot, “allowed? it was not a subjective decision to–”

“doctor l/n, you only need to answer the question that i ask. was doctor lim allowed to insert the central line or not?” he interjects yet again.

you barely manage to swallow the rising heat in your chest to answer, “no.”

“you said he was not ready in front of the patient, yes or no?”

“yes.”

dr. nam leans back in his chair. “have your other interns inserted the needle before?”

despite his position as your department head, you keep your mouth shut in defiance because dr. nam is simply fishing for the answer he wants to hear regardless of context. he does not need to hear that dr. lim is a shit intern–all he wants to hear is that you are treating your juniors differently.

as expected, without waiting for your response, dr. nam states, “there have been some…concerns raised that you are not giving your interns equal opportunities.”

“is that what doctor lim told you?” you raise an eyebrow.

“you do not need to know,” he dismisses thoughtlessly, “the point is, there seems to be a bias in the amount of support and guidance you are providing doctor lim. perhaps it is your lack of teaching and provision of learning opportunities that is hindering his full potential.”

struggling to keep your voice polite as frustration quickens your breaths, you defend, “i have taught him the theory numerous times, allowed him to observe, provided him with supervised mannequin practice and step-by-step grading on actual patients, and my experience as a senior resident and his direct supervisor tells me that he does not yet have the competency to insert a central line.”

dr. nam hums as if he is considering your words but the way he distractedly brushes the dust off the surface of his table tells you otherwise. “i see there are differing opinions. this all comes down to miscommunication and lack of clear expectations set from the both of you. i suggest you take some time to sit down and talk to doctor lim about what opportunities he will have moving forward.”

from behind your back, your hands clench together, muscles quivering from how hard your fingers dig into your palms. yet you do not say anything–you cannot say anything, not when dr. nam simply dismisses you with, “i expect there to be no further issues in the future.”

and just like that, the one-sided discussion is over.

your feet drag against the floor as you trudge listlessly back to your locker, body heavy as if you are caught in the very midst of a snowstorm. your shoulders cave even further in on themselves when you check your phone to see no reply from hongjoong.

you want nothing more than to bury yourself in your boyfriend’s arms, nose pressed against the soothing rumble of his chest as he listens to you complain about your day. it will not change anything about the situation with dr. lim and dr. nam but at least you will be able to release the hot steam that has built up from the bubbling pit of lava in your chest.

if hongjoong is still working, perhaps you can sit in his office and wait on his couch. his presence will be enough to keep you grounded.

some of the nurses in the neurology ward greet you cordially as you exit the elevator and you return their smiles before sitting on a bench further down the corridor to avoid being in anybody’s way. you test your chances and call hongjoong’s number, only to hear the line ring until it sends you to his voicemail. when another attempt ten minutes later yields the same result, you send a text telling him to call you when he is finished.

you resign yourself to the bench with a passive sigh and wait, all the while a tempest swirling inside of you. eventually, one of the junior residents tilts her head at the sight of you still sitting on the bench, having passed by you almost twenty minutes ago in the same position. she calls out, “doctor l/n?”

you jerk up from where you are fiddling with your phone. recognising her as hongjoong’s colleague, you ask, “i’m just waiting for doctor kim. do you happen to know where he is?”

“doctor kim?” she furrows her brows, “he left already. he actually left early today.”

“oh.”

the heat in your chest suddenly dissipates, immediately replaced by a frigid hollowness that makes your mind go blank instead. horrified, you feel your eyes involuntarily start to prickle with tears no matter how hard you will for them to disappear.

“do you want me to pass a message on for you?” the resident looks at you with a twinge of concern, but mostly curiosity.

you shake your head and mumble, “no, that’s okay, thanks,” then rush away to avoid embarrassing yourself any further. deciding against asking one of your other boyfriends to drive you home, you forgo catching the bus too in favour of walking through the streets.

it’s not even a big deal. we’ve all forgotten about dates before and hongjoong would never deliberately blow you off.

you know that. you know this is not something you need to be upset over and you know that your boyfriend must have a reason. yet knowing does nothing to stop the trembling of your lips as you swipe furiously at your dripping tears with the back of your hand. on top of everything that has piled up today, hongjoong forgetting about your date is enough to topple it over completely.

the light snowfall from earlier has already stopped but the temperature remains just as low. as you tread through the chalky streets home, thoughts creeping through your mind like the fractal branches of a snowflake–fragile and delicate–you welcome the numbing chill around you instead and let it paralyse your emotions like an anaesthetic.

by the time you reach the front door, you have collected yourself enough. the rims of your eyes and the tip of your nose still have a slight redness to them but your appearance can easily be dismissed by the biting cold outside. you unlock the door and walk in.

you are met with immediate warmth; from the residual heat of shared dinner, from the streaming glow of lights, from the peals of low laughter. walking through the corridor almost feels like walking through a warped tunnel of dissociation–so familiar yet so foreign at the same time.

san sits on the couch, languidly scrolling on his phone with an arm wrapped around yeosang’s shoulders, who is flicking through a thin booklet of paper. sitting cross-legged at the coffee table in front of them in a stark contrast of mess is hongjoong–hongjoong who is hunched over his own booklet with a newly-made carpet and tablecloth of thesis and journal articles, textbooks and tablets.

you are so caught up by the hurricane of a scene that you do not realise you are about to step on the corner of a textbook until hongjoong’s head snaps up to look at you.

“be careful!” his warning cry is sharp with alarm.

your body jolts and you step backwards. “sorry.”

despite san and yeosang’s chirpy greetings, you remain frozen to the spot. the two of them clamber up to pull you into an excited hug, only to pause when they realise there is no way to navigate the landmine of paper scattered around the room, so they settle back into the cushions instead.

“don’t mind the mess,” yeosang giggles, unaware of the sudden onset of unease that courses through your body. “even seonghwa has given the okay for him to do this.”

your words come out thick and sticky as you ask, “what is hongjoong doing?”

san’s voice is sympathetic, “there was a last-minute change to his presentation that he’s doing at that annual neurological association meeting. his department head wants him to do a different topic.”

“he could’ve told me, i don’t know, five fucking months ago,” hongjoong curses fiercely at his tablet, “but he just had to wait until my presentation was basically done to let me know.”

you have had a bad day…but so has hongjoong.

the door opens behind you. fumbling for a moment, you try to make yourself smaller against the wall to make room for whoever of your boyfriends has returned. it is mingi back from his shift which tells you just how long you had waited for hongjoong, considering mingi’s shift ended almost two hours after yours did.

“y/n?” mingi’s eyes widen slightly as he smiles, the sight of you a pleasant surprise. he asks, “did you and hongjoong come back from your date already?”

you wince at the bomb he has unwittingly dropped; the very one you yourself were still unsure how to navigate.

“shit,” hongjoong’s head snaps towards you again but for an entirely different reason this time. “holy fuck. oh my fucking god.” his hands flutter as he upturns the scattered notes around him in search of his phone, face draining of all colour as it dawns on him he had silenced his notifications. “the date–i forgot. fuck, i am so fucking sorry, y/n.”

your boyfriends on the couch watch with darting eyes and mingi glances at you cautiously. in some twisted reality, you almost feel immobilised by guilt as hongjoong stumbles to his feet, grasping the phone he has finally found from where it had been tossed under the table.

nothing changes the fact that he forgot nor the fact that you have had a rough day. but just as you had realised, hongjoong has also had a rough day, if not worse than yours. and as with any relationship, one will always have to yield under pressure lest both people break.

swallowing thickly, you manage to force out, “that’s okay. i forgot too.”

a white lie, but a white lie has never hurt anybody.

mingi catches the slight twist of your fingers in the side of your jacket. he murmurs, “let’s go inside,” then tugs you by the elbow. he steps you carefully through the landmines further into the living room, gingerly toeing papers inches aside to reveal the floorboards underneath for the both of you to step on. hongjoong is still looking at you remorsefully as you near, his hands itching to reach out but afraid they will not be met with forgiving ones.

“it’s okay, joong, really,” you extend your fingers in his direction and gently squeeze his hand. “sorry to hear about your presentation. i know how hard you’ve worked on it the past few months.”

sadness still lingers in your boyfriend’s eyes at having made such a careless mistake despite the grateful smile he gives you. “i’ll make it up to you after the presentation is finished,” he vows. “i’ll take you out for a nice dinner and i promise i won’t forget this time.”

you chuckle softly with a reassuring nod, “okay.”

“what about you? how was your day?” hongjoong asks.

an hour ago you wanted nothing more than the comfort he could offer while you vented about your day and you are almost certain fatigue and frustration are smeared across your face right now. yet you simply answer, “it was a long day but it was good.”

another white lie.

before your boyfriends can probe any further, you state, “i’m going to take a shower first. might head to sleep early today.” you lean forward to give hongjoong a chaste kiss, who easily relaxes into it with relief. you turn to rise onto your tiptoes to give mingi one too before meeting yeosang and san halfway from where they kneel on the couch to also kiss you goodnight.

then you turn and retreat to your room. it is not all too bad, you reconcile with yourself. alone time would be good after today’s events.

a third white lie.

but again, that is fine, because a white lie never hurt anybody…nobody except for yourself.

winter passes and spring arrives, but contrary to the pulsating liveliness that awakens with the season, things start to dull with repetition and roboticism.

your rotation in the paediatric oncology ward comes to an end and you commence your next rotation in paediatric haematology. whilst your acquaintanceship with your new junior team is nowhere near as close as you had gotten to dr. lee, son and yang, there is also no more dr. lim to deal with. still, unlike the snow that has now long melted away, your workload does not cease nor diminish.

you wake up and you go to work; you manage your patients, teach your juniors and have on-call shifts; you go home, you eat, you shower; you squeeze time to see your boyfriends, you sleep for a few hours; you wake up and you go to work. the cycle repeats itself, neither you nor your boyfriends able to escape from its grip.

seolhee, too, suffers from the torment of her own cycle. second-line therapy had eventually been deemed ineffective against her leukemic cells, requiring her to undergo salvage chemotherapy and putting her at increased risk of myelosuppression. because of this, she is one of the few patients who have remained on your caseload despite the rotation change.

the most unsettling change that the toll of fatigue can have on a person is not the change in their demeanour but in their eyes. and as you complete a routine check-up on seolhee, her eyes watching you with a slight dullness to them that is not due to the late hours of midnight, you do not realise that your own pupils look the same.

you give seolhee a soft smile as you tell her, “i’ll get nurse hwa to check on you in the morning. how does that sound, snowflake?”

“he’s busy?” she asks quietly.

you shake your head. “he’s at home. both him and nurse woo are working day shifts this week.”

“what about doctor choi?”

“he finished his haematology rotation,” you sigh regretfully. “he’s in the NICU now.”

seolhee mulls over the information with her eyes downcast, then murmurs, “are you busy? can you teach me how to braid your hair?” she absent-mindedly touches the nape of her neck where her fingertips meet the smooth skin of her bare scalp. “that way i can braid my own hair when it grows back.”

you still have notes from today to write and tomorrow’s chemotherapy doses to confirm with the pharmacy and platelet orders to put through before you can chance an hour or two of sleep. but what difference does the amount of sleep make when you wake up from both with the same bone-deep exhaustion anyway?

seolhee’s eyes brighten the slightest when you pull a chair up beside her bed and it solidifies your decision to answer, “of course,” because as a doctor, time is not for yourself but for other people. you have to make time out of nothing.

you tug on the elastic around your ponytail and shake your hair out, sectioning off the right side to work with. from your experience teaching all of your boyfriends, it had quickly become clear that braiding was easiest learnt with less hair to work with. splitting the sectioned hair into three locks, you lace them through your fingers to keep them separate as you talk seolhee through the steps.

“take the right strand and bring it over into the middle like this,” you teach, moving your fingers deftly but slowly. “then take the left strand and bring it over into the middle. then we repeat it again–right into the middle, left into the middle.”

your fingers continue weaving the locks of hair over and under, the motions familiar and the memory of teaching somebody else even more so. when you have braided almost to the ends of your hair, you release the braid then tuck your chair closer to the bed so that seolhee can reach easily.

“here, you try.”

at your encouragement, the little girl does as she remembers and starts to section off three locks of hair. her fingers accidentally tug too hard when she encounters a knot and you both rush to apologise.

“sorry, my hair is kind of tangled,” you chuckle lowly as heat rushes to the tip of your ears. “i haven’t used conditioner in a long time.”

“that’s okay. me neither,” seolhee jokes, giggling at her own words before asking you, “why not?”

you distractedly run your fingers through the hair that is not in seolhee’s hands as you slowly answer, “it saves me five minutes each time. it doesn’t sound like a lot, but…”

“...in the hospital it’s a lot,” seolhee finishes solemnly.

you nod. “five minutes can be a long hug before someone leaves forever. it can be somebody’s last confession or last promise. five minutes can be the difference between life and death.”

hush settles over her room while she eases the knot apart, six-year-old fingers gentle with the understanding of an adult several times her age. after a few minutes, she changes the topic. “who was the fastest learner out of your boyfriends? was it nurse hwa?”

“it was actually doctor jeong,” you reveal.

“from general surgery?”

you laugh at seolhee’s memory, “yes, doctor jeong from general surgery. he has the steadiest and most skillful hands.”

“are his braids also the prettiest, then?”

“they are very pretty, but i think doctor choi–the younger choi–does the prettiest braids.”

seolhee’s fingers pause so she can admire the beginnings of her handiwork. “do they still braid your hair?” she asks.

“not anymore,” you give a miniscule shrug. “there isn’t as much time to do things like this and certain things just lose their novelty over time.”

she looks at you curiously. “what does novelty mean?”

“something new and unfamiliar…in a sense, special.”

“why do things lose their novelty then?” seolhee frowns.

you hum, unsure how to answer such a simple yet riveting question when you yourself have never thought about it. you deliberate over your words, “i guess when we see, do and say things that were originally different over and over again, they can simply become habits and part of our routines. we do things just for the sake of doing them and eventually they lose their meaning. when that happens, sometimes you just end up not doing them anymore.”

wistful nostalgia fills you as seolhee continues braiding your hair, the ticklish intimacy sending your mind adrift to a time when your boys would do the same–back to a time when your hair was smooth and knot-free because you still used conditioner. but change is inevitable and you have no time to dwell on what used to be. so after seolhee finishes her braid, you return to your cycle of work, home and sleep.

by the time you get home in the afternoon, most of your boyfriends have long left for their shifts save for san, who was also on-call, and yunho, who is still not back from an emergency trauma surgery. you are barely able to keep your eyes open when you stumble into the bathroom for a quick shower. this time, you completely forgo both conditioner and shampoo, simply wetting your hair as you roughly scrub your face and the rest of your body. you do not bother to dry your hair either, keeping it wrapped in a towel before you sink into bed.

you have no recollection of falling asleep when the soft click of the front door opening and closing wakes you up. eyes still closed, you drowsily listen to yunho’s soft thuds and murmurs as he treads his usual path through the house upon returning. your boyfriend pads softly to the dining room, to the bathroom…then he goes straight to his own bedroom.

no longer do you stay within the clutches of rest. yunho has always, no matter how exhausted, taken time to give you and the others a kiss before he heads to sleep. it is his habit, his routine. you lay awake for a long time, coming up with excuses as to why he has broken his cycle today, waiting to see if yunho will get up again and come into your room.

he does not and you eventually fall asleep again in restless fitfulness.

this will soon become the new norm; yunho will not take an extra five minutes to go into your bedrooms and give you tender kisses. in due time, your heart will no longer clench in disappointment nor will you lay awake in false hope whenever he returns from his shift.

you will simply drift back into the realms of unconsciousness seconds after hearing the click of the front door open, succumbing into peaceful sleep again before the door has even closed shut. after all, things lose their novelty over time.

you do not normally watch dramas or tv shows, or anything that requires a recurring time commitment, really. for one, that is hours upon hours of time that could be used elsewhere, and two, the scattered time you can find here and there is so sparse you often forget the events of the last episode by the time you watch the next.

but your fingers currently hover over the first episode of an airing drama, one too many clips of this particular show having appeared on your feed for you not to crack, so you decide to give it a go. you can watch maybe half an episode before you should head to sleep since your shift starts early tomorrow, but maybe, just maybe, tonight you will spoil yourself with the entire episode.

keeping the volume low on your phone since you are in the living room with a few of your boyfriends, you tuck your feet closer towards yourself on the couch and play the first episode. jongho’s ears perk up at the starting sounds of the introduction from where he is in the kitchen reheating some leftovers and he comments, “it’s been a while since you last watched something.”

you nod just as jongho’s words catch the attention of wooyoung walking past. “you’re starting a drama?” he asks, peering at your phone with a slight snicker. “damn, you’re going to spend even less time with us now.”

it is an off-handed joke with no ill intentions, yet it digs itself uncomfortably inside your chest, even more so when a few of the others also chuckle. your finger twitches to stop your episode. the couch sinks beside you under the weight of mingi, who has moved from his position on the floor to your right with quiet comfort and veiled protectiveness.

“we’ve all been spending less time with one another,” he vaguely points out.

hongjoong looks up from the systematic review he is reading on gene replacement therapy, still rushing to complete his presentation. “you’re right. that’s funny,” he remarks, “i can’t remember the last time we went out on dates, even when just any two of us.”

wooyoung shrugs, “we’ve all been tired.”

your mouth opens before you can stop yourself from snapping, “so why was i the only one who was the butt of the joke?”

“woah, sorry,” hongjoong winces slightly, “we didn’t know it would make you feel upset or anything.”

it is not sadness so much as guilt that pricks at your conscience, because there is slight truth to the situation–you haven’t been making as much effort, but neither has anyone. you are not the one drifting away from the others. you are all drifting apart in your own directions.

jongho steps in to smoothen the situation with a blanket statement, “we’ve all been tired and busy. nobody’s pointing fingers at anybody. drop it.” the microwave sounds and he turns to take his food out.

something is pressed into your hand and you glance down to see mingi wordlessly handing you a set of earphones. he gives you a small smile, nudging your hand with the earphones and a beckon of his brows. you return his smile and place one in your ear before offering him the other. mingi puts it in whilst reaching over to hold your phone in your stead, then taps his own shoulder with his free hand for you to rest your head against.

your boyfriend adjusts the volume higher as he murmurs, “it’s a bit hard to hear,” but you know better. mingi does not care for dramas and the volume is already plenty loud. sometimes, additional noise is just needed to drown out other noise.

the drama continues to play but you heed no attention to it. wooyoung has walked back into his room to finish the lecture he is watching, jongho now sits at the dining table to eat, and hongjoong is working on his presentation again.

the conversation with your boyfriends has ended with the conclusion that there have been no dates recently. yet, there is no extension of the conversation to make a date happen. it would be a lie to say that you have not noticed their absence, but after the first couple of times they had to be postponed or called off entirely, they just started slipping from your mind completely.

you wonder when you had all stopped making the intentional effort to go on dates, but most of all, you wonder when you had all stopped caring.

you only watch half an episode that night. you do not pick it back up again either.

she is alive.

there is a webbing of tubes and wires encasing her entire body��blood transfusions, vasopressors, monitoring lines of all sorts–but she is alive. kim seolhee is still alive.

only at the physical sight of her chest moving up and down does the reassurance unlock the tautness in your joints, the strained muscles in your body almost failing to hold your weight upright as you lean subtly against the threshold of the door.

you had headed straight for seolhee’s room before everything else the moment you had arrived for your shift. the usual fifteen-minute drive to the hospital had been shortened to half its time when mingi had arrived home from his shift just as you were getting ready to leave for yours with the news that seolhee had been readmitted into the ED with sepsis and was now in the paediatric intensive care unit. you had driven on autopilot the entire way swallowing the thick surge of panic that kept rising up your throat despite mingi’s repeated reassurances that she was stable; she just needed further monitoring.

“i thought i was going to die.”

those are the first words that faintly leave her lips when she sees you, her face mercifully free of a ventilator and oxygen mask, which is always a good sign. you weakly breathe out, tone as light as you can make it, “well, thank god you’re alive.”

“missed you too much, doctor snowflake,” seolhee’s hand twitches in your direction with attempted cheekiness as you walk closer. “i came back to follow you to your next rotation.”

despite the situation, you break out into a small bout of giggles at her morbid humour. you had sated seolhee’s curiosity by telling her your entire year of scheduled rotations and by some twist of fate, your PICU rotation had commenced two weeks ago. with a fond tap of her nose that conceals the clenching sadness inside your heart, you joke, “you just like riding in the ambulance, don’t you?”

“maybe,” she grins innocently. “the sirens are pretty cool.”

despite the snort of amusement that leaves you, her answer is what truly makes your throat constrict and voice waver. your words are hardly audible–afraid to break down fully in front of your patient, in front of sweet seolhee–when you respond, “i knew it.”

but she is ever perceptive as she comforts, “don’t cry.”

“i’m not,” you shamelessly counter, even as heat starts to pool around your eyes, and the both of you laugh at your absurdity. but in certain situations if you do not laugh, the only other option will be to cry and you cannot have that because that would be unprofessional–neither would you be able to stop–so you will wait until you are only in the presence of your boyfriends to let yourself go.

sleep starts to take over seolhee again and she drowsily blinks at you, energy depleted from her infection, cancer and the numerous drugs pumping throughout her battered body. she sinks herself a little deeper into her crinkly mattress and fights off her closing eyelids just long enough to tell you once more, “i love you more than there are snowflakes falling outside.”

it is already nearing the end of summer now despite the unchanging pristine whiteness of winter within the hospital walls. yet, you cannot bear to point that out, not when you were so close to losing her phrase of affection forever.

her eyes close and you watch the steady rhythm of her chest rising and falling. thank god she is alive.

your prayer comes from y/n, but the bitter resentment at the irony of those five words comes from doctor l/n. your entire life is dedicated to saving the lives of others, yet time and time again you are forced to wonder just how much power you truly have as a doctor in the face of fate and the gods above; where it makes you wonder whether your efforts and sacrifices will always be in vain if your patient is somebody whose time on earth has just simply run out.

and it appears that you are not the only person weighed down by the harsh insecurities of your career today. yeosang’s knees are drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he sits on the floor against the wall of the storage room you two are hiding in, mere hours later after your turbulent morning with seolhee.

“he was our age,” yeosang finally murmurs after a few minutes of silence. “he was admitted for a suspected brain tumour only because a sudden headache caused him to lose consciousness.”

whereas seolhee had been a case of could have–she could have died–there are cases like yeosang’s patient. the would have lived; the what if and the if only.

yeosang’s chest shudders as he exhales, “he had had consistent migraines for months but he never did anything about them. he would’ve lived, otherwise. turns out it was a brain tumour all along and it ended up rupturing because it was left untreated…he didn’t survive the surgery.”

your boyfriend rarely cries and today is no exception either. yet the way he leans into your side for both physical and emotional support shows just how much his heart is hurting for this death. death is something you all learn to become accustomed to in the medical field, but desensitisation does not equate to immunity. there will always be ones that hit harder than others.

it is a harrowing death when the patient is close in age because it makes you think of yourself–of your friends, of your lovers–and it hurts that much more to think that it could have been any of those people. this morning has already left your emotions strung tight and heart vulnerable, and very quickly you can feel the same swell of tears threatening to demolish the walls you had hastily built to keep yourself collected.

you want to cry but then that would be taking away from yeosang’s hurt, so you will wait until you are home instead. for now, you tug yeosang into your arms, holding him steady against your chest as if that will support your own walls and keep them from crumbling.

by the time you get home after your shift, you are no more than a mere husk of yourself. you have drained every single reservoir of yours that holds your love, care and courage for your patients. all that is left are the fragile remnants waiting to break at the slightest touch. you trudge down the corridor to your room, muddled mind trying to recall whether san is home tonight to hold you in your sleep, when you walk past the partially-closed door to seonghwa’s bedroom.

instinctively, you glance inside. he lays listlessly on his bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, and you immediately know.

where there are the could haves and the would haves, there are also the should haves; the unjust, the young deaths. those that should not even be an existing phenomenon in the world no matter how cruel the devil may be–those who should have lived.

seonghwa, who wears his entire heart on his sleeve, has lost a PICU baby at work today.

for a split second, there is a shameful thought that suddenly infiltrates your mind–to continue walking past as if you had not seen him until you reach the confines of your own room. but you could never do that to any of your boyfriends, much less seonghwa. seonghwa, who treats each and every baby like his own, who hides in the bathroom to cry after he sees the parents hurting, whose love and empathy is a never-ending fountain of supply.

you knock softly on the door so as not to startle him then gently call out his name. it takes the door opening a little wider for him to realise you are stepping into his room and he immediately sits up, a small smile gracing his face at the sight of you despite the blotchiness of his skin.

“sorry, love. i didn’t notice you standing there,” he apologises.

you shake your head, heart clenching at the sight of him pretending to be okay. you walk closer to him until you can smooth down the back of his hair with kind hands. “do you want to talk?” you tenderly ask.

the tension releases in seonghwa’s shoulders and back as he sags, no longer keeping up his facade at the knowledge that you can see right through him. he looks up at you tiredly with his swollen eyes, “do you have time to talk?”

time you can always make. perhaps the question that should be asked is whether you have the capacity to talk…the emotional capacity. frankly, you do not. you yourself need to cry, whether for seolhee or out of mental exhaustion itself it does not matter anymore. but saying no would be putting your needs before his, and putting your needs after everybody else’s is all that you have known as a doctor, so you will wait until you are alone in the darkness under your bed covers to finally let yourself go.

for now, you rest seonghwa’s head in your lap and brush away his tears, soaking up the pain of his words into your own heart instead. only when his breathing evens out and he no longer stirs under your fingers do you finally ease yourself to lie down next to him, barely hanging on to the edges of your own consciousness. you fall asleep before your tears can even begin to gather underneath your closed eyelids.

that night, you dream of drowning–stifling lungs and gasping mouthfuls–until you eventually suffocate in silence and become swallowed by the black depths of the water. the pillow underneath your cheek is damp when you jolt awake, but whether it is from cold sweat or tears you do not know.

you are convinced dr nam’s job description includes making your life hell. no matter where your rotation takes place, the department head always manages to find fault in something you do…or do not do.

“do you know what our hospital prides itself in?” dr. nam asks rhetorically. “we are not simply a hospital–we are a family. we help each other out in times of need.”

there is a rising snort in your throat that threatens to reveal your cynicism, knowing that when the phrase ‘family’ comes from somebody of higher authority, it is just a cover-up of mock care for the employees. dr. nam continues to smile, not unkindly, but with obvious artificiality that makes it look dangerous as he asks, “so how come you are not helping out in the NICU? i know that the attending has asked you for help.”

overnight on-call shifts already have fewer staff rostered on than usual, but with one of the junior residents having called in sick, the NICU is currently understaffed. the attending physician had paged you earlier asking if you could help out with some of the routine admissions and write up the patient histories and physicals, but you had apologised and declined. for one, you are assigned to the PICU, two, you are the most senior resident on that shift and three, you have endless tasks with far higher priority to complete instead.

you struggle to keep the exasperation out of your voice, sick of being flagged for ridiculous reasons and much less when you are seventeen hours into your shift, “most of the NICU admissions were stable and did not require urgent attention. their H&Ps can be completed later when the juniors are back.”

“ah,” dr. nam nods his head condescendingly, “doctor l/n, you stick by the rules too much. where is your sense of comradeship for this family that we have at kq–if not the entire hospital, then at least within our own department? if i remember correctly, there was a similar incident with one of your past interns.”

it is absolutely ridiculous that even months later you are still being faulted for the central line incident with dr. lim. you stay silent, expression dark and jaw grinding no matter how hard you try not to let your frustration show. 

“go help out in the NICU for an hour or two. i’m sure your own unit is relatively quiet right now,” he instructs. “remember, we’re a family that helps one another.” dr. nam’s grin grows wider, words dripping with saccharine honey that makes it impossible to refute.

“yes, doctor nam,” you respond through gritted teeth. double-checking you have your pager on you so that your actual ward can still reach you for emergencies, you take the elevator down to the NICU.

the next few hours are spent stretching yourself thin over both units as you run back and forth managing patients, answering questions, and most irritatingly, completing tasks that should really be allocated to juniors. it is not until you dazedly mistype the same word four times into the EMR that it registers in your groggy mind that it is already early in the morning, past the quiet time that is your usual window for a brief hour of sleep.

you inhale slowly until your chest is full then let out the longest sigh, your head tilted upwards, eyes closed and shoulders slouching as the world’s worth of resignation weighs down on you. it is 5:30AM, only five more hours–or three if you are lucky–left until the end of your shift. keeping your eyes shut for another few seconds, you recollect yourself to make it through the morning.

a resident appears in front of you, seemingly chipper as he stretches his arms above his head and jokes to a passing nurse that he had an amazing nap in the call room. the brief composure you had gathered immediately dissipates when you hear him. not only have you sacrificed your own sleep to help a unit that is not your own, but there are NICU residents who have taken the liberty to nap instead.

that’s it. you have done multitudes more than your duty requires you to do so. greeting the well-rested resident with a passive-aggressive smile, even if you are aware he is not at fault, you bid your farewell with the instruction, “tell your attending that doctor l/n has gone back to her own unit now.”

you punch the elevator’s number to your floor a little harder than intended, grateful that there is nobody else inside to hear your loud exhale of weariness and defeat. the floor display slowly flickers with higher numbers. maybe being back in the PICU will give you peace of mind.

the elevator doors open to directly reveal a ruckus beside the nursing station. “fucking hell,” you mutter to yourself, finally letting a curse slip through. “what now?”

“what do you mean you’re not a doctor?” a shrill voice cuts through the noise of the small huddle of people as you walk closer.

“i am a nurse, mrs ryeo, not a doctor,” somebody answers.

you could recognise his voice anywhere–it is wooyoung. your exasperation quickly turns into concern and you ease yourself through a few nurses so that you can reach your boyfriend.

mrs ryeo states, “but you’re a man.”

“that is an excellent observation, but unfortunately, that does not change my job qualifications.” despite wooyoung’s innate cheek, it does not usually appear when he is dealing with parents or the occasional adult patient, which tells you that this woman is either a repeating offender or has been kicking up a fuss for some time now.

“hello, mrs ryeo,” you intercept, stepping over to wooyoung’s side. “how can i help you?”

the middle-aged lady scans you up and down with disdain before scoffing, “i don’t want a nurse; i want a doctor.”

your patience has long been running on thin ice and if you did not care about your career, you would turn around, walk two steps away, then twirl around with a curtsey whilst introducing yourself as doctor l/n just to fuck with her. at least wooyoung would laugh.

unfortunately, you do care about your career so you can only explain with a placating smile on your face that you are a doctor–a fourth-year resident at that. mrs ryeo ignores you in favour of rudely pointing and beckoning behind you. “hey, you,” she demands, “see my child.”

a glance over your shoulder reveals that she has pointed to one of your male interns. he does not make a move to step forward, warily gesturing back towards you as he explains, “she’s the senior resident on call right now.”

“i don’t want a fucking resident. i want a real doctor,” she opposes.

“mrs ryeo,” you grit your teeth, “he is my intern. i am a doctor–the most senior doctor currently on shift–”

“bullshit you’re the most senior doctor. i refuse to let you treat my child. i want a male doctor.”

your fingers flutter out to grasp the side of wooyoung’s scrubs, partially to ground yourself, but also because you know that he will not stand there and let you be disrespected. however, there is absolutely no way any of you will be able to talk some sense into her, so it is better to just save your breaths. “dr. ahn will not be in until this afternoon,” you simply state.

“then i’ll wait,” she snaps stubbornly.

you nod, “as you wish. i’ll let him know.” you walk away and the nurses take that as their cue to disperse and continue with their duties now that the situation has been somewhat diffused. 

wooyoung follows you aside to where there are less people. “you okay?” he asks, searching your eyes.

with a dismissive shrug you answer, “you get used to it,” then change the topic to gently remind, “document it on the EMR that she refused to be seen and then fill out an incident report.”

wooyoung nods but continues to look at you unconvinced. “do you finish at seven today? i’ll wait for you,” he offers.

“no,” you grimace, “i probably have to wait until the morning rounds are over. you go home first.” a soft laugh escapes from you when your boyfriend’s eyebrows knit together and you reassure, “i’m fine, really. i should get back to work. i’ll see you at home, woo.”

you turn around before his expression or any further questions can weaken your resolve. from somewhere near the nursing station, you know that mrs ryeo is still staring at you scathingly. breaking down now in any shape or form would only serve to fuel her misogynistic prejudices. so you hold your head up high, pretend that this is just any other day, then continue with the remainder of your shift telling yourself that nothing can make you break.

it is nearing eleven in the morning by the time you get home. your feet mechanically take you to your doorstep and your hands slide the cover of the keypad lock upwards to tap in the number code, mind dissociated from your heart and the rest of your body. like water and hot oil, you keep them separated, otherwise dwelling on how they feel together will inevitably lead to a sudden outburst of emotion.

you feel yourself being dragged back to your senses, automatically tuning in to the rowdiness that increases in volume when you open the door. it is one of those rare sundays where more than half of you are home together. there are shouts of teasing banter, cabinets closing shut and the clink of glassware being washed. vaguely, you can also hear a passionate squabble between two of your boyfriends over something trivial.

whereas before, coming home to your boys would have cooled down your bubbling oil, today they feel like the water you are trying to keep away.

“i swear it wasn’t me,” you hear.

san’s voice is slightly muffled as he teases back, “yeah, whatever you say, yunho.”

you slowly walk into the open living room from where you can also see the kitchen. the countertop surface is covered with plastic bags, groceries for nine spilling out from them as jongho systematically pulls the cold items out to hand them over to san. said boyfriend has his body halfway inside the fridge whilst yunho holds the door open by leaning on it with his weight.

“it’s true! i didn’t drink any this week,” yunho defends himself. “y/n didn’t buy them!”

you falter at the mention of your name. without the context of the conversation, you are suddenly left wondering whether you had messed something up.

“speak of the devil,” yeosang announces, spotting you as he returns from the bathroom. he comes up and gives you quick squeeze in greeting.

yunho perks up at the sight of you. “perfect! let me prove it to you,” he tells san. determined to attest his supposed innocence over something that you still do not know what, your tallest boyfriend turns to face you and asks, “did you restock our protein shakes last week?”

you frown with an unintelligent stutter as you try to recall the sudden information. last week, you had gone out to get some fresh groceries but had suddenly been called in for a shift, so you had had to give up on everything you did not deem as essential. san and yunho’s shakes, unfortunately, did not make the cut.

“no, i–”

“see!” yunho exclaims, whipping around to face san again before you can finish the rest of your sentence. his tone is triumphant as he reiterates, “i told you it was y/n who was the culprit, not me!”

san chuckles with fondness at the other, “okay, you’re forgiven.”

a bitter taste immediately spreads throughout your mouth along with the flaming heat that now covers your cheeks. you cannot tell whether it is anger or embarrassment–perhaps both–but it feels as though the water you have been holding off has suddenly been poured over you.

“why didn’t you go buy them yourself, then, if you knew i didn’t,” you question yunho curtly.

he looks at you with a grin, “because you were meant to buy them and then i didn’t have time to go.” his words are stated as a matter-of-factly with absolutely no intentions to insinuate anything apart from his reasons as to why he did not buy the protein shakes himself.

but you do not hear yunho and his playfulness that you normally indulge in–you hear dr. nam instead belittling your time and you also hear mrs ryeo with her condescending contempt, and now that you are no longer at work, you fail to reign yourself in. you snap before you even realise how heated your words are, “yeah, and i have all the time in the world.” you throw out sarcastically, “next time, why don’t i also mix your shakes, wait on my knees and hold the straw up to your lips while you drink them during your workouts.”

your boyfriends stare at you with wide eyes, silence deafening after the near-shout your voice had risen to by the end of your sentence. you let out a shaky exhale, suddenly sober. you no longer bubble and boil inside, emotions down to a simmer now, but still they remain unsteady and suddenly leave you with overwhelming exhaustion.

“sorry,” you mutter under your breath, “forget i said anything.”

pivoting on the balls of your feet, you escape to your own bedroom, ignoring the concern on wooyoung’s face from where he has woken up and stuck his head out of his own room at the commotion. you shut your door and then sit heavily on the edge of your bed, elbows resting on your knees and head buried in your hands.

“fuck,” you hiss, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes to stop yourself from crying. you are so frustrated–at everything that has happened today, at how you reacted, at the fact that you cannot seem to understand what you are feeling or what you want anymore.

you are going to have to talk to your boyfriends and apologise later, but for now, you just need to be alone.

only a few minutes pass before there is a soft knock on your bedroom door. you make no move to acknowledge the sound. neither do you make a noise of rejection though, so the boyfriend outside your door takes it as his cue to walk in.

“y/n?” he calls out hesitantly.

at the sound of his voice, you immediately look up. it is yunho looking like a kicked puppy, unable to bear any sort of conflict between any of you no matter how big or small the matter. you stand up but stay close to your bed. your heart wants to tug you closer towards your boyfriend yet your feet stay glued to their spot.

“y/n…” he starts again, “i–sorry, i didn’t mean for you to feel as though i was blaming you.”

you shake your head, “it’s fine, i know you didn’t.”

“that still doesn’t change the fact that i hurt you,” yunho expresses, taking a step closer towards you.

“no, i should be the one apologising–sorry. what i said to you was completely uncalled for,” you admit.

“hey, no. i didn’t come for an apology,” he looks at you with rounded eyes, now close enough to grasp you gently by your arms. yunho’s voice is soft as he says, “i’m worried about you. you don’t normally lash out like that…what’s wrong?”

everything.

“nothing,” you answer, avoiding his gaze.

he continues to probe, “are you sure? is it something to do with work?” when you remain quiet, he starts to guess, “...or is it us–”

“it’s work,” you cut him off before he can turn his words into a real question. “work has been tiring. i just–give me a bit of time.” you pat yunho’s hand placatingly, subtly easing your arms out of his grasp at the same time. you do not deserve his affection right now.

he fumbles awkwardly, unease stringing his body tight as his eyes scan yours. “we’ll talk later then?” he eventually concludes, verbally reaching out one more time to see if you want to take it.

“later,” you confirm softly, a small smile gracing your lips that does not reach the rest of your face. “i’m going to catch up on some sleep now.”

“ah, right. you were on call. sleep well then,” yunho concedes. he walks out of your room, gingerly closing the door behind him.

you have barely grabbed a fresh set of pajamas and underwear to quickly rinse yourself in the shower when there is another knock on your door. it takes a lot of energy not to sigh but to open the door instead where you discover san and jongho standing in the corridor with twin expressions of concern.

“did yunho talk things out with you?” san asks as jongho simultaneously says, “how are you feeling?”

you know that they have good intentions checking up on you, but you really just want to be left alone. your own thoughts and emotions are already equivalent to a crowd themselves. “yeah, yunho and i are fine. i’m fine, just tired. thanks for asking and sorry for shouting earlier,” you apologise, because you owe them that much at the very least. then you try and dismiss them before they can ask anything else, “a shower and some sleep will do me good.”

they glance down when you lift up your hand and they see the clothes you hold. jongho knows better than to push, so he places his own hand on san’s back in silent meaning whilst answering on their behalf, “you’re right. we’ll let you sleep. do you want us to wake you up for dinner?”

you smile a little more genuinely but still shake your head. “i’ll eat something before i leave for work tomorrow.”

although san has a lot to say to that, he holds his tongue and lets himself be guided back to the kitchen with jongho’s hand still on him. “let her have some time alone first. she’ll eat if she’s hungry,” the younger reassures him and san can only nod and hope that rest is all that you need. he cannot shake off the feeling that there is much more to it than you are letting on.

you hop into the shower, rinse and dry off and brush your teeth within ten minutes. sleep is your only reprieve now–the only time you do not need to think or feel–and you rush through your routine before you can start coming to conclusions about the whats and whys to the problems in your life. finishing up in the bathroom you go back to your own room, startling when you open the door and are greeted by the sight of wooyoung waiting on your bed.

“you okay?” he asks as soon as he sees you.

annoyance starts to grind your gears no matter how hard you try to remind yourself that your boyfriends are purely looking out for you. but concern has its limits before it starts to become overbearing and when they keep asking one after the other, you are unable to appreciate their efforts.

“i’m fine,” you respond tersely, words no longer genuine after how many times you have repeated them to questions you have heard on loop.

“are you sure? i know you had a rough day at work with mrs ryeo and–”

“wooyoung,” you finally interrupt, “just drop it. please.”

his expression falls and you immediately regret your words. but what’s done is done and the list of people you are hurting today only seems capable of growing–what is one more person on the list? wooyoung stands up and leaves your room with a quiet, sorry, and you do nothing to stop him.

hearing the door shut behind you, you walk over to where the curtains are pulled aside to let the afternoon sunlight of autumn filter in. all the curtains in the bedrooms are blackout curtains, the first additions to the apartment from day one of your careers. you draw them closed, shutting out the sunlight and plunging your room into darkness.

at last, you slide into bed. the screen of your phone lights up as you plug it into your charger and you find a text from yeosang and one from seonghwa just a few minutes ago, but you do not open them. you clear your notifications before you can even read the previews and put your phone on ‘do not disturb’. making sure your alarm is set for tomorrow’s shift, you switch the screen off and shove it under your pillow.

you close your eyes. you have a long list of people to work things out with before you can truly say that you are fine. but there is one thing you fail to realise as you finally fall asleep. the name at the very top of the list is not one of your boyfriends’–

it is your own.

the incident ends up being swept under the rug. you wake up that next morning an hour before your first alarm goes off, lying in the muted hours of dawn before the world starts to stir with the shadows on the ceiling of your bedroom twisting and warping like creatures.

your entire body is filled with an inexplicable sense of dread at the thought of the day ahead. it is not solely due to what happened yesterday between you and your boyfriends. there are a multitude of contributing factors but frankly, you fear dwelling on them and finding out just what percentage of your anxiety stems from the boys. unable to fall asleep and not entirely ready to face anybody yet, you decide to leave for your shift early.

the drive to the hospital feels particularly dystopian today. no matter what season the streets transition into over the year–regardless of the brilliant vibrance of autumn that has blanketed the ground for the last two months–it unfailingly turns back into the perpetual state of sterile winter once you are inside the hospital. it has never been something that you have dwelled on, but now it seems to be the truest reflection of your current self–a mere utopian facade hiding what is inside your walls.

you return nurse aeri’s enthusiastic greeting upon walking into the PICU with chirpiness that your weekend was great. you gasp with animated reactions at the story little siwoo tells you when you reach his room during your morning rounds. you comfort mr and mrs chae with graceful compassion and warm smiles when you tell them their daughter can finally be discharged. not a single person would look at you and think that something is wrong, and yet, you feel like you are simply a ghost of your emotions, detached and distant from your own words and actions. not even the news of seolhee stabilising enough to be transferred out of the PICU back to the paediatric oncology ward gives you the same genuine spike in emotions you would have felt a week ago.

the brief encounters with seonghwa around the unit and the brief glimpses of san and wooyoung around the department do nothing to alleviate your blanket of anxiety because they are a visual and physical reminder of the cavernous pit in your stomach. you end up going home after your shift with a tightness in your chest that has gradually become suffocating at the thought of being confined in the same space as your boyfriends, wondering if they are expecting you to talk to them; the conversation you had brushed off yesterday.

you are not ready yet and you do not want to talk, so instead you do what you do best–walk through the threshold of your front door with a plastered expression of neutrality as though nothing has happened the day before. but to your surprise–whether pleasant or bitter, however contradictory that may be, you cannot tell–they too appear to skirt around the issue.

there is a restless buzz in the air as yunho portions dinner out into separate bowls for those who are at home. hongjoong is hunched over his laptop with concentration at the dining table as usual, zeroed in on his presentation even amongst the bustle of yeosang and jongho setting the cutlery around him, but the jitters in his legs tell you differently. when he spots you walking closer, he shuts his laptop and places it to the side to greet you.

“seonghwa made ramen bulgogi for us before he left,” he tells you while you wash your hands at the sink and peer into the pot yunho is holding.

you gingerly slide into the seat across from hongjoong, watching yeosang dawdling in the kitchen as if he is trying to find something to keep himself busy with. “i thought he wasn’t rostered on for night shift today,” you absentmindedly comment.

jongho places your bowl of ramen in front of you and sits to your right as he answers, “he had to cover for one of the other nurses.”

you nod, waiting for the two in the kitchen. yunho comes to sit on your other side at the head of the table and yeosang beside hongjoong, their bowls placed down with a clunk that leads to silence in conversation.

“how’s your presentation going?” yunho vaguely asks hongjoong after a few minutes.

the older picks at his meat in his bowl, “it’s going alright. i only have the limitations and future directions for neurological gene therapies left to research.”

there is another lull in conversation before jongho asks, “did your surgeries go smoothly today?”

yunho nods, “i led a couple of trauma surgeries today. only one of them ended up going overtime.”

“you’re going to surpass the other doctors soon, doctor jeong from general surgery,” you tease slightly.

the boys share a few chuckles before the table falls silent once more and you can only hear the occasional slurp of noodles or clatter of chopsticks against the bowl. you glance at hongjoong, who is scratching the back of his neck, then at yeosang, whose gaze you can see darting around his bowl like he is avoiding eye contact. shifting your weight slightly in your chair, you suddenly start to realise why they are all acting so awkwardly.

it is not that your boyfriends are trying to skirt around yesterday’s fallout–if you can call it that–like you are. instead, they are waiting for you to be the one initiating the conversation so that they know for sure you are ready to have the conversation. the sentiment is appreciated but it does nothing to stop your muscles from clamming up even further.

the thought of talking and even just thinking about why you are feeling the way you are is enough to overwhelm you entirely again. it is much easier to simply pretend you are okay than to face the problems head on, because then you have to actually acknowledge that something is wrong. but you know that it is not just one issue but several things exacerbating one another, and just that awareness in itself already makes your insides lurch and clench dangerously. 

there is one sole advantage to your boyfriends’ approach to handling this situation. the timeline of when to talk is left up to you, so you choose the one option they had failed to preempt–not to talk at all. you finish your ramen in silence pretending you do not see the shared glances between the boys, get up to place your dishes into the sink ignoring the gazes that linger on your back, then retreat to your bedroom whilst shoving your emotions into the deepest corners in the back of your mind.

they gave you a choice. you simply made one.

the weeks pass by. you change through another rotation and the beginning of winter arrives once more. the only thing that stays the same is the elephant in the room that remains unaddressed and your lonely fight to keep it that way.

restlessness seeps into every interaction that the boys share with you. it follows you to work, jongho and yunho making excuses to go to your ward just to see what you are doing even though their own wards are on the other side of the hospital. it is in the way san tries to swap himself onto night shifts the days he knows you are working one as well, and in how seonghwa liaises with your colleagues under the guise of his role as the CNS, simply to probe whether you are overexerting yourself or not.

it follows you home too, a constant breathing down your neck in the form of mingi carefully scanning your expression the moment you walk through the door after your shift, and in yeosang hovering within five feet regardless of where you are. wooyoung checks the fridge first thing after coming home, counting the boxes of meal prep to make sure you had taken one to work that day, and hongjoong asks how your day was with the intention of probing further to ask how you are coping. he is not the only one who tries to check and your answer never changes–work was good, you are fine.

gradually, you find yourself trying to avoid their line of sight, ducking behind colleagues on the wards or back into your own bedroom at home. it is easier to pretend that you are okay than to admit that you are not, and when that does not work, to just stay away from your boyfriends completely. you are well aware that avoiding them is not healthy, but smokers too know very clearly the health risks of tobacco yet continue to smoke. just how many things are there in the world that we know are unhealthy for ourselves–physically, mentally, socially–and we still choose to make that decision?

but as with any unhealthy choices, they eventually lead to detrimental consequences. unbeknownst to you, each denial of help causes the string inside of you to wind up tighter and tighter until it becomes taut enough to snap at any moment.

and that is what ends up happening on a wednesday night.

seonghwa and wooyoung are both still at the hospital. by the time they get home after their shifts, it will already nearly be time for dinner, so with everybody’s first preferences for cooks still working, you are the next in line. hongjoong had originally offered to order takeout instead since you had been on call last night, but you had been unable to fall asleep despite how exhausted you felt and you hated being stuck in the limbo state of idleness between rest and non-rest.

“are you sure you don’t want us to just order takeout today?”

“it’s fine, hongjoong,” you respond shortly, “i’ve already started cooking.”

yeosang sits at the countertop separating the kitchen from the open living room and dining area, watching as you make a simple soup and stir-fried dish. you try to ignore his intent staring but it is difficult when his gaze quite literally follows you from cupboard to sink to stove. it is only when he hesitantly asks, “are you okay?” that you realise you have left your expression unschooled, dark frown covering your face.

you force your features to relax and nod, trying not to throw a question back at him asking what he is doing just staring at you. his question catches the attention of san sitting on the couch, who calls out to check up on you, “is something wrong?”

“nothing’s wrong,” you sigh, turning around as if that will help to block them out, aware that your patience for them–for anybody–has started running thin. you idly hum at san’s reminder to ask them for help if you need it despite knowing fully well that having an extra person in the kitchen space would only serve to have the opposite effect to its intended purpose.

jongho passes by behind you to fill up a cup of water at the sink. as he waits, he glances at you stirring the pot before double taking at your expression. he tentatively questions, “you alright? do you want me to help?”

“why do you keep asking me that?” you reply, only half-jokingly. you drive him out with an irritated wave of your hand, “just sit and wait.”

your boyfriends are at least tactful enough to understand they are not to step foot into the kitchen until dinner is cooked, but it does nothing to alleviate the sensation of holes being drilled into the back of your head. you are so focused on ignoring them that you do not realise when seonghwa and wooyoung come home from their shifts.

“hey, love,” seonghwa sidles up to you in the kitchen as you slice some extra spring onions. “how’s your day been?”

as he asks you, he comes up from behind and slides a hand around your hip to rest on it. his touch is habitual–something he always does to you and the boys–but you are tense and on edge. you jerk in surprise, accidentally slicing your finger with the knife. it is only a small cut and absolutely unintentional on your boyfriend’s part, but your fuse finally runs out and you drop the knife with a clatter, whirling around angrily to face him.

“can you fucking stop doing that?” you snap, tone clipped and unkind.

seonghwa flusters, trying to apologise and look at your injury whilst simultaneously jerking backwards in confusion at your hostility. he stutters, “i–y/n, are you okay? i didn’t mean to surprise you–”

“no, that’s not it,” you interrupt, blind to the stinging in your finger. “i mean your fucking questions, and not just from you. all of you.” you lash out at the other boys too who have now stood up and are varying distances from the kitchen. “every single fucking day you ask me if i’m okay. can you please stop that?”

san slowly walks closer until he reaches the countertop that separates the both of you. “y/n,” he calls out to you sadly, your sudden anger uncharacteristic, “we’re just worried about you. we want to make sure that you’re okay.”

“i know you do,” you cry out with exasperation, heat starting to gather behind your eyes, “and i’m trying to be okay, alright? i’m trying for everybody’s sake. but you make it so fucking hard when each and every single one of you keep asking me how i’m feeling as if you want me to fucking break down.”

“that’s not what we’re trying to do,” hongjoong tries to reason with you, but you are unable to rationalise anything in the spur of the moment.

you desperately blink back tears. “i’ve tried to pretend that everything is okay–pushed everything to the back of my mind so that i don’t think about it and hope that it resolves itself…but it’s not working.” you take a shaky breath, lips quivering and voice quieting with every word, “i’m just one person at home and i’m just one person at work. i am so fucking tired all the time.”

“but you aren’t just one person. you can tell us and we can help you.”

you do not even register who says that, because your eyes blur with wetness and your voice increases with frustration, “no, i can’t. when you’re tired, when you’re exhausted, you don’t have the time or the energy to ask for help, much less to fight for yourself. you think i haven’t thought about complaining to you guys and letting myself cry in your arms? or escalating whatever happens at work to the higher-ups? i know what i should do, but it’s all useless.

“when you are about to be caught in an avalanche and buried alive, do you remember to ignore your instincts and run horizontally instead of attempting to outrun it? do you remember to keep your mouth shut to stop yourself from choking on snow? or to use your arms and legs to create air pockets for yourself, or to spit and use its trajectory to work out which way is up and down after you’re disorientated? no, you fucking don’t, because in the moment you can only focus on surviving. there is no time to do anything but that.”

your boyfriends are stunned into silence, not only by the bitter resentment that coats your loud voice and mars your face with furrowed eyebrows, but by the raw confession that tumbles out of your lips. they had known you were tired recently, just not the extent of it.

the tone of your words soften with exhaustion and heartache as you look them in the eyes one by one, “just think about ourselves…things aren’t the same between us anymore, don’t try to deny it. we don’t love each other like we used to. things have changed between us this year–it’s just that nobody has brought it up.” the tears that have pooled around your eyes finally slip down your cheeks. “and you know why? it’s because we’re all just trying to survive now. we don’t have the time or the luxury to do anything but survive.”

there is no thought that can be formulated in response to your words. seonghwa opens his mouth but then shuts it again because he knows you are right. it is ugly, but it is the truth.

having been in a relationship together for over four years now, not even including the turbulent years prior to becoming official when you were all navigating the hardships of medical school, your bonds are built upon the foundation of comfort and understanding. but what happens when that comfort turns into complacency, and understanding turns into indifference? what happens when time runs its course and wears down a relationship?

you avert your eyes downwards, the lines of the kitchen tiles blurry underneath your feet as your vision mists over, afraid to look at the sad gazes of your boyfriends any longer. there is a sudden thump of body colliding against the wall and a muffled curse that draws everybody’s attention, including yours, towards the corridor. mingi’s head snaps upwards with guilty eyes from where he had been trying to slink his way in from the front door unnoticed before accidentally stubbing his toe.

your body makes a split-second decision with the diversion. you push past seonghwa in the kitchen, past san and yeosang at the countertop and mingi by the wall, and past the rest of your boyfriends just standing there, back into the safety of your bedroom. it is from years of muscle memory navigating the apartment that you do not walk head-first into anything despite your vulnerable state, although your boyfriends also step out of your way in stunned stupor.

fumbling for the edge of the door behind you with your hand the moment you walk past the threshold to your bedroom, you step backwards until you are able to push it closed. it shuts with a loud click and then finally, you are alone.

you slowly sink forward to the ground, legs useless as your hands reach out towards the floor to hold yourself up. the world around you continues to blur with wetness, a stinging heat behind your eyes and nose, yet the tears do not fall and you do not cry. your gaze remains unfocused on the spot right beside the leg of your bed, frozen in your own stupor of tangled thoughts and emotions.

time, fucking time. you despise that word with your entire soul. in this world, the ones who are truly rich are not those with endless wealth to spare–the ones who are truly rich are those with endless time to spare.

when was the last time you drank freshly-brewed coffee at a cafe instead of guzzling down the grainy staleness of a rushed instant coffee that has not even been mixed properly? when was the last time you sat down for a knife-and-fork meal with warm food instead of popping a mint into your mouth to stave off your hunger pains for a little longer? when was the last time you went shopping for a pretty dress and a cute pair of matching heels instead of sniffing your scrubs at the end of a shift wondering whether you can postpone the laundry for one more day? when was the last time you used shampoo and conditioner when washing your hair instead of simply rinsing it under the water before your eyes closed on themselves?

they are such simple tasks of everyday life, yet they have now become unattainable luxuries in the face of insufficient time. you deliberately sacrifice the quality of your life to save a few extra minutes here, a few extra minutes there. but no matter how much time you are able to scrape out of thin air, it slips through the cracks of your fingers like fine sand and disappears amongst the people around you. even one spare minute, if you have any leftover after prioritising your patients, must be somehow split between the eight of your boyfriends.

you can save however much time you can, but it will never be enough. you are not enough.

the knotted twist of anxiety that has been distorting your insides for the past few weeks suddenly unravels with shattering clarity as your fears suddenly weigh you down with crushing exhaustion. you cannot even take care of yourself anymore–how can you take care of your boyfriends, much less eight of them? you want everything to just stop, but what exactly ‘everything’ entails, you have no idea.

there is a soft hand on your shoulder squeezing tenderly. it is warm, you idly think to yourself. they murmur, “y/n,” and only when they squeeze you again do you dazedly look up, blinking to clear your vision. mingi’s round eyes gaze at you and you find him kneeling beside your crumpled form on the floor of your bedroom. you have no energy to acknowledge him further than another blink and prolonged eye contact.

he stares at you for a few seconds, eyes full of words that he holds back, before simply asking, “have you showered yet?”

you do not answer, but he had not questioned you with the intention of receiving an answer. he responds for you, “probably, but i doubt you washed your hair. come,” his hand slowly travels down from your shoulder to your smaller hand, “take a shower with me.”

mingi’s gaze does not waver despite the slight narrowing of your eyes that tells him you are tired and unamused. “i stink and i want your company,” he states. then he makes the decision for you and tugs you upwards with him. despite his strength, mingi’s hands are gentle as he holds you, leading you out of your bedroom and into the bathroom instead.

you stand there and let him guide your arms through your jumper so that he can take it off your head. he does the same with your shirt, your pants and with your undergarments, his touch intimate and loving not with sexual desires but with devoted care as if he is afraid you will crack under the slightest of pressures. his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps where they brush against your skin and your eyes close with the softest of sighs, letting yourself relax under your boyfriend’s careful movements.

the bathroom begins to steam up from the spray of hot water and mingi steps you into the shower with him. quietly, he wets your hair and lathers his shampoo into it, sturdy hands massaging the tension out of your scalp and the nape of your neck. you watch the concentration in his creased brows and the water that drips down from his chin falls between your chests. not once does he look at you–only focuses on properly shampooing your hair.

it is only when mingi is rinsing your hair and you are no longer facing him do you pluck up the courage to speak delicately, “why aren’t you asking me if i’m okay?”

he is silent for a few seconds and you feel the slight pause in his hands against your scalp before he continues to run his fingers through your hair. “do you want me to ask?”

once again, you do not answer, but that is an answer in itself.

“plus,” mingi softly murmurs, hands leaving your hair, the click of a bottle cap opening resounding in the echo of the bathroom louder than his voice, “you’ll just say that you’re okay…even though you’re not.”

then the touch of his fingers returns as he teases something cold into your hair from its roots to its ends. almost immediately, you choke up and your expression crumples, lips trembling downwards as your eyebrows furrow, because mingi is putting conditioner in your hair. it is embarrassing that this of all things is what finally marks your breakdown, but mingi does not comment when your shoulders shudder with shaky exhales nor when you fail to hold in a stuttering sob. he lets you cry out your sorrows, pain and fatigue and he simply continues to massage the conditioner into your hair.

mingi simply continues to love you in the way that you did not love yourself.

when your hair is rinsed, only then does he turn you around to face him. under the showerhead with only the comforting tranquility of water pattering against the tiles around the both of you, he softly tilts your chin upwards to capture your lips in a kiss. it is a slow but simple kiss, lips pressed against yours with a thousand utterances of comfort and reassurances dancing across them.

he gives you one kiss, then another, and another, each one sweeter than the previous despite the salty tracks that run down your cheeks. your hands find their way onto his chest and the steady beat of his heart thrums underneath your palm. mingi rests your foreheads together, your tears falling in solitude with the water and with the tears that fall from inside his heart.

finally, he asks, “is it work?”

you shake your head slightly. “i don’t know.”

“is it us?”

the tears that had slowed down reappear with a strangled sob as you answer truthfully, your fears emerging at least, “i don’t know.”

“that’s okay, you don’t have to know,” he whispers, “and you don’t have to be okay.” he pulls away a little so that he can cradle your jaw with his hands and look into your eyes. “take the day off tomorrow, y/n.”

you do nothing to stop the tears that continue spilling over the bottom of your eyes as you shakily answer, “i don’t have time. my patients need me.”

“you do have time,” mingi counters, thumbing your tears away. “you just haven’t been spending that time on yourself. even doctors get sick, you know.”

“i’m not sick,” you deny.

your boyfriend pulls you into his chest and encases you in a protective embrace. “physically, maybe not. but your mental health is just as important, and sometimes the things that you can’t see inflict more suffering than the things that you can see.”

it is something that you all know and understand, but when you are trapped in a workplace where the mentality revolves entirely around a medical model of physical health, the disparity in value you place between your physical and mental health becomes so deeply ingrained it is almost impossible to change.

“mingi, what if…” you trail off. your boyfriend nuzzles the top of your head with his chin before brushing his lips over the crown of your forehead in encouragement. you swallow thickly to continue, “what if i need time alone?”

mingi pulls away from you once more, slowly so as not to further upset your already-scattered emotions. he looks at you earnestly, considering your words and their meaning–whether he is understanding your undertone correctly and whether this is a genuine request for respite or a spur-of-the-moment cry for reassurance. he watches your eyes flicker back and forth between his own.

“if that’s what you need,” he finally whispers, wrapping you closer in his arms again, “then i’ll support you no matter what.”

he feels your small puff of surprise against his chest and it pierces through his heart like a sword. how he wishes that you would realise that he and any of your other boys would pluck all the stars in the universe’s galaxies if you were to ask for them. but instead, you are asking him in a small and timid voice, “you’re not upset? the others won’t be upset?”

mingi chooses his next words carefully, aware that they could easily be misunderstood but also unwilling to treat you like a child where the world is only full of happy endings. not that you believe that anymore, anyway. “we will be upset,” he gently breaks to you, “but only at the situation that we're in because things have ended up like this before we could even really do anything for you. y/n, we will never be upset at you in this situation, much less upset at the decisions you choose to make. if time is what you need, then take however much time you need.”

you do not have the courage to lift up your head to meet his eyes, shame starting to creep through your veins because what if this decision is simply a decision to run away yet again? but then mingi senses your doubts and draws you in for another kiss. he captures your lips between his, pressing against you a little harder when you both start to run out of breath. he draws it out for longer until the kiss becomes dizzyingly and intoxicatingly blissful and fills your mind with thoughts of him and him only.

when you can finally inhale, the air swirls with a mix of his scent and the shampoo he had used. here, under the warm spray of water within the safe confines of the shower and mingi's arms, it may only be momentary but you are okay.

“can you tell the boys for me?” you ask, voice barely louder than a whisper. “i don't think i can tell them myself.”

mingi nods and the corners of his lips rise bittersweetly. “of course.”

so for the first time in four years since moving in with your boys, on a night that snows lightly but unceasingly, you pack a small bag of clothes and essential belongings…

and move out.

“good evening, doctor jeong from general surgery.”

the running joke between himself and the little girl in front never fails to draw a laugh of amusement out of yunho, who pretends to bow in formal greeting as he returns the acknowledgement, “good evening, kim seolhee from the paediatric ward.” when she giggles, he comments, “you look like you’re having a good day.”

seolhee grins and nods with excitement. not only does her expression look livelier, there is a slight healthy glow to her skin as well. “i was just telling doctor snowflake that they’re letting me go home for christmas next week before my next round of treatments start.”

at her words, there is no way to avoid eye contact with your boyfriend as his gaze automatically flicks over to where you are sitting beside her bed. ever since you moved out a few days ago into a friend’s rented apartment with a spare couch, your encounters with your boyfriends around the hospital have been…different.

a shift in dynamics was always going to be inevitable because it was–is–an action of request for space to think and just breathe, even though neither parties are truly mad or upset at one another. just as mingi had reassured you in the shower, it is simply the circumstances that have piled up and led to a consequence like so, and if you need time away from a contributing factor to sort your emotions out, there are absolutely no hard feelings. despite all this, your boyfriends cannot help but yearn to reach out and bring you back into their arms–to bring you back home.

yunho’s eyes soften the moment they lay upon you and he savours the sight of you today, unsure of when he will next see you around the hospital. “that’s so good to hear,” he says earnestly, “and i’m sure that news has made doctor snowflake’s entire week.”

he smiles at you warmly and this time you find yourself mirroring his expression, awkwardness taking a backseat because you know he is genuinely happy for both seolhee and you. the level of fondness and love you have for seolhee has long blurred past the usual level of care you would show to a patient on your caseload. she has spent more christmas’ in hospital than out, so to be able to spend these holidays at home is the greatest gift seolhee could receive and the greatest gift you could witness.

your boyfriend lingers around for a little longer, pushing his visit as long as he can without it being obvious that he does not actually have a reason to stay. eventually he says, “i better get back to work. enjoy your christmas at home, seolhee.”

she nods happily and then he looks at you. “i’ll see you–” yunho cuts himself off, holding back from finishing the sentence with ‘at home’. he corrects, “i’ll see you around.”

“see you,” you respond amiably, fingers fiddling with the hem of your scrubs as he walks out.

yunho only makes it a couple of steps away before he bumps into wooyoung making his evening rounds. they exchange brief conversation and you quickly avert your gaze when you see the taller of the two gesturing back into seolhee’s room. seolhee’s eyes dart between yours and the view outside her room before she points out, “it’s nurse woo!”

“really?” you lie, pretending you had not noticed. yunho has already walked off by the time you look back, so only wooyoung is looking at you. he makes no move to come into seolhee’s room. instead, he gives you a little wave with a hopeful smile. a small exhale of fondness leaves you as you return his gesture through the room’s window with a similar amount of restraint. however, it is enough to make your boyfriend break out into a beam, and then he goes running off.

seolhee is already staring at you when you turn to face her again. she raises an eyebrow. “are you and your boyfriends fighting?” she immediately asks.

her question makes you flinch with a sheepish smile, knowing that she would catch a whiff of it sooner or later–just not this fast. are you and your boys fighting? it is technically not a proper argument nor a proper break from the relationship, but there is the need to take a step back and rethink what certain things mean to you–to the boys–and what you want your life to look like.

you are not about to unload all of this onto the now seven-year-old girl with an ‘it’s complicated’ as your answer, so you opt for a simple, “yeah, kind of.”

seolhee shrugs and comments casually, “my parents used to fight all the time.”

you are reminded of her mother, mrs kim, who you have seen several times during visiting hours after that first meeting with her. you are also reminded of mr kim, her father who drops by whenever he can when he is not at work. they have been nothing but strong and supportive parents during seolhee’s battle with her cancer and you cannot reconcile that image of them with the image of constant arguing.

“what changed?” you probe curiously.

despite the smile on her face, the glimmer in seolhee’s eyes fade slightly. “i got diagnosed and then they realised that in the grand scheme of the universe, life is just too short not to spend every moment loving each other.” she turns to look outside the window on the other side of her bed. “we learnt a lot–love isn’t just about expensive outings and fancy gestures and impressive words because there are a lot of things that i can’t do that other normal kids and families can…we learnt that love is all about the small things too and those small moments in life are the things we truly end up cherishing, especially during the tough times.

“mum helps me pick out the colour of my bandanna when i want to wear one, and dad helps me hold the bucket up when i’m feeling sick. i pretend to hide my parents behind the curtains to see if the nurses will let us have an extra five minutes past visiting hours, and they will always smile and give us ten. we don’t always love each other the same way as other families do, but those are the things that we’ll remember the most.”

you look out the window with seolhee as you listen to her words. the snow has fallen lightly the entire day and now under the streetlights, the growing layer of snow glows brightly amongst the dimness of the winter night. you think back to your boys–the lack of dates and diminishing displays of love; how that had been one of the first indicators that something had changed in the relationship dynamics. then you also think back to those small gestures they had done for you; the silly notes, the coffees, the brief conversations, the meals, the break room hugs.

“it’s kind of like snow,” you murmur to neither yourself nor seolhee in particular. “you don’t notice it at first, and only when it starts to form a layer on the ground over time do you start to realise how much it has actually snowed.”

the moment those words leave your lips, you are suddenly reminded of how even those small gestures had gradually disappeared–how that too played a part in the shift in your romantic relationships. your tone is wistful, “then the snow melts and it's gone, just like that.”

seolhee looks back at you, considering your words thoughtfully. she hums for a moment before putting forward, “it melts, but does that change the fact that it snowed in the first place?”

the snowflakes continue to drift softly outside like butterfly wings. as beautiful as they are, there will come a time when they melt away, but the reality before your eyes right now is that they exist–they are there. it is snowing.

“no,” you reply, “it doesn’t.”

“then maybe it's up to us to remember that it snowed until it does snow again,” she smiles triumphantly, the innocence of her radiating beam so strikingly different to the clarifying wisdom she has suddenly dropped even if she does not know the true extent of the meaning her words hold to you. seolhee points at your name badge to drive her point home, “it's just like your badge. my sticker is gone now but that doesn't change the fact that it used to be there.”

your head flicks down immediately and you tilt your badge upwards so that you can get a good look it at. disappointment washes over you when you find that her words are true and her sticker is gone, so worn and loved that it has fallen off somewhere within the hospital. you have no idea when that occurred but it must have been today, because it was still there this morning when you touched it for comfort on your drive here. now, only the faint outline of its shape remains.

it should not hold as much sentimental value as it does, but the realisation that seolhee’s sticker is no longer with you makes you ask, like you the child and seolhee the adult, “can i have another one?”

her voice takes a rare tone of complaint as she grumbles, “i lost the sticker book when i moved back to this ward.”

“that’s a shame” you remark, as genuinely upset as the little girl beside you.

she lets out an endearing little sigh, then pats the back of her hand with her own. “that’s okay, you can look outside whenever you miss me. remember,” seolhee blinks at you earnestly, “i love you more than there are snowflakes falling outside.”

you place your other hand over hers with a hint of a challenging smile. “and if it stops snowing?” you ask, testing the seemingly boundless wisdom that is hidden inside of her.

seolhee beams, answer so clear and obvious. “then count the stars in the sky.”

for the first time in his life, jongho is late.

his, san’s and yeosang’s mornings had all started off a little rough after the latter had rushed past the open door to the bedroom the other two were sleeping in together, dressed in his scrubs and puffer jacket ready to leave, only to double take at the sight of them still in bed. they had been woken up by yeosang’s frantic question, “jongho? don’t you have work today?”

san had groggily lifted his upper body off the bed as jongho jolted into a sitting position, trying to pull himself together. “what?” jongho’s brain had remained foggy no matter how alert he appeared in panic. “what time is it? what day is it today?”

“it’s six thirty,” yeosang had responded, san’s grunts of confirmation affirming the same. alarm had suddenly run through yeosang as doubt creeped into his own mind. “and it’s monday…isn’t it?”

“yeah,” san had confirmed again, voice thick with sleep.

jongho had been certain he did not have work. “i checked the whiteboard last night. my name’s not down for a shift,” he had stated, only to break out into cold sweat immediately afterwards with realisation. you are the only one who goes to all the effort to note down everybody’s shifts for the fortnight on the whiteboard–the very same one that has not been changed since you moved out.

“oh, shit,” jongho had cursed. “i do have work.”

and so for the first time in his life, jongho is late. he knows he only has himself to blame for relying on somebody else for something as important as when he has to show up for work, but for years that is how it has been. not once have you ever made a mistake with the erasable calendar, always taking meticulous care to check that all the shifts for each day are correct because it is the easiest way to help you all keep track of where everybody is for the day.

nobody asks you to update the whiteboard. you just do.

hongjoong realises the same thing in the wake of jongho’s rush to leave the house. he stands in front of the bathroom sink, his eyes half-closed as he brings his toothbrush up to his mouth, only to get a gross mouthful of plain bristles. it is still too early in the morning to swear so he sighs in resignation instead, “not again.”

he pulls the head of the toothbrush back out of his mouth to squeeze a glob of toothpaste on top. it is the third morning in a row that he has done this, still unaccustomed to your absence in the house. on the mornings you leave for work earlier than him–which is most days–you have always pre-squeezed his toothpaste for him, simply because you know it takes a little longer for the cogs in his head to start turning in comparison to your other boys.

hongjoong does not ask you to squeeze his toothpaste for him. you just do.

it is second nature to you, just as it is to hang wooyoung’s keys on the jacket hook by the front door so that he does not upturn the entire house looking for them like he has been for the past fifteen minutes. seonghwa follows hot on the younger’s heels flipping cushions back onto their spots on the couch, shifting trinkets on the kitchen counter back where they belong and closing all the cabinet doors that are swung open haphazardly.

“i never understand why you don’t just put your keys back onto the same hook whenever you get home,” seonghwa exhales.

wooyoung pointedly chooses not to respond to that, instead firmly stating, “i’m telling you, they were on the couch just last night."

“and why would you put them on the couch in the first place?”

“that’s besides the point,” the younger waves his words away carelessly, going back to the couch once more and sliding his hands along the cracks in case they slipped inside.

“how does y/n always manage to find your keys,” seonghwa runs his fingers through his hair.

“i don’t know,” wooyoung suddenly dampens, hands coming to a stop in the middle of the couch as he thinks of you knowing exactly where his keys are in the chaos of the house. “she just…does.”

and there are a lot of other things that you just do. when mingi saunters into the kitchen after dinner, feeling peckish but not for something unhealthy considering it is already close to bedtime, he pokes his nose into the fridge as san washes the dishes. the latter glances over his shoulder.

“you want me to cut you an apple later?” san offers.

mingi nods happily and requests, “without the skin?”

the older laughs, repeating his words, “without the skin.”

when mingi is handed a plate of neat apple slices ten minutes later, he finds himself subconsciously comparing them to the ones you will silently place into his hands after dinner before he even asks for them. san’s slices are the same in appearance–skinned and uniform–except he cuts them into thicker wedges than you do.

mingi takes a bite into one. the apple tastes sweet and tart across his tongue and yet he cannot help but think that the apples taste better when you cut them. whereas san cuts them into six slices, you cut them into nine; just something that you do.

later that night, yunho is again the last one to arrive home after his surgeries run overtime, save for seonghwa and yeosang on night shift. it is pitch black when he enters, bumping not only into the shoe cabinet but also an untucked dining chair as he fumbles his way in with his hands outstretched.

the night light that is usually plugged into the wall of the living room is not on to greet him in the dark hours past midnight today. the light was something you had insisted he buy, absolutely not because the design of the glowing mushroom cap was cute, but because you did not want anybody–read yunho–tripping flat onto their face coming home from a late shift. you are always the one to turn it on if you know one of them will be late, but this time there is no light…because there is no you.

yunho does not ask you to turn the light on for him. you just do. nobody asks you to do any of those small things for them, yet you just do, because that is your way of showing you see, your way of showing you care, and your way of showing you love.

a wave of longing washes over yunho, the sands of his heart already long damp from the moment you moved out. how he wishes he could just walk into your room right now and shelter your peacefully-sleeping form from the shadows of the night with a tender kiss, just like he used to.

but he cannot, not anymore, and he regrets more than anything not doing it while he could.

nurse yejin, the head of the paediatric emergency department, is just about to greet you as you walk up to the nursing station when she takes all but one look at you and points out, “you’re looking like shit this morning.”

from anybody else, that statement would have been insulting despite it being the truth. but nurse yejin has always been frank and blunt, not one to beat around the bush with the intent of getting to the root of problems as efficiently and effectively as possible. ‘head nurse things’, she had told you early on in your rotation.

you let out a laugh in response, although it probably looks like a grimace more than anything. “woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” you joke.

it is only true to a certain extent since you have not been sleeping on a bed but on a couch for the past six days, now counting seven. but ever since you moved out, you have woken up every morning feeling out of routine, standing in the middle of the unfamiliar living room disorientated and wondering whether you usually brush your teeth before changing into your scrubs or after, and whether you usually grab your socks before you pack your bag or right before you leave for work. you do not realise how mentally ingrained into your system your morning routine is, down to the number of steps your feet can take on autopilot and the exact placement of the items your hands can grab without looking, until your environment changes entirely.

the drive to the hospital is also different. it is only ten minutes longer than your usual commute and the streets all look similar under the covering of snow, yet it still throws you off, setting the tone as such for the remainder of the day.

this morning had been no exception–arguably worse–when you realised with frustration that you had no more clean scrubs to change into. you had forgotten to run a load of laundry the day before, leaving you with no choice but to borrow your friend’s clothes that were presentable enough for you to wear to work until you could change into a set of the hospital’s spare scrubs.

forgetting to do your laundry is no rare occurrence but it has never been an issue. how many times had you opened your wardrobe, uncertain whether you would find a set of wearable scrubs, only to be surprised by an ironed and neatly-hung set waiting for you? it has never been an issue until now, as realisation dawns upon you that one of your boyfriends has always looked out for you by ensuring you always had clean scrubs for work.

“you better snap out of it quick then, doctor l/n,” nurse yejin advises, words pulling you back to the present. “we have a thirteen-year-old male arriving in a few minutes with a first-time generalised tonic-clonic seizure. episode lasted for six minutes, now postictal but stable.”

your mind immediately shifts, focus zeroing in on the length of the seizure as the head nurse continues to provide you a handover of the paramedic’s call. you instruct, “notify the fellow or resident currently on call in paediatric neurology. tell them to be ready for immediate assessment.”

nurse yejin nods and reaches for the phone as you walk off briskly to prepare for the patient’s arrival. from behind, she watches you with a slight smirk of pride because there you are; fire lit up in your eyes once again. only, it is nowhere near as intense as it used to be.

for fire, too, has a life of its own. it is able to burn and burn and burn, engulfing whatever it can within its vicinity in order to keep itself alive and bright. but even the strongest of fires will eventually burn out into nothing but a wither of smoke if it does receive enough fuel to keep it sustained, whether sourced by itself or provided by those around it.

“you’re not eating?” your intern asks you, hours later.

you turn your head slightly towards her to show she has your attention, but you keep your eyes glued to the screen as you rapidly type up the notes for the seizure patient from this morning. “you go have lunch first,” you respond distractedly, not having realised it was already past one thirty. “i’ll eat in a bit.”

only, when it comes to three o’clock, a wrench having been thrown into the works by a sudden code blue, you realise you do not have a lunch to eat. “fuck,” you curse at yourself, hands digging into your bag once more in hopes of finding a stray protein bar. you knew you should have thrown in a couple of them last night while it was on your mind.

just like your scrubs, your lunch has never been an issue for you until now. once more, realisation is forced upon you as you wonder why not; san has always had an uncanny sixth sense that somehow alerts him each time you forget to stuff your lunchbox into your bag so that he can do it in your stead. on the days you forget and he leaves earlier than you, hongjoong is there to take it to work, personally finding you on the wards to deliver it to you.

sometimes, your lunch will be packed in a different container. when wooyoung makes a heavily-spiced or greasier dish, he portions some to cook with less chilli or seasoning specifically for you to take to work the next day because he knows your stomach is sensitive, especially when you are stressed or fatigued. today though, you have no choice but to grab something from the cafeteria.

even the instant coffee you quickly brew for yourself tastes particularly unpalatable and sand-like, a tricky feat considering how rock-bottom the standard already is. jongho has always somehow managed to make it taste bearable if he does not have time to order freshly-brewed coffee from the cafe. you think that maybe it is because he takes the extra minute that you do not to properly pre-dissolve the powder in some boiling water before diluting the coffee with the rest of the water. and jongho does do that, except the reality is that it tastes better simply because he is making it for you.

you find your mind incessantly churning as your day continues in a similar manner–sudden awareness of all the different ways your boyfriends have been looking out for you. it shadows you from the hospital back to your friend’s apartment, which is pitch black when you get back after your shift. your friend had texted you earlier that she would be out drinking with friends and unlikely to return before the morning, so when you unlock the door, you are greeted by nothing but deafening silence and apocalyptic stillness.

using the display of your lockscreen to illuminate a path, you toe off your shoes and sluggishly trudge into the living room. you have never come home to complete blackness before–one of your boyfriends, usually yunho, has always made sure to keep a night light on for you. but this time, the lonely gloom of your friend’s apartment beckons to you in a way that is hauntingly comforting. so instead of turning its lights on, you sit down heavily on the couch in the darkness.

the night seems colder than usual.

you lean back onto the cushions of the couch and stare blankly at the ceiling above. the display on your phone dims before turning off from idleness. as if your body takes it as a cue to do the same, you close your eyes and slowly exhale, muscles deflating into the couch as the silence spreads over your body like the gradual creep of water freezing.

just what exactly are you doing? what is it that you need?

did you simply need an opportunity to just be yourself, away from those who you felt the need to always be a perfectly happy and positive y/n around? or did you need space to reconsider the state of your relationship with the boys? maybe it was never even about the relationships in the first place, but that you had no way of isolating yourself from work so you chose the next best option to cut yourself off from.

perhaps, you really just wanted to continue running away and hiding from a greater problem that you do not want to acknowledge.

a wetness builds up behind your eyelids, confused and overwhelmed by the fact itself that you still cannot make sense of your emotions. maybe it is because there is no one answer but that all of them are answers, because no matter what you try to do or where you try to run, you cannot seem to rid the bone-deep exhaustion that continues to crush and constrict your soul.

however, there is one thing you are certain of after today. having spent so many days away from the boys and your normal routine, only now do you realise just how many subtle routines there are that intertwine you all together. some you only notice because of the change it has brought upon this week; others long known because they ceased to occur.

but seolhee’s words resonate within you. yes, some of those routines had disappeared, but like the snow, it does not change the fact that they existed in the first place. the commonality that all of the routines share–whether it be those you had previously been so hung up about dwindling or those you are only just becoming conscious of–is that they are all routines of love.

and like the golden warmth of the sun during the frigid bitterness of winter, you do not learn to truly appreciate something until it becomes absent from your life.

sometimes, you wonder what the end of the world will be like.

you wonder how it happens; whether it would be instantaneous, one second everybody going about their everyday life then the next second everything gone, people’s last moments still in blissful ignorance as to what has become of them and the world; or whether it would be gradual, an agonisingly slow and painful wait as inevitable doom creeps closer, no better than mercifully taking your own life.

you wonder what you would feel; fear for what will be or resignation for what is to be? regret for what had been or grief for what will not be? you wonder how you would realise, where you would be the moment it happens, who would come to mind first, why the world would be ending.

you have wondered so much and yet, you would have never expected to experience a part of your world ending through a phone call, your ringtone jarring and eerie in the late hours past midnight, jolting you awake on an unfamiliar couch to the sight of an equally unfamiliar ceiling. it takes you a few seconds to process the sound, disoriented from having accidentally fallen asleep still in your scrubs with no recollection of the last few hours.

by the time your fingers fumble across your phone, it has already stopped ringing. squinting, you turn the screen on. there are fresh notifications at the top of your screen showing two missed calls, but before you can process who they are from, the silent living room is disturbed by the piercing sound of your ringtone once again.

it is only seonghwa who is calling but an unsettling shift in the air abruptly makes the hair along your skin rise. something is wrong. you pick up.

“...hwa?”

“hey, love,” your boyfriend responds carefully. “where–are you at your friend’s place right now?”

you sit up on the couch and adjust the phone closer towards your ear with both hands. “yeah…i am.”

you can hear seonghwa take a shaky exhale before answering, “i think you might want to come to the hospital.”

blood rushes to your ears and your breath hitches. “why?” you whisper out, voice barely audible as your clutch on your phone tightens.

he does not answer you immediately. it is not until you choke out your question once more, voice urgent and desperate, that he breaks. seonghwa's tone is solemn, hesitance to speak louder than a waterfall, and never would you have thought that it would only take something as simple as his next two words for you to experience what feels like the end of the world.

“it’s seolhee.”

the room spins around from under your feet. you suddenly find yourself blindly groping the surface of the kitchen countertop, having stumbled your way across the dark living room. the phone call has ended–you cannot recall whether you hung up on seonghwa or whether he hung up on you, or whether it is actually still ongoing, his concerned shouts of your name simply falling upon deaf ears.

your breathing becomes increasingly shallow but you do not start crying. your expression remains stonily frozen as you frantically feel and search the countertop with your hands, uncaring of the ruckus and mess you are making. you are looking for something. what are you looking for? you need something. you need to bring something, but what? keys. you need to bring your keys. you need keys. you need your car keys. car keys, so you can drive to the hospital. you need to drive to the hospital because seolhee is there. you need to get to the hospital and you need to drive and you need your keys, where are your keys? you need your keys.

something cold brushes against the side of your pinky and immediately you snatch it up. you rush to the front door, toeing on the first thing that feels like a pair of shoes, then yank the door open before they are properly on your feet. you have no time. your leg jitters and your finger repeatedly jabs the elevator button as you watch the display numbers of the floor slowly move upwards towards yours. please, you beg to whichever higher entity is willing to listen to you, please, i have no time.

the moment the doors start to crack open, you force your way into the elevator. the doors cannot close fast enough and you pace in restless circles in the enclosed space while it takes you down to the underground carpark. your feet have already exited the threshold of the elevator before the doors even fully open again and your frantic steps reverberate loudly in the echo of the parking lot as you sprint for your car.

“y/n!”

you almost miss the yell of your name in your distraught, but your steps falter at the last moment, slowing down only slightly to turn in the direction of the sound. there is no time to question what you see. mingi is there, rapidly closing the distance between the two of you.

he stands in front of you within seconds and his chest heaves with effort and adrenaline. you feel your face crumpling as you instinctively and automatically reach out for him. mingi catches your hands, letting you squeeze his own in panic even if your nails dig into his skin.

“mingi, seonghwa–seolhee, she–the hospital–”

“i know,” mingi nods quickly, gently shushing your unintelligible blabber, “i know. let’s get you to the hospital.”

he envelops your hand in his and tugs you along behind him towards his car. you want to urge him to run, but he maintains a steady pace until he can pull the car door open and guide you into the seat. mingi can feel your anxiety rolling off in waves as he rounds the front of the car to the driver’s seat and he knows how desperate you are for him to hurry up and floor the pedal, but he also knows that feeding into your panic with his own will only make things worse.

mingi drives as fast as he can without speeding too dangerously, although he cuts it close with a few red lights. the two of you sit in loud silence the entire ride. your boyfriend glances over at you every now and then, brows furrowed with concern, but you remain motionless with your eyes fixed to the road in front despite the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat.

“y/n–” your boyfriend cuts himself off upon arriving at the hospital, where you tumble out of the car the moment it jerks to a stop. he is not quick enough to grab you as he puts the car into park and he fumbles to undo his own seatbelt whilst you are already weaving your way towards the sliding doors to the elevator.

you run. never before in your life have you ever run with such sheer desperation. one after the other, the soles of your shoes strike against the ceramic tiles of the lobby before they become thuds against the vinyl flooring of the wards.

the past month, you have walked this exact path almost every single day; you have seen stretchers being rushed in, and parents and family members forcibly pulled away from the side of their loved ones to make way for immediate medical assistance from doctors like you. but today, you are on the other side–you are the one rushing into the paediatric ED dishevelled and crazed, uncaring of how you look to the rest of the world.

“seolhee,” you mutter to yourself, pace slowing to an unsteady stumble as you twist and turn to find her familiar smile. “seolhee, where are you?”

nurse yejin spots you and rushes up to grasp you by the elbow. “doctor l/n,” she urges with wide eyes, “she came in as a code blue. she's in the resus bay but she–”

your blood runs cold and the rest of nurse yejin's words become a muffled fuzz in your ear along with the surrounding clamour of the ED, replaced instead by a high-pitched ringing that reverberates throughout your entire skull. gaze unfocused, you sway as your feet slowly pivot in the direction of the resus bay. nurse yejin’s outstretched hand falls to her side and she watches you helplessly, your shoes shuffling with contradictory urgency and hesitancy towards the sliding glass doors.

around you, the commotion of the ward blurs away, your vision narrowing into a pinprick tunnel the closer you get. seonghwa tries to reach for you when you pass by him and some of your colleagues near the doors, but you continue shambling forward as if you are possessed, mind and body completely blind to his presence and touch. you do not stop until you reach the doors. slowly, you bring your hands up to rest on the cool surface as you press yourself closer and look inside.

it’s a code blue, you think to yourself in a state of trance and stupored confusion at the scene that unfolds before your eyes, but why is nobody resuscitating seolhee? why is nobody helping her? why isn’t anybody doing anything?

“seolhee,” you whisper vaguely, right hand weakly hitting the glass. then again, you call out her name, this time with more urgency. “seolhee.”

you hit the glass once more, then a third time but harder yet. “seolhee!” you shout, both hands now fisted and pounding against the glass in distress. “seolhee! somebody save her!”

hands start to pull you back but you do not register any of them nor are they strong enough to draw you away from the doors. the anguished cries of your name are left unheard, but despite the wildness of your crazed desperation, your mind vaguely registers the few words that somehow manage to break through. the sounds are warped and distorted as if you are continuously being thrust underwater then hauled upwards over and over again, but it is enough for you to piece them together.

“cardiac arrest…multi-organ failure–” “–terminal lucidity–” “–time of death–”

your body nearly topples over as you freeze under the resistance of those around you, jostling around limply in the crowd of limbs. all of a sudden, you are wrenched out of the water and your chest convulses trying to gasp for air. the noise of the ED and the shouts around you flood back into your ears like a tsunami, except it comes from every direction imaginable with force that has multiplied infinitely and pulverises your entire soul.

you cannot stay here any longer. you run.

you run wherever your feet take you and you do not stop, even when your lungs and your legs begin to sear at the same intensity as the inferno that currently incinerates your heart. lurching up stairs after stairs after stairs, you run and run and run until you burst through the doors to the rooftop of the hospital where your chest takes in a heaving inhale. the piercing temperature of the air leaves your system shocked and breathless and you stumble over to the ground.

there is nothing to break your fall in every sense, so there, on your hands and knees at your absolute lowest in the stinging cold of the hospital rooftop, you finally shatter into smithereens. it starts off as a tremble of your lips and a quiver of your chin, a choked stutter of breath as your eyebrows crumple and your eyes blink back the growing heat behind them. but then a small cry of pain leaves you and you lean back heavily onto your feet before your hands fist the material of your scrubs. your skin turns white as you clench and rock yourself back and forth, breathing erratic and sobs increasing in volume until they are long, soulful wails.

your entire body convulses uncontrollably with each gut-wrenching cry that leaves you. the world around you blurs away from the tears that fall down your face and your head pounds with lightheadedness. you hit your chest with an agonised fist, again and again, harder and harder, because you would rather feel any physical pain than the shattering crevice in your heart.

you are suddenly jostled by a strong pair of arms wrapping around your upper body. they tuck you firmly into their chest, a hand wrapping around your wrist to stop you from hurting yourself any further and the other pressing your head against the warmth of their neck.

they shush you repetitively with soothing rocks back and forth. as they comfort you, their own voice cracks from their constricted throat, “i’ve got you, y/n. just cry.” only then do you hazily register it as seonghwa’s voice. seonghwa, who was just as close to seolhee as you, understands the pain that is breaking you apart and is here to hold you through it.

you cannot rid the image of seolhee’s last smile out of your head–her excitement to go home for christmas, her cheery confession of how much she loves you. you fist the front of seonghwa’s scrubs and weep, “it hurts, seonghwa. why does it hurt so much?”

he rests his cheek against the top of your head, his own tears falling freely and dripping down to join yours on the snowy floor in bittersweet harmony. as doctors and nurses, grieving for patients is a luxury that cannot be afforded for every single life that is lost. grief is a weakness in the medical field because you cannot look back–you can only look forward and do your best to make sure there are no more lives that are lost.

but you forget that grief is not a weakness as a person, and you are human first and foremost before you are doctors and nurses. sometimes, it becomes a necessity to grieve before you can keep moving forward.

“i know, love,” seonghwa brushes his hand over your hair as he tries to keep his voice from breaking. “grief is the price you pay for loving somebody.”

because unfortunately, life comes with transactions and between two people, there will always be one person who must pay the price of love.

you close your eyes, gritting your teeth when your face crumples again and a fresh bout of sobs escapes through your lips. seonghwa presses his lips to the crown of your forehead, resting them there while you shake in his arms. eventually, he murmurs into your hair, “you want to know what seolhee’s mother told me once?”

your answer is in the form of more anguished cries but you hang onto every word that comes out of your boyfriend’s mouth like they are your lifeline. the corners of seonghwa���s lips tug upwards with mournful nostalgia as he tells you, “she’s always wanted to thank you for loving her daughter as if she is your own…so it’s okay–it’s normal for you to hurt so badly, because you love seolhee and the more you love somebody, the greater the price you pay.”

seonghwa’s unconscious choice of phrasing–that you love her, not that you loved her–simultaneously cradles and crushes your heart. it is an exact reflection of the last conversation you had with seolhee. snow may melt, but it does not change the fact that snowflakes flutter down from the sky. seolhee may be gone, but it does not change the fact that you love and remember her.

“seolhee’s last wish was fulfilled,” seonghwa softly murmurs, pulling out his phone from his pocket to turn the screen on. the light hurts your sensitive eyes when you try to make out the display through your fuzzy vision and you can just barely make out what looks to be the time on his lockscreen. he explains, “it’s four thirty am…that makes it christmas already. not only was she able to spend some time at home with her family again, but now she gets to spend the rest of her christmas back where she came from–”

your boyfriend pulls away slightly and tilts your head up tenderly with his fingers. you see him properly for the first time tonight. his eyes are just as red and swollen as yours are, cheeks wet and glistening despite the small smile he gives you when you finally look at him. he finishes, “–the sky, with all the other beautiful angels just like her.”

you slowly follow his gaze upwards. once more, a wounded cry breaks free at the sight that greets you. it no longer snows, the thin blanket of snowflakes covering the ground and the rooftop the only traces left and already steadily melting away. but that is not what makes you sob even harder.

the skies above you are filled with an endless expanse of stars, shining and gleaming no matter where your eyes look. there are thousands upon millions of stars, too many to begin counting even if you were to stand on the rooftop for numerous lifetimes.

the heavens cried in the form of the first snow when seolhee was born, for they lost her to the world. but tonight they rejoice, for their precious angel has returned soaring through the starry skies. and even amidst her joy of freedom–from the shackles of pain and suffering–seolhee remembers to tell you that she loves you more than you can fathom.

more than you can count the stars in the sky.

you jolt awake confused and disorientated for the second day in a row. only, this time it is not a jerk-induced reaction to your ringtone but a sudden thrust into consciousness by the feeling that you have overslept.

shit, what time is it? i have work.

the rising flood of panic in your chest is immediately quelled when you spot a scrap of paper on your bedside table, handwriting printed neatly in the centre.

hongjoong took sick leave for you today. don’t worry about work and go back to sleep after you take the painkillers.

that is when you register the fucking terrible headache you are sporting and you let out an involuntary groan as you press a hand to your temple. your other hand grabs the two tablets and you down them with the glass of water beside the paper.

groggily, you pat the mattress around you in search of your phone to look at the time. apart from the dim glow of your bedside lamp, the curtains to your left are drawn shut in your room, making it impossible to discern whether it is the morning, afternoon or night. the numbers blink back at you when you turn the screen on and you find that you have slept past lunchtime. confusion swirls inside of you with an unusual mix of something else. taking the day off work is not the only thing that is off.

wait.

your head jerks to the left, then to the right, then down at your bedding–the blue-grey colour familiar and soft to the touch. you are in your room–your room room, back at your place with the boys. you turn your phone on again and check the date. it is christmas.

and then it hits you.

it is still christmas. it is still the same day as what now feels like a vivid fever dream. you can only recall bits and pieces, so hazy and yet so evocative at the same time. it is like trying to make sense of an optical illusion; it disappears when you think about it too directly, but the moment you take your mind off it even slightly, it is right there in your peripheral vision, begging for your attention.

you remember being woken up by seonghwa’s phone call and your desperation to get to the hospital. you remember mingi driving you there and then sprinting towards the ED. you remember breaking down on the hospital’s rooftop after finding out that seolhee had…

your fingers pinch the inside of your left wrist to stop yourself from finishing the memory. with an unsteady exhale, all tension is lost from your body and you fall back to slump against the headboard. grief starts to take over you once more, vice tightening its grasp around your heart but simultaneously leaving a cavernous hollowness and numbness in your chest.

that is how wooyoung finds you an hour later, still staring blankly at the bedroom wall across from you and swimming in muddy water. he had only tentatively knocked twice on your door before entering, half-expecting you to still be asleep and making a soft noise of surprise when he finds that you are not. in the back of your mind, you vaguely feel a twinge of guilt at not having the energy to do something as simple as greet him as he sits carefully on the edge of your bed.

but wooyoung is a persistent soul and an even more persistent lover. he has learnt from experience that sometimes, asking anything but what he truly wants to ask is what you actually need. wooyoung catches himself from gazing sadly at you, putting on a small smile instead as he lays a hand over your thigh. his touch is warm through the blanket.

“should i bring in some food for you? there’s dumpling soup,” he tells you. “or do you want to go to the living room? we can put on a movie.”

it is hard to find the words to answer him–hard to even hum or nod or shake your head in response. your fingers twitch slightly in the direction of wooyoung’s hand still on your thigh and he immediately moves it to place over yours. the rhythmic touch of his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin is soothing.

“we don’t have to talk. we can just sit for a bit,” he offers.

the room settles into silence for a while as he gives you time to decide. finally, you ask, voice quiet, “who’s home?”

wooyoung wriggles a little closer with restrained excitement at your response. “all of us are.” when you blink at him in reaction, he understands your question immediately because none of you can remember the last time the nine of you had a day off together, much less on a christmas. he explains, “we all took whatever personal leave we could.”

“the hospital let?” you frown slightly, the tone of disbelief the most amount of emotion you have shown so far.

wooyoung mirrors the minute increase in animation with cheek in his vague shrug, “they can’t afford to fire any of us. plus…i think we’ve all realised that some things are more important than work.”

you are more important than work; ‘us’ is more important than work.

something tugs at your heartstrings and you sit up a little straighter. looking at wooyoung, a slight spark of resolve lighting up in your eyes, you slowly suggest, “can we…have a talk?”

he is taken aback with pleasant surprise as he answers, “of course we can. we don’t have to do it today though.”

“no,” you shake your head, “let’s talk now.”

while we still can. before it becomes too late. plus, who knows when the next time all of you are together like this will be.

so you follow wooyoung out of your bed and then out of your room, his fingers intertwined between yours as he walks the both of you into the living room. it is a lie to say that it is not awkward seeing everybody’s heads turn towards you in simultaneity and your knee-jerk response is to dismiss their poorly-concealed concern with a wave of your hand and an, ‘i’m fine’. but you think you have had enough of that–enough of pretending and enough of pushing them away.

yunho opens his arms from his seat on the couch, eyes hopeful. you push away any second thoughts and bury yourself against him. your boyfriend pulls you right into his chest whilst tucking your legs off the ground over his thighs and he murmurs against your temple, “you sleep okay?”

you nod into his neck as jongho asks, “did you take the painkillers?” and seonghwa questions, “do you want dumplings?”

a small puff of amusement comes out of your chest because just mere weeks ago, perhaps even one, questions like these would have fanned an inexplicable inferno inside of you. now, it all seems so long ago, but it does not change the fact that you are apologetic about it–apologetic about a lot of things.

“i took them, thanks jongho. and maybe later, hwa,” you respond softly. “come sit?”

the boys heed to your words immediately and the oldest of your boyfriends crosses the living room in three large strides to take your other side on the couch, the rest of them settling on the adjacent couch or on the floor. the shared warmth from being sandwiched between seonghwa and yunho immediately envelops you in comfort and safety and your body relaxes into the shape of theirs.

you do not know where to start, much less what you even want to say to the boys now that you are here with them. there are masses of things to unpack and each one seems like such a colossal mountain to climb. some you do not know the route up, others you know the route up but not the way back down, and the rest you cannot even see the mountaintop. so you choose to start easy: at the very bottom of the trail where it is safe.

“i miss having clean scrubs,” you blurt out, “and i miss the lunches that wooyoung cooks and the coffees that jongho makes.”

from beside you, yunho’s body rumbles with low laughter at your unexpected conversation starter and he glances down at you fondly. his voice is soothing in your ear as he says, “we miss seeing your night light greet us whenever we come home.”

“and the changes you make on our whiteboard calendar,” yeosang adds.

“we struggled to remember our shifts without you keeping track of them,” jongho divulges sheepishly.

yeosang tattles with a giggle, “he was late for work for the first time.”

“yeah,” you smile, “i heard.”

jongho huffs out before quipping, “at least i still knew how to squeeze my own toothpaste and find my own car keys.”

both hongjoong and wooyoung curse indignantly at the uncalled-for betrayal of the youngest as he pointedly ignores them and continues, “some of us have realised we have non-existent survival skills without you.”

“oh, speak for yourself,” san nudges him endearingly.

but you are more than grateful for the lightening of the mood because you do not think you would have the courage to otherwise abruptly apologise, “i’m sorry that i took so many things for granted.”

“what? no,” san counters, the first of many others to parrot the same thing. “we’re sorry about that too. when you moved out, we also realised just how many things you do for us without our appreciation. you raised a valid concern because our relationship with one another is something we have all become too complacent about.”

yunho squeezes you a little tighter with the arm he has around your shoulders. he muses, “it’s easy for a long-term relationship to become less ‘exciting’, but we forget that part of the reason is because we simply become so attuned to one another’s likes and dislikes, preferences and habits that it becomes our own second nature to do those things naturally. it isn’t that we love each other less, it’s just that we become so used to the way we love and are loved that we stop noticing it.”

your mind drifts slightly to a sweet, little girl with a bright smile, telling you that relationships are not always about the grand gestures, but rather the small things. she always did know better than you.

“in saying that though,” hongjoong brings up, “as important as it is for us to start appreciating all of those things again, i think it’s just as important for us to put in the conscious effort to go out of our way to have quality time and conversations with one another, like going on dates.”

wooyoung cackles, “that’s a bit rich coming from you, mister sorry-i-forgot-about-our-date,” and a snort comes out of you despite yourself.

the older flips him off. on both hands.

now occupied with his handsy insults, seonghwa takes over the conversation instead, “no relationship is perfect. they all need mutual effort to maintain and it definitely won’t be easy, especially since so many of you are nearing the end of your residency. it’ll be a busy few months preparing for the board exam and there’ll be plenty of hurdles to jump over in the future too, but things will work out because we’ve got each other’s backs now.”

the boys all smile affectionately at one another and at you. seonghwa presses a loving kiss against your temple and you bathe in the brief feeling of everything being okay before you remind yourself that it still is not. “on that note,” you start cautiously, “i owe you all another apology.”

you catch the gaze of mingi’s soft expression from opposite you, who gives you a small nod and a minute smile of encouragement. with an exhale, you admit, “the way i handled everything–not just moving out but everything leading up to that–i know you were all trying to look out for me and i shouldn’t have pushed you all away the way that i did. i just–everything was so overwhelming and confusing and tiring, and i wanted to work things out by myself because all of you had enough things to deal with, and i…”

once more, you are unsure of what you want to communicate. you are sick of not knowing and not understanding and your eyes start to water with frustration.

at your sentence trailing off, mingi finally speaks up, “life isn’t meant to be smooth sailing, y/n. yes, they’re your feelings, but that doesn’t mean that they have to make sense to you.”

and it is as if that is the validation you have needed all along, because the vice around your chest finally loosens its grip. you can breathe again and the rush of oxygen into your lungs without a heavy weight crushing you inwards is liberating.

“as healthcare workers, we become accustomed to seeing other people in the most painful moments of their lives.” mingi gently shrugs his shoulders, “we become accustomed to invalidating our own feelings. it doesn’t matter if we’re having a bad day; there will always be somebody else having the worst day of their lives. but we forget that pain is not relative–just because somebody else is hurting ‘more’, it doesn’t make our own hurt hurt less.

“and yeah, work is always going to be shitty and we’re always going to run ourselves ragged chasing after time, and then coming home from work to eight of us is going to be tiring too,” he chuckles softly. “but y/n…i think part of the reason why it’s been so hard for you is because you never let yourself have time for yourself. you never let yourself be tired or be hurt.”

you swallow your objections–the voice inside of you that says you shouldn’t and the voice that says you can’t–because you know mingi is right. you just needed to hear that you should and that you can.

he continues, “we all need quiet time away from other people and that’s okay. we spend all day showing our patients, their families and our colleagues the best side of ourselves, which means that a lot of the times we only have the…” mingi scratches the side of his head as he finds a way to express his thoughts without saying ‘the ugly side’, because that is far from what it is. “we only have the side of ourselves that we do not like as much because it isn’t what we view as ‘perfect’. but it simply holds our realest emotions–fatigue, stress, worry, frustration, impatience. it is not just you who has that side–we all do and we understand better than anybody how guilty it can feel when that is the only side that is left by the time we get home.”

there is a brief pause in the conversation as he lets the words sink in. around you, heads and gazes lower alike to the floor because that guilt is something that resounds with everybody in the room. you continue to look at mingi, though, unable to avert your eyes as his solace finally stirs the cathartic release of tears flowing freely from your heart to your eyes.

“like i said, it’s okay to take time away from us; in your room or out with your friends or somewhere else. but at the same time, i want you to know that it doesn’t make us love you any less if you don’t come home happy. you don’t love us any less when we’re unable to leave our baggage at work, because you have the same struggles. in fact, you are often the first to offer to share the load.

“as doctors and nurses, we have signed up for a lifetime of baggage and sacrifice. and that is exactly why it is that much more important for you to know that home is your safe space.” mingi gazes at you with all the earnesty in his heart. “we are your safe space where you can share your baggage. we might not be able to take it off you, but we sure as hell can curse or laugh or cry together over it, and sometimes, just that is already enough to help you keep carrying its weight over whatever mountain you are facing.”

from beside mingi, san watches you with a clenching heart. in an ideal world, san would rather you have no baggage at all and he be your only mountain–the one who shields you from the harsh elements of the world and is your unwavering presence from sunrise till sunset and yet again till the following sunrise. he sees the way you finally lower your head and let months of repressed tears fall in front of them, soft sobs in yunho and seonghwa’s comforting arms and the rest of your boyfriends within reach.

but san knows your tears are no longer ones of pain or fatigue, so for now, that is enough. he scooches closer across the floor until he is at your feet, peering up at you from between the strands of hair that have fallen in front of your face. tenderly, he asks, “y/n, will you move back in with us?”

a warm hand brushes over your cheeks. it could be san, it could be seonghwa, it could be yunho or it could be any of them. but it does not really matter. what matters is this: in order to love others, you must first love yourself–

“yeah,” you slowly nod, “i will.”

–and part of loving yourself is letting others love you. there is no place like home, much less a place like where your boys are. snow melts, but it will always fall again. without fail.

as your boyfriends all shuffle closer and envelop you in the middle of an embrace that is long overdue, loving warmth dizzying to the touch, outside the windows the first snowflake of many others flutters its graceful path down from the sky. soon, snow will cover the streets as far as the eye can see.

nobody talks about how ironic it feels to work in the hospital during the holidays, particularly christmas.

in any other establishment that is open, be it a restaurant, cafe, retail store or convenience mart, employees are greeted kindly with festive cheer–warm wishes and sincere smiles from one stranger to another. but nobody walks into the hospital on christmas with laughter and gratitude for the assistance of the doctors and nurses, because nobody wants to be at the hospital.

nobody plans to spend the day there, either.

but that is exactly why it is ironic. the hospital is a symbol of misery, the white colour of its interior the embodiment of sterility and detachment all year round–all except for a few days. on christmas eve, christmas itself and perhaps even the rest of the week leading up to the new year, the corridors are adorned with never-ending lengths of glittering tinsel, the wards are filled with the low hum of christmas carols on a looping playlist, and the staff all wear silly scrubs with rudolph faces and dancing santas on them.

there is an underlying hum of excitement and festive cheer that overrides the usual despondency of the hospital as everybody pretends it does not exist, even if just for a few days. the electric buzz thrums not just in the air at work but outside of work too, filling households with a hustle and bustle of liveliness–yours included.

“hongjoong!” you yell as you knock on the bathroom door, “we’re leaving in a few minutes!”

you press yourself flat against the door as yunho races past you with several pairs of socks in both hands despite the ones he already has on his own feet. he skids to a wobbly stop and shuffles backwards two steps to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

“gross,” you laugh, pretending to wipe it off your face, but yunho is already skedaddling off again back towards his destination of the living room, on a mission to deliver the socks to your other boyfriends.

ever since you, yunho, yeosang and san all passed the board exam and became fully licensed doctors like hongjoong, your shifts have been significantly more consistent. it is much easier for you and your boyfriends to drive to work together in fewer cars, making the mornings before work significantly more chaotic. your wake-up times and subsequent bathroom usage is no longer as staggered as it was with different start times and several more night shifts, but it is a good chaotic–a bright and lively chaotic.

hongjoong yells back at you, “my hair gel isn’t hair gel-ing!” and you nearly topple onto him when he suddenly pulls the bathroom door open.

his hair is swept up neatly away from his forehead and there is not a single strand that is out of place. you chuckle and tell him as such, “your hair looks perfect, joong,” but you know his nerves are due to something completely different. you cup his jaw and gently pull him towards you for a kiss before you encourage, “you’ll do great today. you already presented at the korean neurological association earlier this year–what’s a seminar to the hospital staff in comparison?”

your boyfriend groans, “i know these people though. they’re all my colleagues.”

“and all of these colleagues will be wearing their ugly christmas sweaters or have stupid antler headbands with glowing lights on top of their heads. trust me, you’ll do amazing,” you reassure, pressing another chaste kiss against his lips to quieten his worries.

“y/n! hongjoong!” yeosang hollers.

“coming!”

you pull hongjoong out of the bathroom with you hand in hand, only letting go when you both fumble to catch the socks that yunho chucks through the air in your directions. within the next few minutes, there are playful elbows, harmless shoves and childish curses as you all cram yourselves in the corridor to put on your shoes and walk out the door to the car.

as you squish into the backseat with hongjoong and yeosang, yunho in the driver’s seat and san beside him, the latter wonders what you should all do after work. by some christmas miracle, neither you nor any of your boys have been scheduled for a night shift today, which means that if there are no hiccups at work, the nine of you will be able to spend christmas together once more.

you like to think that your guardian angel is still looking out for you, even an entire year later.

“should we try to make a reservation for a nice restaurant?” san suggests. “or should we stay up and watch a movie together?”

hongjoong proposes, “i have a friend who works at a pretty decent french restaurant if we want to go there.”

voicing your opinion without prefacing it with an apology is still something you are working on, but you have gotten much better at communicating over the year. you pipe up, “i’d prefer to stay at home tonight, but the movie sounds like a good idea. maybe we can go to your friend’s restaurant for new year’s?”

“yeah, i don’t really fancy going out tonight either,” yeosang agrees. “but new year’s, definitely.”

san nods enthusiastically. “i’ll let the rest of the boys know,” he says, then sends a question for movie recommendations for tonight into the group chat.

it is not long after that yunho pulls into the hospital’s car park where you all pile out and wait obediently by a nearby pillar as he backs the car into a particularly tight space. when he has turned the ignition off and carefully squeezed himself out without slamming the door into the car beside him, it is his turn to wait obediently as you all thank him with a quick hug or peck on the cheek.

you grasp the collar of his coat and pull him down to give him a teasing kiss on the forehead but he tiptoes instead to make it harder for you. in retaliation, you quickly jab his side and he immediately keels over enough for you to plant a triumphant kiss on his face. the boys chuckle around you, yunho pretending to nurse his wounds as he stumbles after all of you into the elevator.

the doors close and he straightens to offhandedly comment, “you guys thank me for driving every single time.”

yeosang shoots back with the same nonchalance, “because we’re thankful every single time.”

yunho claps his hand over his mouth and looks at the younger out of the corner of his eyes, but it is clear that he is hiding a bashful grin behind his fingers. the expression is not lost to any of you, your displays of gratefulness always done with the intention of making one another feel appreciated for even the smallest of things, because you have all learnt that a simple thank you goes a long way.

“see you all after work,” hongjoong says, stepping out into the lobby with the rest of you following him to let those waiting for the elevator get in.

just as you all turn to walk off your separate ways to your respective departments, he calls out as an afterthought, uncaring of the people around, “merry christmas, babes!”

you reciprocate his words with a laugh, a tinkling, cheery sound that makes san reach out for your hand and intertwine your fingers together to pull you in for a quick kiss of endearment. “choi san!” you giggle, slapping him lightly and looking around to see if anybody noticed.

if there is one thing that has changed the most over the year, it is how daring your boyfriends have become with public displays of affection. but, just as wooyoung has made it a point to remind you all of his newfound motto, what is the hospital going to do? fire all nine of you?

highly unlikely.

“alright, babes,” san tugs you along teasingly, “let’s get to work.” pinkies intertwined and swinging gently between your bodies, the two of you walk towards the same department, letting go only at the last moment to lead your morning rounds.

there is a running joke that it does not matter if you end up having enough children to make an entire soccer team because almost half of you are now fully licensed to work with children; you and san as doctors, seonghwa and wooyoung as nurses. there is no need to worry about ageing either, not when the other five are each in charge of their own specialties too.

you and your boys do not work at a hospital–you and your boys are the hospital. and it certainly feels that way when there is almost always at least one of them watching over you, regardless of wherever you are in the paediatric department.

it is later that day as you are attending to a three-week-old baby in the NICU when a second-year resident walks up to you, addressing you carelessly. immediately, you feel wooyoung’s ears perk up and watchful eyes zero in on the offending resident as the both of you recognise the younger.

“good to see you’ve stuck with paediatrics, doctor lim,” you greet neutrally. it is anything but good to see him still in the medical program at all, but you digress.

your past intern ignores your comment, confidence through the roof not only because he has somebody backing him up but because he is now a second-year resident. he shortly says, “doctor nam wants you taking over the shift for the NICU attending tonight.”

the department head has more or so left you alone for the last few months, but you guess he suddenly felt a christmas urge to scratch an itch that never existed in the first place. your expression remains impartial as you ask, “for what reason?”

dr. lim is unable to hide the brief flash of surprise across his face, not having expected you to put up a fight. he quickly scowls, “do as you’re told.”

you will not, in fact, ‘do as you’re told’, not when dr. nam is blatantly abusing his power to assign you a shift without a proper justification or notice–and through dr. lim at that too. you sure hope wooyoung can hear you as you respond sarcastically, “tell doctor nam to notify me of this change in schedule through an email from the chief resident. i’m sure he’s familiar with the proper procedure that i’m referring to.”

“i’ll make sure to tell him,” dr. lim scorns and you snort as he retreats.

“merry fuckin’ christmas to you,” you mutter at his back. you hope he slips on ice on his way home tonight.

you jump in surprise when you turn around and find wooyoung right there, an absolutely shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. he cackles as he quotes, “‘merry fuckin’ christmas to you.’ the boys are going to love it when i tell them what just happened.”

the shove you give him only serves to make him laugh even harder but you cannot deny that a sense of pride rushes through your body. force doctor nam to leave written evidence that can be used against him, jongho had advised you to do one day, and you feel a surge in confidence that this might actually work.

wooyoung certainly thinks that it will, gathering himself enough to give you an attractive smirk as he leans closer to whisper into your ear, “that’s our girl.” pleasant shivers run down your spine at his deep voice and it leaves you on cloud nine long after he stalks off absolutely preening at the response he has elicited from you.

you do not hear from dr. lim or dr. nam again nor do you receive an email regarding the extra shift tonight, so you begin to safely assume that the request is no more–that is, until the end of your shift when you are in the team workroom finishing off a referral letter.

“doctor y/n,” dr. bang grabs your attention from the table opposite you with a cryptic tone of amusement. “i think you’re wanted.”

you blink at the slight smugness on her face with confusion until she beckons her head behind you in the direction of the office door. you glance back, suddenly expecting dr. nam to be standing there fuming and ready to give you a harsh reprimand for your snarky response. except it is not him.

of all people, you did not expect it to be mingi, pressed up against the little window that looks through the door into the room. but then you realise he is not the only one peeping in–there is another pair of mischievous eyes in the corner of the window that you recognise as yunho’s, and another face pressed up against the large window along the wall, and oh–

they are all gathered around the workroom peering in with varying expressions of cheekiness as they enthusiastically wave at you. it is hard to tell whether you are the monkey in the zoo or if they are the monkeys staring out through their enclosure. you guffaw, half in embarrassment and half in exasperated fondness, then scramble to save your work and log off for the night before your boyfriends garner even more attention than they already have.

with unrestrained eagerness, your boys drag you off after exchanging rushed but warm wishes of  “merry christmas”s with your and san’s colleagues. seonghwa pivots around from where he has been walking at the front of the group, “should we walk home today?”

“in the snow?”

he nods excitedly, so obviously the youngest in his family despite being the oldest in your relationship. “we can finally experience a hallmark christmas.”

“what about our cars?” yunho asks, although he is not at all opposed to the idea.

seonghwa suggests, “how about you and i drive the cars home and then we’ll start walking back here. we can meet up along the way and walk the rest home together.”

the two of them share a look for a few seconds before they immediately take off in unison in the direction of the lifts to the car park, yunho hollering over his shoulder, “walk slowly!” within seconds, they disappear from sight around a corner and the rest of you blink at the fast exchange that has just occurred.

“fuck it, we ball,” wooyoung grins, earning himself a scandalised look from hongjoong as a reminder he is still in the hospital. “come on, gramps,” he snickers, then loops an arm around the older’s shoulders and starts to drag him towards the main entrance, the rest of you falling into step beside them as he devises, “let’s think about how we can attack the two with snowballs once they get back.”

only, he really should have known who he was going to be up against.

you and your boyfriends are about halfway home, cutting through a small field of what is now covered in a decent layer of fresh snow, when a snowball suddenly whizzes past your face and explodes against the side of wooyoung’s head in a detonation of white crumbs. he whirls around with a shriek absolutely ready to risk it all in the name of your dared treachery, only to see yeosang getting pummelled in a similar fashion and then jongho following victim immediately after.

“snowball fight!” comes seonghwa and yunho’s combined battlecries from thin air before a hail of pre-made snowballs is unleashed upon your group.

hongjoong’s screams fill the air until he is abruptly cut off by a mouthful of snow and wooyoung runs around like a headless chicken as three snowballs hit their mark in quick succession. you laugh loudly, running to hide behind jongho who has escaped several feet away from the danger zone. san, too, starts to retreat a distance, but only to shovel snowballs together without the risk of anybody stepping on them.

a shower of residual snow sprinkles over you as yunho switches targets and pitches his snowballs in your direction. however, you rapidly realise his eyes are only fixated on jongho. your shield now a danger hazard, you make a split decision and run as fast as you can through the snow towards your tallest boyfriend. call yourself fickle or whatever, you are simply a survivor.

“traitor!” mingi yells out and points a finger at you. “y/n has switched sides!”

the boys echo with a roar, “traitor!” and you squeal with adrenalised glee as you leap the final stride towards yunho, who stretches out a hand to pull you behind him. seonghwa immediately rushes to defend you both, throwing snowball after snowball with scary precision and strength. you can only hear the solid thump of snow hitting against thick clothing and the splutters of indignation as a result of the eldest’s lobs because your eyes are closed from how hard you are now laughing.

with equally-as-scary unity, hongjoong and your five youngest boyfriends charge in simultaneity towards you and yunho. neither of you have time to brace yourselves before you are tackled into the snow, limbs tangling together as seonghwa also jumps on top.

you cannot tell who is who, but you can tell exactly whose laugh is whose–each one so distinct and playing out as different melodies in your ears. your own laughter is radiant and effervescent and the sound makes every one of your boys break out into a joyous smile. yunho starts to push the others’ weights off of himself and you, and they begin to roll off the pile into the snow around you.

one by one they join you on their backs, your bodies leaving the memory of your merriness deep in the white softness of the ground. you are all a little breathless; from the physical exertion and adrenaline of the childlike fight, from the windedness of being tackled into a dog-pile, from the chill slowly seeping in through your clothes from the snow, from the soul-stirring view of the night sky above.

you all lay there in silence, hush broken only by the scattered puffs of visible air as you catch your breaths under the whispering snowfall.

it is amazing how much can change in one year. you still fatigue from juggling your time, down to the last second. you still burn out from the sacrifices you make as a doctor, no matter your years of experience. you still grieve over the loss of seolhee, particularly on this day. but you are finally at peace with yourself, with your life and with the love you deserve, and you realise that you are also breathless from the overwhelming feeling of how lucky, content and happy you are.

in a burst of gratification and fulfillment, you are unable to stay silent. you confess, heartfelt words that you keep close to your soul every day, “i love you more than there are snowflakes falling right now.”

your boys turn to look at you, gazes softening impossibly at the tranquil smile that adorns your face. seonghwa feels a heat gathering behind his eyes, knowing better than any of them the weight behind your confession.

he prompts, softly, tenderly, “and if it stops snowing?”

you smile wider, because you have been taught the answer by a forever-seven-year-old-girl who received all the bad things in the world yet chose to only see the good; who taught you not to focus on what has melted away, but rather what you remember; who taught you that the purest reflection of love is something that is hard to see but will always be looking over you.

and so if it stops snowing?

“then count the stars in the sky.”

[sansaorgana]

— STILL PURE

PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — Feyd yells at his daughter for interrupting him at work. His wife confronts him about his behaviour as she tries to explain to the little Countess that her father was never taught how to express love.

REQUEST — (1)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Feyd is already the Baron in this fic but I assumed women cannot inherit on Giedi Prime so the daughter is "only" a Countess while her younger brother is a Na-Baron. I used my headcanon that if half-Harkonnen children have hair, then they're white because they lack pigment. I also wanted her to have big black Harkonnen eyes so badly... Basically, I wanted Feyd's daughter to look like this:

WORD COUNT — 2,990

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

STILL PURE

Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was circling around the big table in the conference room where the huge orb of Giedi Prime had been replaced with Arrakis’ one as one of his advisors was explaining the difficult situation regarding the spice production. The new wave of Fremen rebels who worshipped the long gone and deceased Muad’Dib decided to continue their idol’s legacy as they sabotaged the spice production controlled by The Harkonnen forces. The Governor of Arrakis was slowly losing control over the situation and Feyd would rather avoid going there himself. He was needed on Giedi Prime – especially now when The Emperor was on his deathbed. He had to be around in case something important would happen and everyone knew The Baron had his eyes set on the Imperial Throne. Feyd had to choose a new Governor of Arrakis or provide the current one with good advice, hoping for the Fremen problem to disappear soon. It was worrying him because it was giving him a bad reputation at the moment for having problems on Arrakis – it could make some leaders of the great houses to think he was not worthy enough to become the next Emperor.

Feyd’s hands were clasped behind his back as he circled like a shark and all his advisors looked down, taking a step back whenever he approached them. They knew his temper would only rise when he was angered whenever he would experience problems of such nature when it came to reigning over The Harkonnen properties.

“What does the Fremen leader say? Stilgar? That was his name?” Feyd barked at one of the scared advisors.

“Stilgar says he has no control over the cultists. He does not support their actions. He wants nothing but peace, my Lord,” the man bowed his head.

“How bad is it? The most important thing so far is to keep the problem on Arrakis a secret,” Feyd hummed to himself.

“Five percent of the decrease in the spice production income,” the other advisor answered. “Not bad, but can be noticeable in the amount we export.”

“We shall export some of our own private reserves to cover the loss. In the meantime, we have to deal with the cultists,” Feyd decided, already annoyed at the fact he had to sacrifice his own supplies just to cover up the careless governing of Arrakis which was not his fault. “Send more troops there, the operation should be classified confidential. Threaten Lord Volonov to take care of it. He’s got a month before I replace him with someone more capable…”

Quiet pat pat pat sound coming from the corridor was becoming louder and louder until the black doors finally opened slightly and the guard standing by them spotted a pair of two big black eyes staring up at him. 

“My Lord,” he tried to catch The Baron’s attention but Feyd had his back turned on him as he angrily explained the details of the operation to his advisors.

Little Countess Sevina Harkonnen gave the guard puppy eyes as she struggled with the heavy doors. She wanted to come inside and he didn’t know what to do. He was aware that his Lord Baron did not want to be interrupted but he didn’t want to close the door in the girl’s face either. He peeked outside but there was no servant around and The Baroness was not there either. He decided it would be better for the girl to come inside instead of letting her roam around the fortress alone.

She smiled widely at him and jumped inside the room happily as her white hair bounced. She was lucky enough to inherit most of her mother’s looks although her skin was paler, her hair lacked pigment and her pupils were nothing but two completely big black orbs – those were the eyes even her father did not have but they were a result of the pollution her mother’s body had been exposed to on Giedi Prime at the time of her pregnancy.

Not realising how tense the atmosphere in the room was, she approached her father as all the advisors and servants were making wide eyes at her. She stood behind The Baron and pulled on his shirt to make him turn around.

At first, he flinched at the odd feeling of someone pulling him. Who would dare to do that? He turned around quickly with an angry expression on his face but then he looked down and spotted his little daughter. She startled a bit at the sight of his annoyance but she kept staring at him with her big black eyes filled with love and excitement.

“What are you doing here?” Feyd barked at her.

“Can you play with me, daddy?” She pleaded with a big grin.

A few lords smirked at that and Feyd’s jaw clenched. Not only had she interrupted him but also humiliated him.

“Can’t you fucking see that I’m busy?!” He lashed out at her and she took a step back as her eyes filled with tears and betrayal. “Get out of here!” He pointed at the doors.

They opened at that very moment as the nanny entered the room and looked around, surprised at the sight of scared faces and the little Countess being in the centre of attention.

“There you are!” She opened her arms at the sight of the girl. “I’ve told you not to interrupt your father, he’s in the middle of a meeting,” she reminded nervously as the girl ran up to her and hid her face in the folds of her skirt. “Forgive me, my Lord,” the nanny bowed her head at Feyd-Rautha.

“You’re useless,” he drawled. “Get out.”

“Y-yes, my Lord,” the woman held Sevina’s hand and walked out as quickly as possible.

You left the nursery where your son na-baron had just fallen asleep. On your way back to your chambers, you passed by the doors leading to your daughter’s room and you froze at the muffled sound of sobbing. Concerned, you decided to enter without knocking.

Little Sevina was crying on her bed as the scared nanny tried to calm her down by rubbing her back and shushing her.

“What is going on?” You asked as the doors closed behind you.

“M-my Lady Baroness,” the nanny stood up and straightened herself to bow down slightly.

“What happened? Why is she crying?” You asked her in an accusing tone.

“I… I lost her out of my sight when we were playing earlier today, I’m sorry… I found the young Countess in her father’s conference room. She had interrupted The Baron during a council… I think he lashed out at her, my Lady…” the woman tried to explain nervously as her hands shook.

“You’re useless,” you sighed and she widened her eyes. “Get out, I’ll deal with that myself,” you pointed at the doors and she bowed down once again before leaving quickly.

You approached the bed and sat on the edge of it as Sevina raised her head to look at you. Your heart squeezed in your chest at the sight of her cheeks covered in tears.

“What happened, sweet darling?” You asked her gently while you caressed her back.

“Why doesn’t daddy love me?” She asked with so much pain and sincerity in her tiny, shaky voice that you nearly cried yourself.

You knew it wasn’t true. Feyd-Rautha loved his daughter. Even though he had been a bit disappointed she was not a son in the beginning – he had only said not to worry about it much; that the boy would come next. He had been treating Sevina as if she was made of glass in the first months of her life, so scared of accidentally hurting her because hurt was all he knew.

“Oh, Sevina, don’t think that…” You sighed and leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Daddy loves you so much,” you assured her but of course she wasn’t convinced. “He would kill and die for you, little girl,” you added.

“I don’t want him to kill and die for me, mummy,” Sevina sobbed as those were the concepts she was too young to grasp. “I just want daddy to play with me.”

“He doesn’t know how to play, Sevina,” you fixed her ruffled hair while trying to explain calmly. “He didn’t have a mummy or daddy when he was your age. The way I kiss you or hug you and play with you… He has never had it, darling,” you felt a few tears streaming down your cheeks. You were angry at your husband for yelling at your daughter and making her feel unloved but you were also angry at all the suffering that he had gone through in his past.

There were scars and damages that could never be undone, no matter how much you loved someone.

“And you’re big enough to know that daddy shouldn’t be interrupted when he’s working. You know that he tends to get angry more easily then,” you reminded her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wanted daddy to play with me,” she snuggled closer to you and you kissed the top of her head, rubbing her tiny arms with your thumbs and cradling her softly to calm her down.

Feyd had been back in your chambers already when you entered. You froze at the sight of him, irritated. However, he seemed to act as usual.

“Five percent,” he snapped at you, although not angrily. “We will have to replace the loss with our own supply so the other lords don’t realise we are expecting problems on Arrakis. That stupid son of a bitch Volonov can’t handle a few cultists and…”

“I don’t care about any of that,” you interrupted him and turned your back on him to approach your vanity table and sit by it, pretending to be more interested in reapplying the powder.

“What?” Feyd was visibly surprised as he watched you in disbelief. You had always been a support for him, especially in difficult times. You both had been plotting on how to take over the Imperial Throne and now you weren’t interested in something as important as the problems with harvesting spice on Arrakis? It didn’t make sense to him.

You ignored him and focused on brushing your hair now, watching him from the corner of your eye in the reflection of the mirror of your vanity table. He approached you, hesitantly.

“What do you mean you’re not interested?” He tilted his head as he leaned in, trying to intimidate you but you didn’t even flinch.

“I’ve just spent an hour calming down Sevina. You yelled at her,” you eventually looked up to look deep into his eyes. He took a deep breath in, irritated.

“She should have learnt by now not to interrupt me,” Feyd straightened his back and walked away. “She’s spoiled,” he added. “Knows nothing about discipline. It’s your fault.”

“She’s a little girl,” you turned around. “You can’t expect military habits from her. She’s your daughter, Feyd.”

“She’s lucky I only yelled. If I interrupted my uncle as a child like that, I’d be punished!” He raised his voice at you, frustrated that you were defending your daughter and making a problem out of something that he considered to be normal.

You hated it when he would raise his voice at you. You stood up angrily and yelled as well.

“Oh, so you think she should be raised the same way you were?!” You asked. “Alright then! Go to her room, grab her by the neck and flog her back with a whip just because she wanted to play with her father!” You pointed at the doors furiously as your eyes were burning with wrath. “Go on! I dare you.”

But Feyd didn’t even move. His jaw was clenched as he was staring at you speechlessly.

“Go. What are you waiting for?” You kept pushing him. “Go on.”

You kept looking into his eyes with so much intensity he eventually gave up and looked down, awkwardly as the guilt started to creep in. You won.

“You rejected her. She thinks you don’t love her,” your voice calmed down but it was still vicious. “And I was assuring her that you do but it felt as if I was assuring myself, too,” you added, just to hurt him. “I can’t stand to look at you, Feyd-Rautha,” you drawled and approached the doors to leave him alone but not without striking the final blow. “I can’t believe I wanted to give you children so badly,” you turned your head to look at him as he looked up, surprised at your words, “because you don’t deserve them.”

The doors opened in front of you and you walked out to go back to your daughter.

You were sitting on the black fluffy carpet in the middle of Sevina’s room. She was on your lap, with her tiny arms around your neck, cuddling you. There were toys scattered all around the floor but she wanted to take a break for the loving cuddles. She was very unusual for a half-Harkonnen and you were very aware of the fact she was making most people around feel uncomfortable.

Not only her father but everyone in the fortress were stiff around sweet little Sevina who was so full of life and curiosity, always wanting to hug everyone – even servants and guards. Wherever she went, there was a sound of laughter and a sudden feeling of warmth. Countess Sevina Harkonnen was the very first little girl living in that fortress in a long time and she was so different from all its inhabitants. She was too young to know that she was a daughter of Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen – a man feared all over the Empire. That her bloodline was cursed with death and violence. She was still pure and innocent. Perhaps she was a living proof that The Harkonnens were not born this way after all – but they were made in the endless cycle of abusive upbringing. You did not want the same fate for her. You knew she would have to get rougher with time but you hoped she would still remain gentle, too.

The doors to her room opened and you looked up. At the sight of your husband, you protectively put your arm around your little girl. You doubted that he wanted to do what you had angrily suggested before but you wanted to make sure he wouldn’t anyway. Sevina stiffened at the sight of her father and clung to you. It brought you pain to realise that at that very moment she was afraid of him.

“Sevina, we have to talk,” Feyd stood above you two as he started in a serious tone. You gave him a scolding look and your little girl hid her face in the crook of your neck, hiding. “You know perfectly well not to interrupt me while I’m working.”

Long silence occurred. You could see Feyd’s struggle as he had no idea what to do to fix this situation between him and his daughter.

“Sevina, apologise to daddy,” you looked down and she looked up with tears in her big black eyes. “You shouldn’t have interrupted him and you know that, darling,” your voice was soft and calm and she sniffed.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” Sevina turned her body around to face him but she refused to look at him.

“Now, you apologise to Sevina for being mean,” you looked up at your husband and you spotted panic in his eyes. “Now,” you insisted sternly.

“I’m sorry for being mean to you,” Feyd crouched down to be on her level. She hesitantly looked at him. “Can I get a hug, too?” He asked and his voice broke a tiny bit. 

Slitting someone’s throat open was less awkward and unusual to him than to ask for a hug. Your heart ached for him but you were an adult capable of understanding his patterns. Sevina was not. 

Her heart was big, though, and she loved her father, so she would forgive him everything. She nodded her head with a happy smile and ran into his arms to squeeze him tight. Tears pricked your eyes at the sight.

“I love you, darling,” Feyd whispered quietly with his cheek pressed to the top of her head. “I would kill for you. I would die for you,” he confessed.

“But she doesn’t want any of that,” you explained. “She just wants you to spend time with her.”

“Is that right?” He looked down at his little girl and she looked up with her puppy eyes as she nodded. Her tiny hands reached out to cup his face.

“I love you, daddy,” she assured him. “Can you play with me?”

“I don’t know how to play, I’m sorry,” he admitted with guilt in his voice.

“I will teach you,” she hugged him again.

Feyd put his arms around his little girl and pulled her closer. You crawled on the carpet to give him a hug, too. You could feel that he was slightly trembling, so you leaned in to place a kiss on his temple as your hand caressed his head soothingly.

“It’s not weak to show affection,” you reminded him in a whisper. “I’ve never loved you more than when you are like this.”

Feyd laid his eyes on you. They were filled with a mix of pain, guilt and relief. At the end of the day, the only approval he was seeking was yours. You had him wrapped around your little finger.

“So, how do you want to play?” He asked Sevina as he caressed her white hair with admiration. She clapped her hands cheerfully.

“I want to be a Princess,” her eyes sparkled. “And you’ll be my guard.”

Feyd chuckled at that, showing off his black teeth. Sevina giggled as she had never found them scary.

“Soon enough, my darling one, you’ll be a real Princess,” he assured her.

MASTERLIST

[rivendell-poet]

Omg okay… so I had this thought randomly and now I wanted to know if you were open to writing the scenario… The Hobbit/Lord of the rings… Thranduil, Legolas, Kili (and honestly anyone else you want who isn’t human if you’d like) and their reaction to their pregnant human s/o’s cravings. Like I don’t know if pregnant elves and dwarves had those cravings (they probably do??) but like their reactions to the really weird human cravings, because I bet there is definitely ones they aren’t used to due to cultural differences, right? So like those cravings that genuinely make them question and maybe cringe because it seems so gross to them?? Genuinely just those weird food combo cravings lmaoo.

No pressure to write this btw! I don’t know if your request are even open?? If they aren’t then please ignore this- I’m so sorry 😭! Either way I love your writing/posts and have a great day🥺🥰.

Hi anon - and yes, I am willing to do so. I imagine elves and dwarves probably do have pregnancy cravings, although this was written more on the idea that they don't. Also, I have never been pregnant. I have incredibly limited experience when it comes to pregnancy, so I am so sorry if this is inaccurate. Hope people still enjoy!

(this fic is also centred a lot more around support and reactions than actual pregnancy)

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « headcanons »

○ Thranduil ○ Legolas ○ Lindir ○ Elrond ○ Thorin ○ Kíli ○

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐢𝐥

✧ Probably the most concerned out of all of the elves.

✧ Thranduil has experienced a loved one having a pregnancy before, of course. But it’s still so… different.

✧ He still loves you, of course, but when he first encounters it there is heavy staring. A brief ask of if you are okay.

✧ When you explain it’s just a sign of human pregnancy then he nods, before realising no-one has told him this.

✧ You only seem him immediately leave (off to yell at the royal doctors for not informing him of this. And asking what other details they are holding back.)

✧ Comes back a little later with a checklist of different symptoms, and asking if they are happening or might happen.

✧ Does consistently get a curious face when he sees you do something.

✧ As you’re eating an odd craving you can tell if he’s there, because you suddenly feel watched. Thranduil doesn’t seem to entirely realise how off-putting this is.

✧ After hearing reports of you sneaking into the royal kitchens to grab a specific sauce (to put on your blackberries, of all things). He quietly pulls you aside and says that you don’t have to sneak around.

✧ All cooks and kitchen workers are under royal orders to make you whatever (there’s a slight haunted look as he says that word) you please.

✧ Will also certainly import a specific food if it cannot easily be found in Mirkwood.

𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐬

✧ Definitely depends on the time being post or pre-Fellowship.

✧ If it’s pre-Fellowship he’s a lot more perplexed by it. He won’t question you, but he’s politely curious about it.

✧ “You mean to say that these things… taste nice together? But, meleth nîn, how?”

✧ Goes to ask his father. Which is entirely unhelpful, as Thranduil has few answers either - at least on the odd cravings side of pregnancy.

✧ Comes back to you with a smile, and whatever food you’d recently been angling, before presenting it to you and giving you a small kiss. 

✧ “I hope you enjoy it, my cestaedas.”

✧ Post-Fellowship he’s a lot more accepting and less immediately confused about it.

✧ You want a flavour combination that he would only eat a knife-point? You have most adventurous taste, and of course he’d be happy to get it for you.

✧ Will sometimes try a bit of your random concoctions if you allow him (he has a surprisingly good record, helped mainly by the use of puppy-dog eyes).

✧ It always makes you smile to see his face afterwards, either a polite attempt to hide disgust or genuine, obvious shock that it tastes nice.

✧ Has joked once or twice, while eating one of your cravings he enjoys, that you’re corrupting him.

𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐫

✧ Lindir really, truly loves you. Which is why he’s willing to put up with all of the combinations that you’re craving.

✧ As an elf, he has heightened senses. Heightened senses that do not particularly agree with some of the combinations you consume.

✧ He’s slightly more sensitive to the aromas (and imagined tastes) than some elves are, so it can occasionally be a struggle for him depending on what you’re eating.

✧ Still completely supports you, and reminds you everyday that just because his body reacts adversely to it doesn’t mean he loves you any less.

✧ (Also makes you promise to indulge your cravings if you want to; don’t make his slightly discomfort a priority in your pregnancy.)

✧ Privately, he asks Elrond if cravings are a sign of anything wrong. Feels better after being well-informed, that it’s natural. A sign that often comes up in a healthy pregnancy.

✧ Stands up against the watching eyes in Rivendell as well. None of the elves are judgemental - merely curious - but he knows how eyes on you can feel.

✧ Validates any worries or insecurities that it’s wrong or gross very well, with reassurances that all of this is natural, and that he loves you regardless.

𝐄𝐥𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐝

✧ Has witnessed enough pregnancies to know the body can be… unusual during the time period.

✧ Also researches a lot about human pregnancies to ensure that he can safely provide for you.

✧ So, when cravings come he’s prepared for it. And slightly… disturbed isn’t the right word.

✧ Because he knows it’s natural, but in all the pregnancies he’s assisted it hasn’t really happened. So he simply refers to it as ‘new’.

✧ There’s also a tiny bit of curiosity as a healer. Some questions are peppered in here and there, because you are his living, breathing loved one - not just some words on a page.

✧ If you mention you have a craving, it’s often him who will go and get something for you.

✧ Becomes a usual sight to see Lord Elrond in the kitchen, with ingredients that only look slightly insane, while muttering something and taking far too much care in their preparation.

✧ Sometimes, he’ll try and present this dish formally (he’s the kind of person to make a decorative fruit plate with apples carved into swans and so on).

✧ Is rewarded by your slight laugh, which in returns puts a large smile on his face.

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧

✧ Is a lot less concerned that most of the elves are.

✧ That still doesn't mean that - the first time you tell him about a craving - he’s not slightly concerned.

✧ Of course he’ll help get it for you, but why. Why do you need this?

✧ As you dig into your food, you see him watching you out of the corner of his eye. A small smile on his face as he watches.

✧ When confronted he simply says he’s curious, and that you look so happy. Even when eating… that.

✧ Thorin does ask the royal physician afterwards, but he does so privately. Still makes quite a lot of notes on it.

✧ Whenever you ask for something, he will always make sure that you can get it as fast as you can.

✧ Even if that means importing things - Erebor isn’t great for a lot of foods - because it’s worth it for his queen.

𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐢

✧ Only thing he’d be truly concerned about is if you started craving non-edible items.

✧ He reads up on a few journals, and discovers some accounts of pregnant women asking for clay or coal.

✧ Does take you by surprise when he asks, with complete sincerity, for you to not eat any minerals while you’re pregnant. Or to at least let a doctor examine them first.

✧ Kíli doesn’t get why you’re so confused when he says it, and he explains to you the journals he’s read.

✧ After preparing for you to eat rocks or dirt for a week or so, Kíli is fairly unfazed by most of your requests after that.

✧ Often he’ll be the person getting your new combos for you - it always makes him smile when you light up at the sight of whatever food he’s made you.

✧ Of everyone, he is also most likely to try and steal it.

✧ “Please, can I just have a little taste? If you and the baby like it so much I’m sure I will!”

A/N : Also - just a heads up, while writing this I've come to the realisation I don't particularly like writing pregnancy fics, and I won't be writing any more centred around pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I'm fine with kid fics, or fics asking what a certain character would be like as a parent - but I don't enjoy writing the pregnancy aspect. Thanks for understanding, and hopefully some people can still enjoy this.

Oh - I forgot to say this, but the term Legolas uses (cestaedas) is intended to mean curiosity, although technically it's a neologisms from various other reconstructions, so this is not official tolkien Sindarin. Still, it's a pretty interesting word.

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧

[mysticallystilinski]

i just need the sappiest like nap with stiles he's such a baby i cannot

BABY LOVE

a stiles stilinski x fem!reader fic

— ౨ৎ masterlist

CW ! (literally only the most cutest fluff)

lav speaks.. i’m so tired and it’s 3 am! i listened to the feels by twice the entire time while making this fic; take that as it is :)

heading to the stilinski household after lacrosse practice was the highlight of your day. of course — stiles lacrosse practice. one day in particular, you had happened to head to his house a little bit later than normal.

going up the front porch steps, and knocking on his door to no response was a little confusing to you. usually with the 4 knocks, stiles and yours speciality, he would run down the stairs, knock into a few things, then quickly open the door.

nope, today it was an embodiment of silence. beacon hills was growing darker by the second. of course with the reputation of the supernatural, you had to either go home and explain to stiles later why you didn’t show up, or risk being hit by a baseball bat in self defense.

you chose the second option.

slowly creaking the door open, the lights were on, but sheriff stilinski was at work; meaning that stiles had to be somewhere. fear creeping within, you quickly ran up the stairs and towards stiles room. his door was ajar, meaning he was definitely home.

“sti?”, you questioned softly while opening his door. your face contorted into an awe once you saw he was sleeping on his bed, still in his lacrosse jersey. stiles shoes were on, his hair slightly sweaty, and he was hugging one of your blankets that you gave him tightly.

you slowly pulled out your phone, and snapped a photo of him, sending it to his phone for him to look at later. heading over to him, you quickly took off your shoes and jacket, and laid right next to him.

“stiles — wake up i’m here”, you giggle. stiles groaned, turning over while practically crushing you underneath him. he mumbled something incoherent, so you didn’t even bother trying to understand what he meant. “sti, you’re hurting me”.

his arms started to feel around, as if he was looking for something important. finally finding your warm body, he pulled you in closer making you breath in his musky scent. you practically died at the touching from him. even though he was your boyfriend, every experience felt new and never got old.

he embraced you, as you wrapped your arms around his torso. you felt his chest rise, slowly up and down. he was dead asleep, and there was no waking him up from this comfy position.

you gave up fighting it and actually gave in. making yourself comfortable, you wrapped your legs around stiles legs, interlocking each-others bodies. with being able to slightly use your hands, you connected your phone to his speaker and put on some soft music.

stiles woke up in a haze, trying to figure out his surroundings and who he was cuddling. once he realized it was you, a smile absorbed his face. “hey”, he spoke softly. you laughed at his expression, half-asleep, and practically dreaming.

“did lacrosse kick your ass?” you slight snickered. stiles just groaned at the thought of lacrosse, “yes — yes it definitely did.” without second thought, stiles pulled you closer to his sweaty body. you didn’t mind it though, you guys were just close like that.

besides, it was kind of a turn on.

stiles yawned, which caused you to yawn — complete chain reaction. “baby, are you tired?”, stiles asked in a compassionate voice. in a sleepy haze, your eyes started to droop and your thoughts wandered. “mm’ so tired sti.”

he smirked at your words, slightly rubbing your back to make you even more sleepy. “here, wear my jersey baby”, stiles spoke in a whisper. he stripped himself of the jersey, and slowly maneuvered it onto your body.

it had to be immediately after that action that you were out like a light, breathing in the comforting scent of his. stiles faced his back towards you and took your hand around his body. he needed to be comfortable too, and of course he was the little spoon, always.

minutes later, stiles was sound asleep in your arms. both dreaming of each-other, lovers became closer.

— ᡣ𐭩 LAV

[the-fiction-witch]

White Rose

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Gwayne Hightower Couple - Gwayne X Reader (uncle and Neice) Reader - Y/n (Neice) Rating - 18+ Fondling/ fingering / nipple play/ nipple sucking / nudity/ incest/ forced orgasm/ breast play/ bj/ hand jobs/ manipulation/ Word Count - 3195

Requested -

hello dear, i wanted to say that you fic are all amazing ♥️ can you please write one where gwayne is the sworn protector of reader who is alicent's daughter. alicent has committed herself to making sure that she is away from the world for her safety and the result is that she is very naïve. one of reader's friend got pregnant without being marry, so she goes to gwayne to ask how can a woman make children. and gwayne ask reader to undress, and he undress too, to explain her. he encourage her to touch and suck his dick, and after he say that when she will be pregnant her breast (which are already big) will be full of milk, so he suck her tits while massaging her pussy 😩

Y/n sat at the window of her tower looking out at the ships leaving the harbour, she sighed as she sat there.

“Uncle Gwayne?” She cooed,

“Yes, white rose?” He cooed as he stood beside her seat, looming beside her sword at his hip,

“Can I go outside and watch the ships?”

“You know what your mother says,”

“I cannot…”

“You cannot,” he told her, “You know you cannot leave the your room let alone the keep.”

Y/n sighed, “Please Uncle Gwayne…” She begged,

“I’m sorry white rose, but you cannot.” He said, “I wouldn’t be much of a sworn protector if I went against your mother’s commands.”

“But Mother commands too much,” She pouted getting to her feet to pace, “I am only allowed to leave my room for social occasions, I must wear these endless layers, I am never allowed on my own even to bathe and sleep, it is not fair.” she pouts lying on her bed face down,

He sighed and went over, “I know it is not fair, but you are my white rose. You must be protected from all those bad things out there,” he cooed stroking her hair,

“But I have you,” she turns to look at him,

“You do, but there are things in this world even I can’t protect you from,” he said, “Hey, come on, how about I call one of your ladies in waiting up and you two can have some cake,”

She gently nodded,

“Right away,” he cooed kissing her head and going to arrange it for her,

Y/n sat for tea and cake with one of her ladies-in-waiting, The lady linaena of House Lannister. The lady was only two years older than Y/n but acted and appeared far older given her knowledge and experience when compared to Y/n. But as soon as she arrived Y/n noticed something odd about her friend, she seemed to sit strangely, to often grimace or squeeze her eyes tight in pain, her hands resting always on her stomach.

“Is everything alright Linaena?” Y/n spoke up,

“Oh- yes, forgive me, my lady,” Linaena answered,

“Please, what’s wrong?”

“It- I am not very well my lady,”

“Oh, I am so sorry Linaena,” she cooed, “I hope it is not too bad?”

“No I… I- have a troubled stomach,”

“Goodness, any ideas what caused it?”

“...I had moon tea.” she admits, “Forgive me, my lady…”

“Oh…” She gasped, she took a moment puzzled but decided not to say any more on the matter, “I see, well if you are feeling unwell do not let me keep you.”

“Are you sure my lady?”

“Yes, of course, take your time. Rest.”

Lady Linaena took her leave returning to her own chambers to rest,

So Y/n called her protector back,

“A very short visit today,” He chuckled,

“...Uncle Gwayne?”

“Yes, My white rose?”

“What’s moon tea?” She asked,

“Pardon?”

“What is Moon tea?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Lady Linaena said it was upsetting her stomach, I was curious.”

He chuckled slightly, setting his sword down on the table, “Come sit with me.” He cooed taking her by the hand and kissing her knuckles before he led her to sit on the end of her bed, “Now, tell me what was discussed.”

“Lady Linaena seemed uncomfortable so I asked her if she was well, she said she was having trouble with her stomach and when I pressed her on the matter she said it was Moon tea.” She explained,

“I see,” He nodded,

“What is it Uncle Gwayne, I’ve never heard of moon tea before… may I try some?”

“No.” he told her firmly, “No, my sweet little white rose.” he said softer, “Moon tea is a very special tea that ladies drink when… well… when they don’t want to have a baby,”

“But Lady Linaena has yet to wed, why would she want rid of a baby if she is not wed?”

He smiled warmly, “Well, perhaps she was a very naughty girl and was doing things a young lady shouldn’t.” He explained, “Not like my sweet white rose,” he cooed stroking her cheek,

“What sort of naughty things?” she asked wide-eyed and Naive,

“Well, if she was drinking moon tea to get rid of a baby, then she must have gotten pregnant. And wanted rid of it because she wasn’t married yet. You see?”

“I guess so,” she nodded, “But how do ladies get pregnant Uncle Gwayne?”

He chuckled softly, “I think… it best if we have a full lesson on the matter.” he cooed, “Come, stand all nice and pretty for me,” he told her with a slight growl to his voice as he pulled her to stand between his legs, “Humm, good. Now very slowly pull off your layers for me. One by one. Nice and slow,” He demanded but his tone still gentle with her,

Y/n softly giggled and nodded, slowly she began to undress unlacing, unbuttoning, and unclasping all the various layers and elements of her gown,

Gwayne didn’t assist in any way just let her slowly work until her slip fell to the floor leaving her standing naked between his legs, He held back a groan and bit his bottom lip as he looked at her body, his eyes trailing over her curves and lingering in all her most intimate of places, “You are so beautiful, a sweet untouched white rose yet to be soiled and spoiled by the world,” he cooed his hands stroking his fingers over her stomach and waist’s tender skin which forced a ticklish giggle from her lips, “Now it’s my turn.” he growled in her ear. Gwayne then began to undress himself making sure to be slow and gentle letting her look at him as much as she needed to, and once he kicked off his britches leaving him sit on her bed completely naked he took her hands in his guiding them to his shoulders letting her stroke down his chest, “Are you ready for your lesson?”

“Yes, Uncle Gwayne,”

“Good,” he cooed, “Now look at yourself, look how beautiful you are, look at every curve and divot of this perfect body you reside in,” he told her running his hands slowly over her hips, “So immaculate, so stunning, an untouched, unspoiled white rose.”

She nodded,

“And now look at me, see how different we are?”

“Yes, very different,” she nodded blushing slightly,

“That’s because I am a man. And you are a woman. Men and Women are supposed to be different, meant to fit perfectly together,”

“Like a puzzle,”

“Yes, just like a puzzle.” he nodded, “When you look at me, do you start to feel excited?”

She nodded,

“Humm, that's desire. That’s your body telling you it wants to make the puzzle come together,” He smirked, “How you feel and so much more is how every man in the kingdom feels whenever they look at you,”

“All of them?”

“Yes my white rose, all of them. They all look at you and feel a burning desire to look at you, to make you theirs, to pluck the petals of my beautiful white rose.” He cooed, “They see you and all want you like this, exposed and willing, they want to make babies with you every last one of them.”

“How do they make babies?”

“Come on,” he cooed tightening his grip on her hips and pulling her into the bed with him, sitting her on his lap, he moved back a little so they sat in the centre of her bed with her sat on his thighs. “There, Now. When a man and a woman are wed they will be bed. And during the bedding, they will make love that's how they make the babies.”

“But Lady-”

“I know. But she did something very naughty, girls shouldn’t make love without being married. You understand?”

She nodded,

“Good,” He nodded, “Now, when a man and a woman feel the deep desire to make love,”

“And are married,”

“And are married yes,” he nodded, “They will start to kiss,” He cooed peppering little kisses up her neck making her giggle and playfully squeal in excitement, “And you’ll see the man will start to get hard,” he whispered in her ear,

“Hard?”

“Mhm,” he nodded caressing her chin before pushing her head so she looked down at his cock, “You see, watch me getting hard.” he cooed as he stared at her running his hands over her softly to make himself get hard for her,

“How did you do that?” she asked,

“I can’t help it, whenever a man see’s a pretty girl he gets hard. It has somewhat a mind of its own… it knows what it wants.” He growled, “See how egar it is to see you, to touch you, you make me wanna get all big and strong for my little white rose,” he groaned, “And if you or even I, was to touch it like this. It would make me feel… oh so good.”

“It would?”

“Yeah it would, and when a man feels amazingly good, he cums. His cock won’t be able to take the feelings anymore and it’ll be an explosion of pleasure, and his cock will spit out his jizz, his seed. Which is how babies are made.”

“From seed?”

“Mhm, When his seed is planted deep within it’ll grow into a baby.”

“Just like flowers?”

“Just like flowers, That’s how you bloomed my sweet white rose.” he cooed, “Your mother made your father feel so so good that he spilt his seed, which buried inside your mother and grew you.” He explained,

“So That’s what Lady Linaena did?”

“Yes, she made a man so happy he spilt his seed and got her pregnant but she drank her moon tea so she won’t be having a little baby,”

“I see…” She nodded, “So if I made you spill your seed it would make a baby?”

“Only if when I spilt it was inside you,” He cooed rubbing his nose on hers, “If my cock was deep inside your pussy” he groaned stroking his cock with one hand and softly cupping her pussy running his fingers between her lips, “You see my cock would have to be… in here,” he growled slowly pushing his finger inside her,

“Ahh!” She gasped,

“I know, it’s very tight, isn’t it? Umm cause you're a good girl, a good innocent little white rose, your petals still so tight. But tight is good, men love tight. That’s why men love taking little girls' innocence, cause of how tight and responsive you are,” He growled against her lips as he gently moved his finger in and out gently fingering her while he jerked himself off and watched her react,

Her face contorted unsure how to feel, she liked it but it kinda hurt, but it got easier the more he did it,

“When you get married, a man will adore doing this to you. He’ll want to have his cock inside you every moment of every day.” he cooed, “But there are other ways to please your husband.”

“How?” she asked,

“You see how I touch it, how I rub and stroke my cock?”

“Yes,” She nodded,

“Come on, you can do it.” He cooed kissing her hand and gently moving it to his cock, wrapping her fingers around his vainy shaft and guiding her back and forth, “Oooh-”

“What’s wrong Uncle Gwayne?”

“Nothing, nothing just… ummm that feels good. You're a natural.” he growled guiding her hand a little faster, “Just like that okay, keep going…” he demanded taking his hand away as he softly began to moan, “Oh fuck-”

“Like this?” She asked getting more into a pace,

“Yes… yes… Ohh y/n…” he moans throwing his head back, “Ohh my little white rose, how the fuck are you so good at this-” He groaned,

“I am?”

“Oh you are,” he groaned, “Ummm your gonna make me cum already,” he growled as he slipped another finger inside her and began to finger her at the same pace she jerked him off,

“Ughhhh!” She moaned in shock feeling pleasure now building between her legs,

“Yeah… ohh good girl, you feel good?”

She nodded,

“That’s how you're making me feel too,” he growled, but he forced her hand away and pulled his own from her,

Y/n whined at him suddenly stopping,

“I know, I know, but we have more to learn,” he growled licking her juices off his fingers, “Umm you taste so sweet,”

“I do?” she giggled,

“You do,” he nodded, “Do See how hard and desperate I am when you touch me like this?”

“Yes.” She nodded,

“You think you could make me feel better?”

“I can? But we might-”

“You can help me, without risk it’s okay,” he nodded, “Come on my little white rose just open your mouth and suck.” He cooed,

She nodded sheepishly and let him lead her down to his cock, she was nervous but he smiled down at her,

“Go on, just a little lick.”

She slowly licked from base to tip running her tongue along his shaft,

“Ohhh god-” he gasped, “Yes just like that keep going.” he nodded holding her hair to keep her close,

She nodded and continued to lick, swirling her tounge around his head,

“Uhhhh! Ohh yes! Yes… fuck! Y/n…” he moaned his hips bucking up towards her mouth, “Umm open those lips for me, nice and wide.”

“Yes Uncle Gwayne,” she nodded opening her mouth as wide as she could,

“Umm you're such a good girl,” he growled, “You look delectable with your mouth open.” he smirked before he guided his cock inside her mouth, holding her hair to keep her in pace, “Ohhhhh fuck-” He moaned, “Yes… yes… now suck my little white rose, suck as hard as you want,” he begged,

She nodded slowly hollowing her cheeks and sucking, finding her pace with her breaths and sucks,

He moaned and groaned loudly often bucking up to thrust into her mouth, guiding her hair to move her head up and down as she sucks, “Lick too. Lick all over,”

She began to lick and suck trying to keep at her pace,

But Gwayne was getting overwhelmed and began to thrust hard and fast fucking her mouth in desperation as he moans and groaned, “Fuck, fuck… I’m gonna cum-” He groans, “I’m gonna cum… I- Ughhhh!” His body froze suddenly as he moaned loudly burying his cock as deep in her mouth as he could sending his jizz across her tounge, “Fuck… ummm… that felt so good Y/n, My sweet little white rose,” he cooed between breaths, as he pulled his cock from her mouth, “Swallow.”

“Are you sure Uncle Gwanye?” She asked even with her mouthful,

“Yes go on, swallow it’s okay.” He nodded,

She nodded and swallowed it all, so he wiped her mouth and kissed her forehead,

“You did amazing,” He growled, “But we will have more to learn, you see if a husband and wife don’t want to make a baby, but they still want to make love and have pleasure, they can use their hands just like I showed you, or mouth like you just did for me or even…” he growled flipping her over onto the bed, grabbing her thighs and forcing her legs as wide as they would go, “Let me show you my little white rose,” he cooed kissing down her neck, planting the soft kisses down her chest which made her squirm and giggle, “Ummm… just a moment,” he cooed as he rubbed his face between her large breasts, “Someday when you do get pregnant, these will get even bigger,”

“Bigger!”

“Oh yes white rose even bigger,” he groaned cupping her breasts and kneading them as he rubbed his nose against her sternum, “They will swell and grow filling with milk for your babies. So you can feed your little ones from your breast.” he smirked his index and middle finger pinching and rubbing her nipples, “You see how hard they get when I touch them, even though you're not pregnant your breast want to feed, they want to do it. So they get nice and hard ready for a baby to suckle,”

“That sounds painful…” she whined,

“It can be, but it makes your babies ever so happy to feed from their mother… and… Husbands don’t dislike having a little lick too,” He growled licking across her entrapped nipple,

“Ummm-” She whined softly squirming more,

“Just enjoy it,” he cooed latching his lips around her nipple softly sucking and licking while his hand kneaded her other breast,

“Uncle Gwayne this feels funny,” She gasped,

“I know, I know,” he cooed, “It's cause you don’t really have any milk in here yet, but it feels good, doesn’t it? Feels all bubbly in your tummy,” He cooed returning his lips to sucking as his other hand moved to rub against her pussy once more stroking between her lips to find her clit,

She moaned as soon as his hand touched it,

And he bit down a little on her nipple as he purposely pleasured her hard and intensely, slipping two fingers inside her while rubbing on her clit, kneading her breast and sucking on her nipple,

She screamed and moaned out in pleasure as the onslaught of stimulation brought her to the edge of climax, she tried to call out, to ask what was happening to her but she was unable to form the words, until-

Y/n squealed digging her nails into her bed as pleasure washed over her, curling her toes, making her legs tremble, her hips buck up towards his hand, her body releasing a stream of squirt, her back arching up pressing her breasts closer to his mouth, her head thrown back and eyes rolling back into her head as she moaned uncontrollable animalistic sounds in response to the overwhelming pleasure,

Gwayne growled in satisfaction and kept going letting her ride out the whole of her orgasm until she was a gasping mess on the bed, he pulled back and licked his fingers clean, “Ummm look at you, you look so beautiful, sound so delicious. How can any man resist you.” he cooed, “That’s why you need to be locked up here white rose, cause every man in the kingdom wants to see you like this. And given the chance all of them will take it. So you and I need to stay safe up here okay,”

“Yes, Uncle Gwayne,”

“Good girl,” he cooed, “And I think we won’t see you little friend anymore, I don’t want her putting ideas in your head that a lady can do such things before she is wed,”

“But didn’t we-”

He chuckled, “I’m your uncle, I’m allowed.” he winked, “Come on little white rose lets tuck you in and we can have a little nap together and then I’ll show you some more little things,” He smirked,

[teddy06writes]

Quiet Days

Eddie Brock/Venom x gn!reader

Trigger Warnings: Depictions of a depressive episode (based on my personal experiences)

Summary: When you find yourself battling another depressive episode, Venom is concerned but doesn't quite get it. Eddie does his best to help you both.

{Bold = Venom speaking}

{Why yes, I did in fact get a new hyperfixation in the midst of distracting myself from the election news, how did you know?}

"I don't understand," Venom's goopy head tilted to the side, "They are.... sad?"

"It's... it's a little more complicated than that Buddy." Eddie said, glancing over to where the symbiote hovered over his shoulder, "It's a human brain thing- sometimes (y/n)'s brain just get's- stuck."

"Stuck?"

Eddie sighed, running a hand over his face and turning to lean against the kitchen counter, searching for the right words, "Stuck in a negative cycle? It gets harder for them to see the brighter side of things, I think. I don't really know how to explain it, maybe you should ask them when they're feeling better."

Venom hummed, almost considering it for a moment, "And this will make it better?"

"Um," Eddie sighed, looking down at the plates of snacks he had assembled for you, "It might help, V, it might not. It's more of a waiting game, than anything."

"So we cannot make it better?" They sounded disappointed, almost distressed.

"No, not just like that. But we can support them, alright?"

Picking up the plate, he headed over to the couch, Venom's tendrils reaching out to bring two glasses of water over and place them gently on the coffee table. Eddie queued up one of your favorite shows before heading toward the bedroom, where you'd been sitting, doomscrolling.

"Sweetheart? You need anything from us?"

You looked up, trying to muster up something other than a grimace, "I- I dunno."

"That's alright," Eddie came to sit beside you on the bed, "We're here, if you need us."

Venom's tendrils reached out, wrapping around your arm in a comforting squeeze, "We will- wait it out with you, little morsel."

That earned a tiny, amused breath from you, and Venom's head bobbed happily, turning back to Eddie, "See I can do what you cannot! I made it better!"

"Not exactly how it works," You sat up enough to lean over against Eddie's side, "You both make it better."

Eddie smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "I'm glad. We made some food, if you're interested?"

"Girl dinner!" Venom added helpfully when you looked up questioningly.

That earned another pained smile, and you trailed after the pair, back to the couch. It was easy enough to tuck yourself under Eddie's arm, accepting the glass of water that Venom's tendrils pulled into your reach.

"Thanks."

You stayed like that for a while, munching on tater tots and half paying attention to the show flickering across the TV screen. When you started to nod off, tucked comfortably against Eddie's side, safe within his hold, Venom was quick to tuck a blanket around the both of you.

~~~~

Enjoy this fic? Support me on kofi :)

[sst4rdst]

can I request yan! Xiao fighting his urges to literally *eat* his darling because he loves them so much? Sorry cannibalism is just such a good metaphor for obsession

warnings : yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, implied kidnapping, cannibalism thoughts, xiao's karmic debt, force-feeding, xiao's getting progressively more deranged, long fic sorry (almost 5k words). author's note : ok anon ngl i think you unlocked smth in my brain that instantly made me spend my whole night writing this in one go 💀 but i agree! i think there's so much potential for yan xiao + his karmic debt, paired with his obsession and lack of experience with human relationships, like uuuuuuuugh i don't think i perfectly explained my thoughts here nor did i delve into things i wanted to, even though this one is huge 😭

the pain is getting worse.

it gnaws at the marrow of his bones, threads itself through every breath, coils around his ribs and squeezes. a weight, unbearable and inescapable. he knows this suffering like an old friend, but lately, it has been changing.

there is another hunger buried beneath the agony. one that does not belong to the stains of karmic debt, that cannot be blamed on the sins of his past. it is sharper. more unbearable. and it has a name. you.

he doesn’t know when it began. perhaps it was the first time you spoke his name without fear. or the first time your fingers brushed his wrist in passing, leaving warmth where he has only known cold. perhaps it was always there, waiting, lurking, festering beneath his skin like a sickness that only worsens with time.

he tells himself to stay away. he tells himself that this is dangerous. that you should not be near something like him—something broken, something cursed. but then night falls, and the pain becomes unbearable, and the only thing that soothes the madness clawing at his mind is the thought of you. so he watches.

at first, it was only from a distance. ensuring your safety, eliminating any threats before they could ever reach you. but soon, he found himself lingering, his body rooted in place even after the danger had passed. listening to the soft rhythm of your breath as you slept, tracing the shape of your silhouette through the blankets covering your body.

then came the dreams. the things his mind conjured in the quiet moments when he was weak. your voice, breathless against his ear. the warmth of your body caged beneath his own. the way you would say his name if he let himself have you, if he let himself take—

xiao wakes with his hand wrapped tight around his weapon, panting, aching, trembling with a need that is not his own. the weight of karmic debt should make him sick. should remind him that this is not something he is meant to have, that this is not something he deserves. and yet—he is growing greedy.

each time he sees you, it becomes harder to resist. the space between you is unbearable. he hates the mortals who take your attention, hates the way they steal your laughter, your smiles, your time. he hates that they can be close to you while he must remain in the shadows, watching, waiting, suffering. but he could change that. all he would have to do is take you, in every way possible.

it is an intrusive thought, one that should repulse him, one that should make him recoil in horror. but it doesn’t. it settles in his chest, makes a home in his mind, whispers to him when he watches you from the rooftop of wangshu inn. it is not fear that curls in his gut when he thinks of you in his arms. it is something else. something darker. his hands flex at his sides, aching to touch.

would you scream if he took you? would you hate him? or would you understand that this is the only way? that he has spent too long suffering, too long resisting? that he cannot fight this anymore?

his vision pulses at the thought, and something inside him snaps. the pain of his karmic debt no longer matters. the only thing that matters is you. and xiao is done waiting.

tonight, he is weaker than before. his self-control frays, unraveling thread by thread. the karmic debt surges, blackening his vision, poisoning his thoughts, and suddenly, standing outside is not enough. he needs to be closer. needs to see you, feel you, know that you are real beneath his hands.

he moves before he can stop himself.

the window slides open without a sound. he slips inside, barely more than a shadow in the dark. the room is filled with your scent—warm, comforting, intoxicating. his head spins. he shouldn’t be here. he shouldn’t—his knees press against the edge of your bed.

you shift slightly in your sleep, your face peaceful, oblivious. he clenches his fists. he should leave. he should go before he does something unforgivable.

but then you sigh, so calm, so softly, so clueless of the man so close to you. he cannot take this anymore. his fingers brush against your skin, trembling. you are so warm, so fragile. he could break you so easily. but he won’t. he would never. he only wants to keep you safe. he only wants to keep you his.

when you wake, it is not in your bed. the room is unfamiliar—dimly lit, silent save for the soft rustle of fabric. the air smells of incense, of something old and unchanging. your limbs feel heavy, mind sluggish as reality settles in. you are not alone.

a figure sits in the corner, watching. gold eyes gleam in the low light, unblinking, unreadable. but you know who they belong to. xiao.

your breath catches. your pulse pounds against your ribs, but he does not move. he only watches, his expression unreadable, his gaze heavy with something dark, something you cannot name. “where—” your voice cracks. you swallow hard, trying again. “where am i?”

xiao exhales, slow and measured. “safe.”

you push yourself upright, the sheets slipping from your shoulders, and his gaze flickers—lower, then back to your face. his fingers twitch against his thighs. there is something restrained about him, something barely held back.

“this isn’t—” you shake your head, fear creeping into your voice. “xiao, i need to go home.”

his jaw tightens. the silence stretches, suffocating. then, finally, he speaks. “you are home.”

his words settle over you like a cage. you do not understand the depths of his obsession. not yet. but you will. you have always belonged to him.

the today turned into tomorrow, and tomorrow turned into an endless amount of time. the sky never changes, the silence stretching endlessly. you do not know how long you’ve been trapped in xiao’s adeptal realm—only that the outside world has long since faded into something distant, something unreachable.

although, ever since your first time here, your ‘relationship’ with xiao hasn’t improved that much. if anything, it festers. a good thing for you, a nightmare for xiao. he does not speak much, does not touch you, save the times he made you eat something—you tried one time not to eat for a whole day, but it just ended with him shoving the spoon with food inside your mouth—or when you need to go to the bathroom, these are the only times he allows himself close to you.

lately, something has changed. his restraint is fraying, his control slipping in ways he cannot seem to stop. you first noticed it when he started lingering too long, his eyes darker, the space between you shrinking. and then, the baths began.

he does not look at you when he lowers himself into the water, his movements precise, controlled—painfully so. his skin is flushed, his breath slow and deliberate. his hands remain at his sides, as if holding himself back takes every ounce of his strength. he has not touched you. not yet.

but you can feel it. the way his restraint wavers, the way his hunger coils beneath the surface. it is only a matter of time.

the water ripples around him, faint waves licking against his skin, but his focus is elsewhere.

your bare shoulders glisten under the soft light, droplets tracing slow, winding paths down your skin. he does not look, but he feels it—feels your warmth in the space between you, in the air thick with steam and something unspoken, something dangerous.

this is wrong. and yet, he does not move away.

you shift, stretching out your legs, and the movement sends a ripple through the water, lapping against his arms. xiao inhales sharply, his muscles coiling so tightly it hurts. his nails bite into his palms.

his gaze secretly roamed your form, almost unnoticeable, except that you could feel the weight of his eyes. xiao notices the beauty marks and moles you have splattered on your body, memorizes every curve, and how soft your skin looks.

there is no explanation that does not expose the sickness festering inside him, the unbearable hunger clawing at his control, poisoning his thoughts with something possessive, something selfish.

softly, so softly it nearly drowns beneath the lapping water—you murmur, “are you going to hurt me?”

a sharp exhale. his head snaps up, gold eyes burning into yours, something dark and unreadable churning beneath the surface. his throat tightens. hurt you?

the thought alone is enough to twist his stomach, to make his grip on reality splinter at the edges. he could never. he would sooner rip himself apart than let harm come to you. and yet—his restraint is breaking.

he has been careful, has done everything in his power to keep his distance, to silence the thoughts that make him weak, the desires that make him unbearable. but every day, it gets harder. every second spent in your presence tightens the noose around his throat, suffocating, inescapable.

it should not be like this. you should not be here. but you are. and he is unraveling.

“no.” the word is hoarse, choked, ripped from his throat like it pains him. he swallows hard, shaking his head. “never.”

your gaze lingers on him, cautious, unreadable. he can see it—the war waging in your mind, the uncertainty, the way your body remains tense despite his answer. it wounds him more than it should. but more, because deep down, he knew he would, it was just a matter of time. he does not know how to fix this, how to fix him.

but he knows one thing. he cannot let you go. not when he has already come this far. not when the thought of losing you feels like something far worse than death.

lately, xiao has been feeling strange. his karmic debt has never been this bad, but the way he craves you—physically, carnally—has deeply worst. being close is not enough, touching you is not enough, he needs to crawl under your skin, needs to turn into an amalgamate with you, know how every muscle of your body is, how the pressure of your blood feels, how strong it is, and worst of all—how you taste.

he doesn’t know why, it just feels right. he wants you, of course he wants you, but maybe he’s wanting in ways that are not usual. but he doesn’t want to hurt you, he would never forgive himself, and yet, forgiveness has never been meant for him.

xiao's fingers twitch at his sides, his breath barely steady, shallow, like something inside him is fracturing at the seams. you sit across from him, your back turned, your shoulders drawn in. your perfectly shaped shoulders, the trapezius and deltoid contouring it, with the fat placed just right. 

if he bites you there, would you punch him? how would you scream? how loud would you scream? and if he bites you hard enough to bleed, how much blood would you lose?

of course, a bite wouldn’t kill you from hemorrhage, xiao’s aware of that, but the thought of biting you, and tasting the droplets of blood that eventually would leak off it, the unmistakable metallic taste, how good is it? maybe, just maybe, would it be sweetly metallic? or the usual bitterness? he thinks you’re oh so sweet, even your blood might be sweetened.

he shakes his head, placing a had on it. he should leave. he should force himself to step out, to put space between you before he does something unforgivable.

but he doesn't. he stays, barely breathing, barely thinking cohesive—only feeling. his skin burns, his throat dry, his restraint a fragile, splintering thing that no longer listens to reason. he wants. he wants too much.

his fingers curl against his palms, nails biting into flesh, but the pain does nothing to ground him. not when the scenarios in his head cloud his senses, thick and dizzying, not when his mind is drowning in images of how you would feel, how you would sound, how you would break beneath him—

he exhales, ragged, sharp, almost pained. you stiffen. he sees it, even without looking. you do not turn around, do not speak. but your body betrays you. you know somethings off with him.

xiao has fought monsters for centuries, has slaughtered creatures beyond mortal comprehension, yet nothing—nothing—has ever terrified him as much as this.

this hunger. this sickness. this unbearable, wretched need that festers inside him, rotting him from the inside out. he cannot let it consume him. not when you are here.

not when the line between protection and destruction is already so blurred, so close to breaking.

but you turn to face him, lips parted, eyes wary, trying to scan his true intentions, the rotten portrayals of his sins inside his brain.

“xiao.” your voice is quiet, uncertain. but your gaze does not waver. “what’s wrong with you?”

everything. everything is wrong. and for the first time in his life, he is powerless to stop it. he wants to touch you. he wants to devour you, in every way the word means.

his hand slowly reaches in your direction, but it stops.

suspended. trembling. the space between you is unbearably small, a breath away from something irreversible. his fingers hover near yours, uncertain, unwilling—afraid. you don’t move. you don’t pull back. you don’t flinch, even as something in xiao’s expression twists into something ugly, something not meant for the daylight.

why aren’t you afraid?

his stomach coils at the thought, sick and tight. does he want you to fear him? no. no, he doesn’t. he is meant to protect you, to keep you safe. but then, why does it feel like he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, waiting for you to fall? why does he feel like a predator, waiting—starving—for him to come closer to you? the thought alone should be enough to disgust him, to send him fleeing, but it doesn’t. it only makes his fingers twitch, makes his breathing turn shallow and sharp, makes him crave something deeper, something worse.

his hand moves before he can stop it, the backs of his knuckles grazing against the soft flesh of your skin, the smallest, most insignificant touch—yet it feels like it burns, feels like it will tear him apart. his entire body is wound too tight, his restraint splintering under its own weight. he should pull away. he should force himself to turn, leave, run. but he fails at it, his desires speaking louder than the logic.

his hand wanders a little to the side, his thumb brushing your lips, your perfectly sculptured lips. it’s nothing, just a touch, just the briefest contact, but it is everything to him.

his breath came out in ragged, uneven gasps. his mind is reeling, his thoughts tangled, torn between two opposing forces—stay, leave, take, run, devour, protect. the contradiction rips him apart, and his body screams at him for retreating, for moving away from you when every fiber of his being is telling him to close the space, to pull instead of push, to take instead of deny.

"xiao—"

your voice is soft, uncertain, laced with something that makes his stomach twist tighter. it’s concern. you are concerned for him. you shouldn’t be.

his head jerks up, his breath heaving, his entire frame coiled with tension. he knows what he must look like—wild, frenzied, something barely holding itself together. but still, you do not back away. you do not cower. is it because you’re scared? or you are trying to understand him?

understanding. yes, of course you are trying to understand him. you’ve been together for so long, of course you would be wanting to get to know him someday! the realization makes something in xiao snap.

his entire body is trembling, he can hear his own heartbeat—loud, deafening, hammering against his ribs like it wants to break free. and here you are. close. unmoving. searching his face for answers he doesn’t have the strength to give.

your fingers curl slightly at your sides, your lips part as if to say something, but no words come out. you’re watching him, observing him, waiting for him, and he doesn’t understand why. don’t you see what he is? don’t you understand what he could do to you?

his teeth clench. he can taste copper on his tongue—his own blood, from where he must have bitten too hard. but it isn’t enough. the pain isn’t enough. nothing is enough.

you shift your weight, adjusting your stance ever so slightly, and it takes every ounce of strength in xiao’s body to not react. his entire body is taut, stiff, coiled with a tension that has nowhere to go.

his breathing is erratic, his vision sharp, focused on you—your throat, your wrists, the way the pulse flutters just beneath your skin. his mind is a mess of static, of conflicting impulses, of thoughts he does not want to acknowledge, but cannot suppress.

he needs to leave. he needs to leave.

his body moves before his mind catches up. a blur of motion—sudden, forceful, instinct-driven. he is there in an instant, too fast for you to react, too overwhelming to resist. one hand grips your shoulder, the other pressing against the small of your back, pinning you in place.

a startled gasp escapes you, sharp and quick, but it’s lost beneath the sound of his own breathing, ragged and uneven against your ear. he doesn’t know what he’s doing. he doesn’t care what he’s doing.

you are close. too close. and yet, it isn’t close enough.

his lips ghost over your shoulder, breath searing hot against your skin. he can feel the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your body tenses under his touch. but you don’t fight him. you don’t struggle, maybe out of fear, but to xiao’s own sake, to him is because you accept him—just like he accepts you. and that is what dooms you both.

his jaw tightens, his grip turning almost bruising, and before he can stop himself—he bites.

his teeth sink into flesh, sharp and unrelenting, breaking through skin with a force that is too much, too deep, too wrong. he tastes it instantly—warm, metallic, unmistakably you. and gods—

his body seizes, a shudder rolling through him so intense it nearly forces him to his knees. his mind is blank, lost in the sensation, drowning in it. the taste of you, the way you scream, the way you tremble against him—it is intoxicating, overwhelming, unbearable.

you jerk in his grasp, a sharp inhale cutting through the air. he should stop. he knows that. but he doesn’t. his grip tightens, holding you firm, and he bites down harder—not enough to maim, but enough to hurt. enough to leave a mark. enough to the blood coming out of it to feed his fantasies.

your name leaves his lips in a breathless, wrecked sound, half a whisper, half a growl. his tongue swipes over the broken skin, over the crimson staining your shoulder, and the taste alone makes his head swim, his senses spiral, his restraint—his fragile, delicate restraint—crumble into dust.

he does not move away. he does not apologize. he cannot. because for the first time in his existence, xiao feels alive.

your shoulders bear the evidence of him now—biting scars, faint but unmistakable, the imprint of desperation and indulgence carved into your skin.

he doesn’t do it often, doesn’t let himself, doesn’t trust himself to have that kind of control. but there are nights when the weight of his karmic debt is suffocating, pressing down on him so violently that even you can feel it, a phantom ache that coils around your chest like chains, constricting, unyielding.

those are the nights when he clings to you, trembling hands gripping your arms, his breathing erratic against the crook of your neck, his body a raw, frenzied thing barely holding itself together. and those are the nights when you already know—when you steel yourself for the inevitable, when you brace for the sting of his teeth sinking into your flesh, a sharp, burning pressure that lingers for days, the kind of pain that dulls into something bittersweet.

you don’t stop him. you never do. because no matter how deep he bites, no matter how his lips tremble against your skin before he pulls away, looking utterly wrecked in the aftermath, you’re still afraid, especially now. he doesn’t look sane enough to even dare try to stop him, scared of how he might react.

he always looks the same when he gazes at you afterward—eyes wide, glassy with guilt, hands hesitant as if he has no right to touch you anymore—when he whispers i’m sorry in a voice so fragile you barely hear it, you realize, not for the first time, that xiao’s pain has never been his alone to bear.

it used to be enough—the fleeting touches, the stolen bites, the taste of your skin lingering on his tongue, copper-tinged and searing. but lately, it is no longer enough. nothing is enough. xiao has always been ruled by hunger, by suffering, by the insurmountable weight of his karmic debt pressing into him like a blade to the throat. he was prepared for a lifetime of torment, for an existence of nothing but pain. but this is something different. this is not suffering. it is yearning. and it is unbearable.

it’s not as simple as ‘go, take a bite, taste the blood, and leave’ anymore, it’s more profound, more fleshlily. the curiosity about what’s inside your body getting worse, just like his obsession with you.

with how perfect you are to him, would your organs hold up to it? or something simpler: how would your skin layers be? he doesn’t question himself these questions because he’s a crazy person, no, he just loves you oh so much that he wants, needs, to know every inch of your body—from the top of your toes to the last hair strand, from the inside to the outside, from the start of his breath to the last of his sigh.

xiao knows this is wrong. he knows the way his thoughts twist and turn, the way his desires coil into something sickly and insatiable, is not normal. not human. but then again, he has never been human, never been meant for something as soft as love, as indulgent as touch. and yet, you have carved a space for yourself inside him, an intrusion so profound that his very being has begun to warp around it, around you.

he watches you when you sleep. he is not proud of it, but shame has long lost its meaning in the face of his obsession. you are so still, so peaceful, oblivious to the way he hovers over you, gaze tracing the slope of your shoulders, the soft rise and fall of your chest. he has memorized you from the outside—every curve, every scar, every place he has touched and marked. but it is not enough. he wants to know more. he needs to. the thought slithers through him like a curse, quiet but insistent, embedding itself in the marrow of his bones.

how deep does your warmth go? how much of your flesh would yield under his hands? would the softness give way to something firmer beneath? muscle? tendon? bone? would the color of your insides be as beautiful as your exterior? would your heart stutter beneath his palm if he pressed down, if he held you too tight, if he—

his fingers twitch at the thought, and he forces himself to take a breath, sharp and uneven. no. he cannot think like this. he cannot. he has spent centuries fighting the urge to destroy, to ravage, to tear things apart before they can be torn from him. you are not his to ruin. and yet, even as he tells himself this, his gaze remains fixed on you.

you shift slightly in your sleep, the movement small, unconscious. your head tilts just enough to expose more of your shoulder, the same shoulder that bears the scars of his previous indulgences, the ghost of his teeth still faintly visible even now. his breath hitches. he shouldn’t. he knows he shouldn’t. but when has he ever been able to resist you?

before he even realizes he’s moving, his lips are against your skin, barely a whisper of contact. he tells himself it is just this—just a touch, just a stolen moment, just something to take the edge off the insatiable hunger gnawing at his insides. but it is never just this. his mouth parts, his breath shaky as he presses a kiss against the mark he left last time, against the proof of his weakness. and then—before reason can stop him, before guilt can drag him away—his teeth sink in.

your body jerks instantly, a sharp inhale escaping you, but his hands are already on you, one curling around your wrist, the other pressing against your waist, keeping you still. the taste of you floods his senses, metallic and searing, the warmth of your blood pooling against his tongue. the sensation is dizzying, heady, makes his fingers tighten against your skin, makes his nails dig in a little too hard, makes his body tremble with something he cannot name.

are there any remains of your skin cells in his teeth now?

you whimper. the sound spears through him like a blade, striking something raw and vulnerable, and he pulls away as if burned. his lips part from your skin, and the sight of it—the fresh imprint of his teeth, the way your blood beads at the edges—destroys him. his chest heaves, his vision blurs, and the moment the realization of what he’s done settles in, he wants to vanish. to disappear into the night, to never face the horror in your eyes when you fully wake and understand.

but he cannot move. his body betrays him, keeps him frozen, his fingers still pressed against you, as if some part of him believes he can mend what he has broken just by holding on. and then—just as he knew it would—you stir, your breath uneven, your voice barely above a whisper.

“xiao…?”

it is his undoing, all of this is his undoing. the strength in his fingers bleeds away, as if drained by the weight of his own guilt, leaving nothing but the fragile tremor in his hands as he pulls back. he cannot bring himself to move any farther. his body feels heavy, leaden, as if bound by invisible chains, and the only thing he can do is lower himself onto the edge of your bed, hands braced against his knees, head bowed, shoulders drawn tight with the unbearable pressure of what he has done.

"leave the bedroom." it comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. his own body betrays him, his entire form leaning forward despite his own command, as if something deep inside him is begging—please, don’t leave, don’t hate me.

but you must. if you don’t, if you linger even a second longer, if you keep looking at him like that, he will do something unforgivable.

he clenches his fists so tightly his nails bite into his palms, but the pain does nothing to ground him. if he speaks, the words will come out wrong. they will come out hungry. they will come out like the sickness that festers inside him, rotting, spreading, unstoppable.

your brows knit together, lips parting, hesitation evident on your face. but then, you nod. and you step away.

xiao does not move. his body remains frozen in place, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he watches you turn toward the door. every step you take feels like a hammer to his skull, like a blade to his gut, a part of him screaming at him to stop you, pull you back, keep you here where you belong—

but he cannot. this is what must happen. this is what is truly safe. the moment the door clicks shut behind you, xiao collapses to his knees.

his breath comes out in sharp, ragged gasps, his hands trembling where they dig into the wooden floor, nails cracking the surface. his body is shaking, his thoughts are a frenzy, a whirlwind of too much, too close, too dangerous. his throat is raw, his skin fever-hot, the hunger inside him gnawing at his ribs, carving into his bones. he is not himself. he is something else, something worse.

you are gone. you are safe. and yet—still, he wants to chase you. he wants to indulge in his wishes, but he’s too afraid. too afraid that his worst nightmare would turn into reality—you would be hurt and he would be the reason.

[acapelladitty]

the serpent and the blade

Pairing: Messmer/Reader/Rellana

Summary: With a late night summons to Messmer's private chambers, you find that he is not alone as he requests your services.

Fic Masterlist ☆ Link to AO3 ☆ Kofi

Previous fics: Bereft of Grace || Thigh Riding (Kinktober)

Covered by a thin reddish robe, the fabric almost sheer in parts, you are surprised to find that Messmer is not alone as you enter his room to meet his late-night summons. Seated across from him in a smaller chair than the one built to house his impressive frame, sat a pale woman whose silver armour glittered in the low light offered by the nearby fire.

Turning to face you, it is impossible to hide the surprise from your expression as her dark hair and pale features appear strikingly familiar. A ghost from a previous life.

“Rennala?” You ask, surprised by the presence of your former ally in the midst of such a hidden and desolate place. You missed the woman, her assistance in your journey prior to being fluttered away to these lands a warm spot in a desolate expanse.

“Oh, you know of my sister.” The woman replies, her expression now also holding some surprise as she surveys you with a pointed gaze.

Not Rennala then.

A sister definitely, and your eyes dart to Messmer, who is following your interaction with narrow, interested eyes that showcase a serpentine focus.

“The great Carian Queen assisted me in honing my skills before I journeyed to the Shadow Realm,” You explain with a soft smile, thinking of the sad woman who so willingly weaved her magic to allow you to shift your appearance and alter your capabilities.

The woman drops her gloved hand to the table with a soft metallic noise as she inclines her head in greeting, “I am Rellana. Her blood sister. How fares my sister?”

Your expression falters and she picks up on it instantly as a small furrow appears in her brow.

“She remains broken by her experiences and heartache but her power is intact. A rising sorceress, Sellen, stood against her and sought her position but the Carian Queen held true and banished her to a cursed fate.”

Sharing your experience, you watch as both Rellana and Messmer accept the information with schooled features and a slight silence falls as Rellana falls into private considerations.

“You summoned me, my lord?” Shifting your attention to Messmer, his state of undress does not slip your notice as you take in the pale overshirt which hangs off his shoulders and covers most of his lap – bare legs peeking free under the table as they extend out.

“We are blessed by the presence of my honoured guest,” extending a hand to Rellana, Messmer slips the armoured glove from her hand to expose the soft skin below, “and it would please me for you to share some time with us.”

“Share time?” Unsure of exactly what was being asked of you as a slight flush of embarrassment rolls across your skin, you cannot tell if he is asking for your typical services.

“Our lord and I have been known to share our bed in the past,” Rellana jumps in to explain, her voice as cool as a flowing stream, “and he wishes to extend you the honour of joining us. As his first true paramour, I requested time to meet with you and witness your loveliness for myself. He is not known for keeping pets of any kind so a lover is almost unthinkable.”

Breath stolen from your lungs at her words, your nervous fingers cannot help but shift up to smooth out the front of your robe. As beautiful as her sister, Rellana’s features were soft and delicate – completely at odds with the sharp armour which covered her skin – and the slightest flush of arousal passed through your lower stomach as you locked eyes with Messmer. His gaze was pure fire, his interest in the potential joining clear as his wide hand lay casually on his lap, dragging your attention lower as uncertainty plucked at your chest.

“My lord had never shared me before.”

Neither an acceptance nor a denial, the words hang in the air for a moment until Rellana offers you a soothing smile.

“He demands nothing of you, even now. If you do not wish to join us then you may leave with my thanks for speaking of my beloved sister so kindly.”

Put on the spot as arousal continues to warm lowly in your belly, your eyes flit between Messmer and Rellana with keen consideration as you push past the insecure shame of having another experience your body to give them a small nod, “I accept.”

Visibly delighted, a small smile tilts Messmer’s lips as he nods his approval and Rellana stands from the table in a single shifting motion, her smooth movements lovely to watch as she approaches you with a curious look. Her fingers are cool as they ghost along your jaw, tilting your head up to allow her a closer look at your features.

She’s even more beautiful at this distance, her only imperfection being a long, silvery scar which sit along her hairline – the torn skin almost hidden by how pale her skin lays alongside it.

“Hmm, I can see the allure of your little tarnished,” Rellana announces, casting her head over her shoulder as she speaks to your lord. “She is a warrior true and I can sense the echoes of glintstone magic within her blood. Tell me, have you lain with a woman before?”

Directing her attention back to you, Rellana stands before you with obvious interest – her gaze falling to your ample chest before trailing up once more.

“No. Only men,” And demigods, your mind adds unhelpfully, “but I have oft wondered…”

Your confession only seems to excite her more, the spark of her icy gaze deepening as she takes your hand in her own and leads you over to the familiar bed. Without shame, she sheds her armour with impressive speed, each removed piece exposing more of her lithe body to your hungry gaze.

Her body is thin but you can see the wiry strength in her limbs, certain movements making her muscles clench and expose themselves, and some of her skin is scarred in places – thin, straight scarring which you knew was the result of sword combat. Her breasts were small and pert, the light skin centred by pink areolas and peaked nipples which stood to attention in the warm air of the room.

Dropping her undergarments to the floor, her exposed sex was framed with delicate dark curls, the stark contrast to her skin matching the dark hair which sat atop her shoulders. Gazing at her, your trembling fingers were quick to pull your shift dress overhead – exposing your body to her hungry gaze as you matched her movements with your own and dropped your undergarments to the floor in a messy pile.

A subtle groan draws your eyes over to Messmer and his attention is fierce as he watches the two of you with interest, the sheet across his lap clearly tented over his cock. Rellana swiftly snatches your focus once more as she pulls you to the bed – forcing you to lie back and scoot up the sheets as she follows you with a distinctly predatory shuffle. Her mouth is instantly cool against your breast as she falls on you without warning and you exhale sharply as she sucks your nipple into her mouth, her tongue caressing the hardened bud with enthusiasm.

“Will you join us, my lord?” Rellana asks, her voice charged with excitement as she glances over at him.

“Soon, my blade. I am content to observe and for you and my spirited paramour to enjoy your pleasures as I will enjoy my own in time.”

Nodding at his words, Rellana returns her attention to your chest and her fingers are cold as they stroke along your thighs, slowly working their way towards your heated sex.

“You can touch me, little tarnished.” Rellana mutters, the words just above a whisper. “Explore my skin just as I explore thy own.”

You respond in an instant, fingers rising to brush along her skin as they trail across her subtle breasts – her nipples pink and peaking under your gentle ministrations as Rellana sighs at the contact.

Growing bolder, you pinch at her hardened nubs and she responds by sinking two fingers deep within your cunt, a move which arches your back off the bed and steals a groan from your lips.

She’s gentle in a way that Messmer seemed incapable. His hands too large and roughened to truly deliver a soft touch and you sink into what Rellana has to offer as moans fill the space between you. Her fingers are quick to deliver their pleasures, stroking and rubbing along your walls as her thumb slips up to graze along your rapidly-engorging clit. Heat dances along your skin as she builds your arousal and you increase your grip of her chest with every curl of her digits.

Before long, you are coming undone around her – allowing your delightful cries to ring out across the room without shame while you wrap your hands around her waist and dig your nails into her skin as your ride your pleasure out on her fingers. Her gaze never leaves your own, chilling eyes drinking in your sighs and cries with a small smile which only grows as you go slack against the sheets.

“Beautiful tarnished.” Rellana breathes, pulling her fingers free and immediately bringing them to her own mouth to taste. A rumble from the side startles you as you had momentarily forgotten your audience and your head shifts to look as Messmer, his arousal now laid bare as he had taken the opportunity to disrobe and prepare himself to join.

“Will you join us now, my lord?” You ask, voice deceptively sweet in a way which makes Rellana’s smirk grow as she matches your movements to look over at where Messmer is seated. “Your warmth will be enough to heat us both, I wager.”

Messmer moves quickly and you gasp in surprise as his wide hands pluck you from the bed and pull you up, close to his chest. In your absence, Rellana takes your previous position and spreads herself wide across the bed, her knees pointing far apart as Messmer gently places you down on all fours with your face only a few inches away from Rellana’s sex.

Having never seen a woman before so intimately, you take a moment to explore her as your hands fall to her inner thighs and stroke the skin there gently. A groan of the wooden bed frame alerts you to Messmer’s presence behind you and you feel the heat of his skin close to your own. Rellana’s dark pubic hair is curled against her skin and you run the tips of your fingers across it as you press your palm against her cunt – enjoying the warmth which spreads across your skin.

With Rellana’s back pressing into the sheets, you drop your head between her thighs and push your lips against the soft skin there – sucking reddened marks into the pale expanse. But your attention quickly shifts to her velvety folds and your tongue is curious as it slips free to lick along her slit while your fingers pull her apart to give you easier access. At the contact, Rellana groans and her vocalisations embolden you as you put your knowledge of your own enjoyments to use; instantly shifting your attention to the pretty pink bud which sits almost hidden by her darkened pubic hair.

Behind you, the heat of Messmer as his hands stroke along your own sex draws a moan from your lips as you suckle at Rellana. His fingers were quick to delve within your core, two thick digits testing your dampness as he starts to stretch you out in preparation for his cock.

In your time, Messmer had proven to be a decent lover; his joy at bringing you pleasure apparent as he never allowed you to leave his chambers without forcing you to completion at least once. He appeared to enjoy your pleasure as much as his own and was not slow in using his fingers or tongue in those moments after his own cock had reached its peak.

“Spirited lover, are you ready to receive me?” Messmer asks, the words purring with satisfaction as you feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. “Are you at least satisfied with your meal?”

“Yes!” You moan out, half burying the word into Rellana’s folds as you lick at her messily. “Please, my lord, take me.”

Unable to hold back longer, the blunted head of Messmer’s cock pushes against your hole and you grimace in pained pleasure as the burn of his slow entry makes your head spin. He moves gently, allowing you to adjust to his girth as he pushed forward until his cock lies flush against your cervix. The fullness never fails to steal your breath and you stutter as your lips lock around Rellana’s clit, suckling softly at the nub.

“My blade, is she not wonderful?”

“I can see the allure, my lord.” Rellana pants, your busy tongue making her speech disjointed. “Beauty belies that strength that I can feel in her blood. She is not one to be tamed but she allows herself to indulge thee.”

Messmer laughs at that, the noise little more than a rumble in his throat as he picks up his pace – his hips snapping against your ass with greater force as his long fingers grip reddened shapes into the soft skin of your hips. The rhythm between the three bodies is intense, Messmer’s thrusts only serving to push you further into Rellana’s sex as each chases their own growing pleasure; Rellana’s hands dropping to stroke along your hair while Messmer massages your hips with his textured thumbs.

The room is quiet, the scent of sex and sweat hanging in the humid air, with the only breaks to the silence coming from the low moans and muttered encouragements which slip free from heated voices.

You nibble at Rellana’s folds, noticing her enthusiasm for the use of your teeth as well as your tongue, and you find yourself rewarded with a sharp gasp. The tight band of arousal which cinches your groin is inflamed by every sharp push of Messmer’s thighs, his thick cock dragging along every overly-sensitive nerve in your cunt.

On the edge of release, you use your hands to spread Rellana’s thighs even wider to allow you unfettered access to her sex; your mouth once again pressing against her hardened clit as a particularly rough thrust from Messmer is enough to push you into oblivion. Using Rellana to muffle the cries of pleasure, you can feel her appreciation at the added vibrations as waves of pleasure crash through your body. You clamp your eyes shut and suck at her clit, tongue flicking across the sensitive nub in such a way that you can feel her cunt contracting as she follows you over the edge.

Rellana groans as she comes, her release flooding her cunt as it coats your mouth and chin – her sweet taste only pushing you further into pleasing her as you drag her through her orgasm with the same stiff determination which Messmer was currently subjecting you to. Unseen, you can hear him grunting, his appreciation of the scene before him causing his cock to twitch within your convulsing cunt and you know his end is near.

He doesn’t disappoint. With a growled obscenity, Messmer’s hips lay flush against your ass as his cock throbs within you; his release as scalding hot as ever as the sensation of it fills your overstimulated cunt and instantly begins to leak free. Openly moaning like the whore you supposed you now were, you press kisses into Rellana’s thigh as another rolling wave of pleasure strips you of your remaining senses.

Messmer remains inside, allowing his seed to pulse and full you fully before pulling his cock free – the stretch replaced with a gnawing emptiness that snatches a fresh groan from your lips as the little strength that sits in your bones leaves you. Collapsing into an overstimulated heap, the cool arms of Rellana are quick to pull you close as she lays your head on her chest – the heat from your skin feeling wonderful against her more chilled frame.

“You have worn her out, my lord.” Rellana sighs, her own pleasures making her expression soft and more open than it had been previously.

“I have prior samplings of her with much more ferocity.” Countering her claim, Messmer is careful in his movements as he lays his body across the free space to your side. “I fear it is your presence and skills which have robbed her of her senses.”

“You flatter me. Perhaps I should invite her to my home, show her the other delights which laying with one of her own can bring. A feminine touch can be much more terrible than that of a god.”

Agreeing with a muted noise, the sound causes a twitch in Messmer’s lips as he observes your casual, fucked-out positioning. “Hmm, the appeal is not lost on me. Perhaps we shall both venture through to Castle Ennis before the next moon.”

Exhausted and overstimulated, you cannot help but perk up a little at the thought. It had been an age since you had considered your magics and the glintstone crafts which Rennala had so kindly guided you in and the thought of continuing those discussions with another learned teacher sparks joy in your heart.

Plus, you deeply suspected that Rellana had other skills which you had yet to experience and the thrill of having her soft hands on your heated skin once again fills you with an excitement that you supposed you would have to thank your lord for privately at a later time.

[neousfics]

Dead Boy Detective Fic Recs (Hurt/Comfort Edition)

All of the following fics are completed :) The lamps are going out by MagicAio1 Words: 9,755 Rating: T Summary: Evil spirits, vengeful spirits. At the time, he didn't yet have the words to explain what had happened to him –even though, without a frame of reference, he could still tell something was wrong– They formed when a ghost felt an awful injustice had befallen them, and few ghosts could claim to have been as wronged by everything as Edwin Payne.

He just hoped the boy from the attic wouldn't put two and two together.

Review: Vengeful Spirit!Edwin is an incredible idea that is beautifully executed in this fic. Edwin being convinced he's evil or tainted in some way because of the way he has been wronged makes for some fantastic angst, and Charles and Crystal loving him anyway makes for some equally fantastic comfort.

Still a Better Love Story by Vamillepudding Words: 18,000 Rating: T Summary: “That about did it,” Edwin says, patting himself down and straightening his bowtie. “Now, if you’re ready, I suggest we find a mirror and-“

“Did you just cough up a flower?” Charles interrupts. Flower, perhaps, is a slight exaggeration. It’s more like a petal, red and incredibly out of place here on the shore.

Edwin clears his throat, but this time no petals follow. “Certainly it’s nothing to worry about.”

Or: Edwin is suffering from a weird curse, but for some reason, he's refusing Charles' help. Charles is trying his best to fix it anyway, but Edwin is being oddly secretive about the whole thing.

Review: I'm a sucker for a good hanahaki AU, and Payneland is made for them. This fic really leans into Edwin not wanting Charles to suffer or feel pressured as a form of angst which works very well.

for my soul he made an offer (and to dust again i fell) by aletterinthenameofsanity Words: 37,687 Rating: M (CW: rape, blackmail, violence) Summary: Monty gets up on the interview stage and it doesn’t matter what the other tributes have to say, because Monty tells Caesar Flickerman that the boy he fell in love with is the very Mentor trying to save him from the Arena.

It’s a dangerous move, but it just might save Monty’s life in the Arena and his body post-Arena. It might just keep him out of the same deal that Esther made for Edwin.

A familiar hand touches Edwin’s wrist backstage. Charles’ hands gently pry Edwin’s fingernails away from the bloody crescents they are carving into his palms.

“It was the only way I could protect him,” Edwin says, trying to plead with Charles to understand, because Edwin has to do anything he can to protect just one of his tributes.

Charles gives him a small, sympathetic smile. “You could’ve told me.”

But Edwin twists his wrist slightly so that Charles isn’t touching him, because he knows where this is going even if Charles does not. He knows whose life lays on the line if this plan fails, and it’s not just Monty’s.

(Years ago, the President made Edwin kneel and told him that Charles’ life was forfeit if Edwin ever disobeyed. And he won't risk that, even if it means breaking both of their hearts.)

Review: One of my absolute favorite DBD fics to date. Hunger Games AUs are notoriously difficult to pull off, but this one knocks the ball out of the park. It focuses on Edwin's experience as District 10 victor and all the brutality that comes with being in the Capitol. This fic had me actually gasping and jumping about.

By Lantern's Light by babyseraphim Words: 13,620 Rating: T Summary: Edwin is terrified. He feels as though he is a wounded deer caught in a bear trap, simply waiting for the hunter to discover his misfortune. The room is dark enough that he cannot make out a single landmark, the deprivation of all sounds playing tricks on his panicked mind. He swears that he hears distant giggles, the sound of grotesque dolls laughing at his renewed torment, but no creature ever makes an appearance. A hysterical laugh threatens to spill past his own lips, accompanied by a sudden rush of tears. He closes his eyes and wills them away, steeling himself for whatever is to come.

The question is not whether Charles will come; the question is when. Until that question is answered, all Edwin can do is endure. --- A heartbreaking story of love and near loss told from three separate perspectives.

Review: Explores Edwin experiencing the effects of trauma and PTSD from his time in hell as well as his unwavering faith in Charles which makes for a beautifully bittersweet experience. Babyseraphim does a great job exploring the hurt/comfort that occurs on all sides of this story.

the taste in your mouth by greenaerie Words: 14,004 Rating: M (CW: non/con elements) Summary: An unexpected attack from Esther shocks the Dead Boy Detective Agency, taking Charles out of commission.

Edwin solves this the only way he can. A good detective does what they must, after all.

Review: This is one of the only fics I've found that explores the idea of Edwin taking the Cat Kings initial offer from a place of risk-assessment/desperation to save his friends, and I love it! I do wish it had a bit more angst w/ Edwin's experience / Charles reaction to it. However, the author does a great job w/ Edwin's characterization.

dulcet tones of broken bones by gremlininthemachine Words: 20,173 Rating: M (CW: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt) Summary: Object: cardboard shoe box, pilfered from Crystal's overflowing wardrobe; location: the London office, on top of their desk; box contents: several labeled cassette tapes enclosed in plastic cases, along with a handwritten note in perfect script; note contents: "Dead Boy Detective Agency - Recorded explanation for my unannounced absence is enclosed. Sincerely yours, Edwin Payne" | Or, the fic where Edwin no longer wants to exist and seeks to make that reality. Inspired by Thirteen Reasons Why, knowledge of series canon not required.

Review: More hurt than comfort, but in the best way possible. This rips your heart out, but it still leaves with a distinctly hopeful note which I highly appreciate.

the phantoms here will never have their fill by ahyperactivehero Words: 45,874 Rating: T Summary: Poltergeists are created when a ghost experiences extreme emotional distress. Poltergeists are notoriously hard to reign in, and they almost never gently move on. Neither Edwin nor Charles ever imagined it would happen to them.

Basically, five times where the Dead Boy Detective Agency dealt with the threat of a poltergeist.

XXX “Once you choose to go down the poltergeist route there is no coming back,” Edwin said. “And I will have no choice but to follow you.”

“You can’t do that mate,” Charles said. His voice had cleared up some, his form less wavy.

“Then do not go where I cannot follow,” Edwin said.

Review: Obsessed with how the ghost lore works in this fic. The author plays into the idea of how a ghosts emotions can affect there form and tackles the question of "How far is too far?" brilliantly. Great characterization!

The Case of the Lovesick Student by amurusk Words: 5,151 Rating: Unrated (CW: child abuse, implied SA) Summary: It's not unusual for Charles to bear the brunt of an attack during cases. Charles is the brawn, after all, and he’s thrived in that role in life and death. He’s a soldier, taking a beating and giving one back. It just feels right, keeping his loved ones safe from harm and trusting them to fix whatever mess they’re in. Not that he faces danger alone, they just think of the big picture while Charles handles the immediate threat. Edwin, Crystal, and Niko have all saved him back multiple times over.

But no one has ever physically stepped between him and pain, taken a hit for him.

Review: Charles finally getting to be the one who's defended is a fic premise that we need more of. I love getting a glimpse into Charles experience of wanting to be protected/vulnerable.

it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then by ethan_elliott Words: 3,658 Rating: T Summary: Ghosts could not feel pain. Or much of anything, really. Except in Hell. A place designed to cause eternal agony, and so levelled the playing field by making humans and supernatural entities equal in their perception. Edwin had been corporeal there, subject to hurt and cold, the hammer of a heart in his chest and the struggle of lungs for breath. It was the one place he felt everything.

Charles had rescued him from Hell the second time. So then why, as Edwin lay in Esther’s torture device helplessly watching Niko disappear from sight, could he feel everything?

Charles had rescued him from Hell the second time. Right?

—

Or, after Niko’s death, Charles has to rescue Edwin from Hell once more, but this time it’s all in Edwin’s mind.

Review: A great one-shot exploring a world where Edwin isn't sure if he really made it out of hell. I honestly wish this was longer because it was excellently written and the premise is awful /pos.

a kingdom never bound by piilu Words: 1,974 Rating: G Summary: “Fuck, Edwin,” Charles breathes. “You could’ve come got me, you know?” Edwin doesn’t know what to say to that. He would be fine, soon. Not really worth bothering anybody. He just shakes his head and curls up tighter. “You’re alright,” Charles says. He wraps an arm around him. Then his face changes, into something like determination, and he pushes Edwin’s head onto his shoulder. “You’re alright, mate.”

Review: Short and sweet fic about Edwin havin' a bit of a panic attack/sensory overload moment.

Cry With Joy At The Depth Of My Love by coloursflyaway Words: 18,028 Rating: T Summary: “Edwin?”, Crystal asks, and Edwin would say something snarky, maybe even something mean, but Charles is wrapped around him like he’ll never let go again, and there are more important matters at hand. “Crystal, what has happened here?”, he asks, and a few seconds later, their new psychic is standing in front of him, trousers splashed with the coffee she dropped, disbelief written across her face. “I was gone for a few hours and now Charles… and the whole building…” He’s not quite sure how to put it, most likely because he still doesn’t understand, and Crystal looks at him like he come back from the Cat King’s lair with an additional head. “Edwin”, she says, slowly, like she is still searching for the words, “what are you talking about? You’ve been gone for six weeks.”

____________

Edwin takes the Cat King up on his initial offer, so instead of a few hours, he is gone for six weeks. Charles isn't good at coping with it.

Review: Charles really goes through it in this one, so if that's what you're looking for than this will be quite fun. The author does a great job at infusing a sense of panic and despair into the story.

here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed by pinklemonades Words: 3,095 Rating: T Summary:

Edwin is in love with his best friend who doesn’t love him back, and the world has not ended. In some ways, he wishes it had.

Edwin deals with the pains of losing a friend while living through the consequences of falling in love with his best friend (aka a Hanahaki Disease post-canon fic).

Review: Very good, short hanahaki AU! Loved the characterization and angst w/ happy ending.

[goooofy-goooober1121]

This has been on my mind ever since I looked into Viktor's original lore.

So the scenario is, someone from Zaun (maybe Sky or reader or random intern they hired whatever) and Vik have a conversation where they suggest making like, hextech powered prosthetics. Or like, prosthetic lungs/organs to help people with lung blight. I've only ever seen 1 fic of Arcane Viktor just getting a prosthetic leg to replace his bad one and that always seemed like a great concept to me.

HI FIRST ASK!!!

Ooooh this is an interesting concept to me!!! I feel like it could be a great application of Hextech but I also think that the concept of amputation to replace a limb could be pretty invasive... an interesting convo to be had for sure!!

Any and all feedback is highly appreciated!!

I hope you like it :)

Broken-Winged Birds Cannot Fly

Tags: GN!Reader, no romance (platonic, though it can be read with romantic subtexts?), talks of disability, mentions of surgery and illness, Reader is a Doctor, childhood friend!Viktor, sassy Viktor, he might be a little OOC? I tried lol

WC: 1,433

The lab is quiet. The lights are low, the space illuminated mainly by the golden sunbeams shining through the large windows lining the wall. At his desk, Viktor sits, surrounded by metal parts and wires; the odd gadget and half-finished devices sit idly around his workspace, listening to the quiet scratching of his pen against his notebook. 

You had received a letter only a week ago about an ‘urgent matter’ he wished to discuss. As a physician overseeing operations in Zaun, you rarely had free time these days between tetanus shots and shimmer overdoses-- but for Viktor, the man you had grown up alongside, you were sure you could make time for him. 

He evidently had not heard you enter, too absorbed by his work to look up or react as the heavy door to the lab thuds close behind you. It’s only when you call his name-- a small, tentative “Viktor?” in hopes of not startling him-- does he raise his head. He turns, his tired eyes landing on you, and smiles though cracked, pale lips.

“Doctor,” he calls, an affectionate nickname he had bestowed upon you ever since you had treated your first patient. His thin hands grasp his crutch, and he strains; his legs wobble as he pulls himself up to his feet, as if his body is too heavy to carry itself. 

Wanting to save him the trouble of approaching you, you opt to cross the room to Viktor. He takes your hand, squeezing it genty before letting go. HIs skin is cold and effaced, a stark contrast to the warm fleshiness of your own. 

“I trust you had no trouble finding your way,” he says.

“None at all,” you answer, smiling slightly. You can’t help but inspect him, though subtly. He’s thinner than he was the last time the two of you had seen each other. Although you didn’t bring it up, he detected the concern in your gaze about as easily as a bird snatches a worm from the dirt.

If there is one thing Viktor despises, it is being pitied or worried over, and so his next words come quickly and abruptly. “Excellent. Come, there is much I want to show you.”

With his crutch clicking on the hard, dark floors of the lab, he motions for you to follow him to a nearby table, where a collection of devices lay. “I have been experimenting with medical technology,” he explains. “I would like the insights of a professional before I deem them adequate.”

“Oh-- well, sure,” you answer, eyes scanning the various pieces of technology laid out before you. “Anything you need, Viktor.”

“Thank you.” From the table, he retrieves a contraption. “Hextech has so much potential for medical applications. It would be a shame to fail to explore all possibilities.” 

Plated with thin blue metal, accented tastefully with golden thread, the device is reminiscent of a corset. Embedded in the center of the contraption, a shimmering cerulean pearl casts a soft glow upon the two of you. 

“For respiratory disorders,” he says. “It is meant to support the body’s breathing mechanisms to allow facilitated respiration for those with paralytic ailments. It expands and contracts, guiding the body in respiratory action.”

“Like an iron lung,” you note. “Just more liberating.”

“Precisely. Though, I am sure with some modifications, it could also be differentiated into a corrective device for spinal conditions,” answers Viktor, carefully setting the device back into place. His thin fingers enclose around a pair of tiny golden objects, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. “These, for auditory disorders. Simply place them in the ears and Hextech does the rest.”

“That’s amazing,” you say, staring in awe at the glimmering devices. 

Viktor’s chest puffs up with pride. He stands a little straighter-- the best he can, at least, while leaning so heavily on his cane. “They gave me a bit of trouble. Anatomy is not my strong suit,” he says, returning the hearing aids to their place, “which is why I am an inventor, not a physician.”

You huff out a laugh, coming to stand beside him. “I never understood how you could make a machine out of scraps but never remember what your finger bones are called.”

“It seems you took enough of that knowledge for the both of us.” He smiles at you, and in his weary eyes is a rare glimmer of genuine amusement. “Anatomical nomenclature is of no use to me. Why remember finger bones when my focus is on technology?”

His golden gaze turns to the final contraption. The purpose of this one is clear. It lays limply on the cool steel of his workbench, sleek and midnight blue, each plate gently lined with silver. 

“A leg,” comes Victor's voice, quiet and contemplative. “We have considered constructing prosthetic limbs for amputees.”

For a long moment, silence stretches on between the two of you. Even when you look away from the prosthetic, his gaze on it does not waver. His thick brows knit, his gaze downcast-- he’s thinking, as he always is, but there is a difference in the way he stares at the metallic leg. A lithe hand raises to his face, his thin fingers absently rubbing his chin.

After a moment, you decide to speak. “I can hear the gears turning in your head,” you begin, voice quiet. 

“My gears are very well-oiled, thank you. Perhaps you are hearing your own.”

“Viktor.”

He spares a glance in your direction, lips pressing together at the sight of your glare. He does not answer right away, as if organizing his words before they leave his mouth.

“I wonder, at times,” he starts slowly, carefully.

“About?”

“How it would be.” He nods his head towards the prosthetic. “What life would become if, by some means, I myself could utilize such technology for myself.”

You chew your lip in thought, looking him over. Growing up in Zaun, the two of you had seen all sorts of suffering. Illness tearing through the lives of your starving neighbors; injuries from the mines; noxious air strangling the life from innocent lungs. 

Now, gazing upon the man you had known since childhood, taking in the gauntness of his crooked figure, the darkness beneath his eyes, the paleness of his skin, you realize you had never expected to watch him become so frail. It was, perhaps, a childish idea; the light of invincibility, of youth, eternally out of reach, yet still so vigorously and tirelessly pursued, fantasized about and fawned over. A part of you had once believed that you could capture that light, deliver it to Viktor and yourself. You remembered his once glowing skin, the vibrancy of his amber eyes; neither of which to be found on who he is today.

“Would you undergo a surgery like that?” you ask. “To replace your leg?”

He does not answer.

“Viktor, an operation like that…” you place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a major surgery. A lot has to be accounted for, and it’s very--”

“--invasive,” he murmurs, shifting in place. “Yes, highly so. Amputation of a limb… it is quite the procedure.”

“And for someone with your constitution, I don’t know if it would be entirely safe to put you under, either, much less open you up to possible infections.” 

“Yet it does not stop me from dreaming.” his thin lips curl into a bitter smile. “It’s cruel, isn’t it? To be allowed to dream like this. I cannot begin to tell you how extensively I’ve thought of the possibilities, and how they have subsequently been laid to rest by reality.”

He steps away from you. Your hand falls back to your side. Viktor reaches out to the leg, tracing the coolness of the prosthetic.

“I cannot dream such things for myself,” he says. “No amount of metal and wire will solve my predicament, but that does not mean I will not dream for others. For Zaun.”

Your eyes flicker from his hands to his face, only to find his gaze already on you.

“I need you,” he says, “if you will have me. These prototypes are built from limited knowledge of the body and its inner machinations.. Your brilliance would be invaluable.”

“You want me to help you build them?”

“I would rather not deliver a deaf man a pair of faulty hearing aids. That would be cruel, hm?”

You chuckle halfheartedly. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then you will help me?” Viktor holds out a hand. “This is a dream I cannot achieve without you.”

You do not have to think before your fingers clasp around his hand.

[by-wronged-hands]

That ford fic was so jdjskdjds could you maybe do Ford overstimulating m!reader :000?

“Permission first, love”

Ford Pines x M! Reader

A/N: Thank you for reading, and of course I can. Enjoy!

TW: 18+, overstimulation

Ford had began ranting about quantum physics about an hour ago. And though you loved how excited he seemed, you grasped the smallest percentage of every single one of his words. He was an expert, after all.

“Now, to comprehend this, you need to know about what we call the Loop Quantum Gravity!” It seemed almost eternal, but you wouldn’t wish to break his heart. His passion for science, specifically physics, pushed him through every day.

Your head already hurt by this point, and the amount of equations Ford had tried to explain in under thirty minutes was for sure worsening it…Until he stopped. Stopped pacing around and babbling nonsensical (to you) phrases.

“It seems I have exceeded the limit. I am very sorry, love.” He said, shamefully. He was out of breath for how much he had talked. It was adorable to you.

“I was willing to keep going. It makes you look attractive.” You playfully added, before approaching him.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, before looking up at you. He opened his arms, receiving a warm embrace. He touched your back with his palm, bringing you closer. Rapidly, his lips were over yours.

As the kiss intensified, Ford took off your shirt…then unzipped your pants. Before you could realize, your thighs touched the cold surface of his desk. You lied down over it, he position himself in between your legs.

Wearing only underwear, he stared at your body with a lustful gaze. Today, Ford was wearing a simple white shirt and black tie.

You awaited for his touch, but instead, Ford began taking off his tie. Confused, you were surprised by his strong grip. He turned your body around, tying your wrists together against your back. You turned your head to look at him, you found only an irrational and impulsive stare.

“I have been indulging in physics more often, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to.” Ford spoke. “I could not seem to take my mind off of you. Off your body, your face.”

His rough, big hands traveled up and down your chest. He rubbed slightly against your nipples, now hard. Still facing the opposite direction, you could only twist your neck and stare at him. It was not enough.

He pressed his hips against you, edging you but by bit. You could feel his erection growing inside his pants, rubbing against your barely covered hole. You could hear his grunts, but after you let out a small moan, Ford pulled away. You were a bit confused, before he flipped you once more. Now , you faced him.

His face full of desire had changed, and it made you a bit fearful…but excited.

“Let’s do an experiment, shall we, love?” Asks Ford, putting his fingers around your underwear. He pulls it down rapidly, and your own erection is uncovered.

He began caressing your cock, from the base to the tip. His soft touch made you clench, letting out several sighs of pleasure. His fingers touching you were the most delightful thing you had ever experienced.

Ford kept on slightly touching your tip, toying cruelly with it. He saw each twitch of yours, he heard every beg of yours. He only smiled in satisfaction.

“Please, Ford.” You said to him, as he drove you mad bit by bit. He chuckled, and shook his head.

“I will do whatever I want with you,” he said, before approaching, going down on his knees, and this time licking your cock, “you are mine to enjoy.”

Ford sucked on your cock mercilessly, yet stopped as soon as he felt you were close.

“Ford, p-please!” You begged, though it was pointless. He adored the view. You, defenseless, with a wet tip and a need for pleasure.

“Oh, your attempts will all fail.” He said, as he kissed your length. “I cannot resist any longer, love.”

Ford continued this cycle. His tongue wrapped around you, and as you were close to reaching your climax, he would stop abruptly. He would wrap his hand around your cock, and put his thumb over your tip.

Again and again, you felt your body reach pure ecstasy and it would be taken away from you. You moaned his name, begged him to let you finish. Ford ignored your requests.

At some point, he stood up and with one hand choked you, with the other he masturbated you. You became a complete mess, Ford knew well your sensitive spots. He knew your body like the back of his hand, from top to bottom. Your most disgusting desires, he knew. And was definitely willing to fulfill them.

Suddenly, Ford took his hands away from you. He went to his own pants and pulled them down. You stared almost hypnotized at his body. His hips roughly hit yours, making you moan once more. He hurriedly took off his underwear, and fucked you brainless.

“Ask me for permission,” he whispered in your ear, “beg me again…”

Of course, you did as he said. And the more you groaned, the more you begged, the harder he got.

“Oh, god—” moaned Ford, with desire. When he felt his own legs weaken for the pleasure of your insides, he allowed you to finish alongside him.

He allowed his body weight down on you. You huffed in exhaustion, but wrapped your arms around his shoulders. You pulled Ford closer, and whispered sweet words of love to him.

He smiled from time to time, and it was enough for you.

[cupcakewebkinz]

hellooo you finally get to find out why i asked for shelly and vees outfit descriptions lol

(also a little sidenote i tend to hyperfixate super hard on aus / media in general that i think are cool for a little while and im pretty sure thats whats goin on here lol. when tisms collide /j)

OKAY SO UHHHH i had this idea like. a week ago atp? of like. what if the caretaker shanon versions of shelly and vee were actually in the game. and they had their own unique abilities and stuff

SO HERE THEY ARE :D (several sidenotes here- 1. i dont ever really do traditional art so some things look a little jank lol, and 2. i meant to finish these a couple days ago but it took a weirdly long time for me to get the sticky notes lol. OKOK HERES THE ART-)

OK SO THERES A LOT GOING ON HERE !! first off i based these two (mostly) off the early au events, mostly cuz the ideas i had for their abilities are generally referencing that era, so i thought itd be fitting

okay i. i wanna explain all the references in these cuz i think its really neat..

i dont think vees active ability needs explaining lol but her passive is inspired by her whole plot of learning to let herself explore the world more (more specifically that one fic where she finds the guitar, its where the name comes from)

👆 this is also what her trinkets from !! its shanons old guitar !!

"space nerd" skin is referencing the outfit post and how shes, well, a space nerd. "anxious proposal" is referencing the fic where vee proposes, and "rain walk" is referencing, well, their walk in the rain from the very beginning. (ykw the skins are kinda self explanatory too lol)

this wasnt intentional when i was picking which outfits to use for the skins, but i think they also contribute to the general theme of vee coming out of her shell here- new interests she was never supposed to have, love she wasnt supposed to feel, and a world she was never supposed to experience for herself. idk i think its neat :]c fuck you delilah

okay shellys abilities are something im also rlly proud of- her active is based on the og post and how much of a spectacle shelly was, and then how everyone chilled tf out after a while

i also rlly wanted to emphasize how much of a team player she is, and how much she does for her friends. her active isnt rlly great for distracting- its main purpose is to pull twisteds off of someone if theyre about to die/lose health, and her passive is also mainly to help out her teammates.

her trinket is also from the fic where vee finds the guitar! i knew i wanted it to be a dino plushie of some sort (to emphasize the previous pint, but also to add in her love of sewing) and i eventually decided itd be fitting to make it the little pterodactyl she made for vee in that fic :]

"surprise party" skin is from the birthday fic, "mama's girl" is from the mothers day fic (fun fact i used that pose so i didnt have to design the sweater LOL), and "expert digger" is from the outfit post, again all pretty self explanetory

and i think thats it !! just wanted to share this little idea, hope you have a great rest of your day/night/whatever ^^

DUDE I WENT WET BEAST MODE AND SCREAMED LIKE A BANSHEE THEN STARTED COUGHING LIKE MAD AND I THINK I LOST MY VOICE LOL

THIS IS LIKE- SO FUCKING COOL OH MY GOD-

I LOVE HOW MUCH OF SHANON IS IMPRINTED ON THESE TWO TOO- LIKE HER GUITAR- THE VALIDATION THEY BOTH FEEL FROM HER GENUINELY CARING- VEES FUCKING ABILITY OH MY GOLF CARTS I'M SPIRALLING-

(In the best way ofc)

MAMA'S BABY GIRL AWWGHGHGHGH-

SHE IS MAMA'S GIRL OHHHH MY GOOOOOOD

I'M SHAKING SO HARD SOMEONE HOLD ME

PLEASE

THE WAY THE EVERYTHING WORKS AND FITS THEM BOTH SO WELL

THE SMALL DETAILS LIKE THE HEART LOCKET ON SHELLY AND GLISTEN'S BOW ON VEE-

THEIR RINGS-

THE REFERENCES TO THINGS I DIDN'T EVEN THINK PEOPLE NOTICED-

I'M GOING TO EXPLODE I CANNOT EXPRESS HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS OH MY GOLFBALLS

DUDE THIS IS SICK I NEVER THOUGHT

I

I AM SPEECHLESS I NEVER THOUGHT I'D EVER INSPIRE ANYTHING LIKE THIS-

NO AMOUNT OF WORDS COULD EXPRESS HOW GRATEFUL I AM OH MY WORMS, I LOVE THIS SO MUCH, I LOVE ALL THE DETAILS AND I LOVE JUST- EVERYTHING- OUGH I'M SO FERAL

THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER MAN THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH I'M SERIOUSLY SHAKING FROM HOW FLATTERED I AM SOMEONE WOULD MAKE SOMETHING LIKE THIS FOR ME-

OH MY BABIESSSSS

I'M SO FERAL RN I'M GOING TO GO ZOOMIES UNTIL I EXPLODE!!! /pos

[ronearoundblindly]

Steve Rogers, number 4, a kiss where it hurts (imagine him making it stop hurting) xxx

*no pairing listed but could work in Fools Rush In, It Had To Be You, Autumn Is Healing, Threadbare, or as a stand alone. While those series do specify female readers, this is written gender neutral. He calls you 'sweetheart' one time.

A Dark Day and A Bright Night, one of my Valentine's Fics of 2024

Warning only for description of a bad mental health time. (I know not everyone experiences this in the same way, but I tried to cover the gist and focus on Steve's comfort of you.) Otherwise, just sweet, caring fluff! WC 1781

There are invisible barriers everywhere, and they stop no one but you.

No one else can hear the muddled whispers of what else you could have done, what more you should have accomplished, how disappointing it is that anything took so long.

You can’t do any better. You can’t go any farther. There’s a line in the sand no one can see. Sometimes, no one can see you.

Nothing matches up. Work fast-forwards around you in chaos while you slog through, treading water with all the energy of someone who has been out at sea alone for days and days. You grow so tired.

There are moments you power through, mind racing to gain lost ground on an endless, looped track. You grow so tired, and it’s never just one thing. It’s water and sand and nothing all at once, vast forces beyond your control.

What else? What more? Why so long?

There are barriers no one else can see, and it’s not their fault because it doesn’t match up. We move through life at different paces. We experience different struggles. We are stopped by different forces.

“How was work?” Steve asks, a chipper smile on his face as he places dinner in front of you.

“Fine.” There are no other words.

“Really? Seems the project is right on schedule, thanks to you.”

You see him pause before he takes his first bite, and rush to pick up your fork, knowing it’s best to participate, knowing the barriers may be invisible but effort is not.

He eats his mouthful, and you stare.

Dinner isn’t a line in the sand, but it feels like one, another interaction you’ll be disappointing in, another fear you can’t explain.

“Not my best work, but it got done,” you manage, mechanically feeding yourself, showing the effort, making a show of the effort. “How was your day?”

It’s a flat question. The response is muddled by water and wind and doubt.

Why can’t you focus? Why can’t you do better for him? Why does he stay?

Steve can’t see any of it. He can’t get to you because there’s no one place you’re trapped in.

You do the dishes. You watch TV. You start your bedtime ritual, and you’ve participated as little—and as much—as possible because treading water is lonely. You grow so tired.

Tomorrow could be better. You can do better tomorrow. It’ll take effort.

Tomorrow you’ll work harder and you’ll be less afraid. But that’s what you thought the last time you were stuck. That’s what you think each time you find a line in the sand.

You stare at your reflection, still treading, still scared, still misaligned.

“Did you hear me?” Steve loosely holds you with his palm on your hip. Standing behind you, face sullen in the mirror, he asks where you’re hurting.

To Steve, there has to be a solution. Each mission must have a goal.

You spit, rinse, and put your toothbrush in the holder.

“Just tired.” That’s the sand he cannot see.

“Seems like more than ‘just tired,’” he huffs, unsatisfied, and turns you toward him. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing you can help with.” That’s the water he cannot navigate.

You’re on your own.

He smirks humorlessly. “That’s never stopped me before.”

But you don’t have the words. All that comes out is “my head.”

“Headache?” He reaches for the medicine cabinet. “You need some—“

You shake your physically fine skull. “No. It’s not a headache.”

Steve’s face…changes in a way you’ve never seen before. You expected confusion, perhaps pity, but this is something all-together reminiscent. His eyes dart around the bathroom like he’s taking inventory, and for the first time today you aren’t the most distracted person in the room.

Then he returns to you.

“I think I’d like a nice bath. Will you join me?”

He sets it all up, using the best smelling bubbles, setting out the softest towels, and inviting you back into the little spa he created by handing you a lovely chocolate.

When you try to refuse because you’ve already brushed your teeth, he replies, “live dangerously,” and pops a bonbon for himself.

Hopefully, it is dark enough for Steve to miss the tears in your eyes.

He lets you settle in the water against him, playing by splashing warmth over the parts not submerged. He kisses your shoulders and neck, the back of your head. Steve keeps himself attached by the lips, breathing you in but feeling so far away. Your mind wanders to nowhere, thinking nothing.

“Feels good—I mean, bett—feels okay, yeah?”

He suds up his hands and washes a bit of you, but your muscles are tight and curled.

You’re tucked into yourself, small as can be.

“Can you try to relax for me, sweetheart? Can you let yourself float?”

The tub works for a guy Steve’s size. There’s a little space but not enough to stretch out completely.

The tension in your body is slow to release. You manage to let your arms, knees, and feet peak through the bubble clouds.

Steve nudges, “and your neck?”

You didn’t realize you were holding it up.

There is infinite space to lay flat in your endless sea. Floating offers a respite, a view of the sky, the same sky blanketing your beach.

Invisible barriers at least spare the scenery.

You and Steve watch the fragrant foam burst for a while. It takes you much longer to truly relax back into Steve. The quiet of the bath drowns you with the noise in your head.

What else? What more? Why so slow?

It’s never just one thing. It is all things, all at once, and nothing at all. All of the elements to survival and understanding are there if you just focus your attention, if you just put in the effort, but you are so tired.

Steve wraps you in his arms to press you deeper into his chest.

“Sometimes my ma would burn dinner,” he starts quietly, voice rough from holding back all his questions you can’t answer, “and we would scramble around, combing the cupboards. We’d make the oddest meals out of bits and bobs. Maybe half of it, we should’a never touched, but we did what we had to. Ya know what? Those were some of the best times. We did the best we could with what we had—sometimes less—and that’s what made her so amazing. On what she probably considered her worst days,” Steve kisses behind your ear, “I admired her the most. Formed some of the best memories.”

“Let me guess. Because she smiled the whole way through?”

“Nah,” he muses, chuckling enough to shake you in the water, “she threw a pan once. Loosened the door of the stove she slammed it shut so hard. She cried usually until we were sat down eating. Always tried to give me the most food because I was so small… 

“I made it a game. I only took a bite if she did. Win-win.” 

He stays quiet for a beat, assured you’re hearing him.

“You’re not ruining anything by crying,” he says solidly, almost loud in the confines of the bathroom. “Good things can still happen. You still did good today.”

He continues. He details little things he admires about you; how hard you work for yourself, for him, he notices all that. He wants you to see what he sees.

There’s no barrier stopping him.

The water turns tepid, and Steve gets out first to ready a towel for you. There’s a difference between him treating you like a china doll and his doll. His doll is not breakable. He isn’t gentle because you are fragile; he does it to preserve you for the next day, and the next. Steve refuses to place any more burden on you than already falls.

He’s right there, strong, noble, and determined with forces working against him.

He’s scared and he doesn’t understand. He can’t fight. He has to scramble to catch up, to change plans, to make a meal out of nothing, to turn nothing into something. He doesn’t understand why he’s in a different sea, or why he can’t get to you standing on the same damn beach. His hand is right there on the barrier, but his shouts are muddled.

It’s not fair, and it never will be.

He physically lifts you up, wrapped in a plush bath sheet, his hug strong enough to thump against that clear wall that springs from your line in the sand.

That’s when you realize the barrier isn’t impenetrable. You can still see the scenery. You can still hear muddled sounds.

Some of his voice gets through. Sunlight and warmth get through. The water still buoys you up.

If there are directions to go, there are paths to take.

If there are ways in, there are ways out. 

There are invisible barriers everywhere, but they don’t stop Steve from being there for you.

One more chocolate. One more brush of your teeth. You trade the fluffy wrap of a towel with the cozy wrap of a t-shirt, and he makes sure you’re comfortable.

A simple goodnight kiss alone might tip you over into exhausted euphoria, but Steve is not that kind of simple.

He props himself up on an elbow and rolls you onto your back.

Kissing your right temple, he whispers, “I love you.” Kissing your left temple, he confesses, “I love your voice,” the peak of your forehead, “I love your spirit,” between your eyebrows, just above one ear, and the other.

“Miss you when I’m not here. Miss you when you’re not here. I miss you even in my dreams.”

Then, and only then, do you get that simple kiss goodnight. His soft lips melding to yours for a long, soothing moment before you two drift off to sleep.

When you dream of a beach and an ocean and nothing at all, you miss him, too. You remember his presence, and the truth becomes as clear as the sky above.

There are pieces of you to love. You are a loved thing. You are light and heat and sound that can get through, even when misaligned, even when you don’t match up, even when not in the same sea.

Steve’s love is invisible, but you know it’s there. It’s not a limit to fear. It’s not a barrier to turn away from. His love is not an obstacle you want to get past.

Not every invisible force is bad.

Sometimes, barriers slow you down, let you listen, make you rest, and help you float.

There are barriers everywhere, but nothing between you and Steve.

Ransom Drysdale and a kiss out of spite ⬅️ ➡️ Ari Levinson and a kiss out of envy

A/N: oof. *walks away crying* I'm fine. It's fine.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @im-a-slut-for-fluff @fangirl-swagg @georgeweaslysgirl @austynparksandpizza  @claireelizabeth85 @jamneuromain @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @awkwardgiraffe726 @rach2602 @royalwritersoftheuniverses @rogersbarber

[dpimagines]

Hot Date (Blind Date pt. 2)

First and foremost, I want to thank everyone for the amazing show of support for Blind Date! I've never received so much support and appreciation for a fic, EVER! Words cannot express how grateful I am.

SYNOPSIS: Your second date with Wade went well, so now it's time for the third. (And what could be considered the fourth.)

WARNINGS: Smut, reader has been cheated on in the past, everything else is standard Deadpool antics.

Your second date went just as well as the first — most of the words you asked for him to provide were swear words, hilariously enough. It’s not that you’ve never heard them before, though. You lose words if you haven’t heard them in a while, not to mention how loudly curses are often said. 

Now, it’s time for date number three, known in popular culture as the make-or-break date: you’ll agree (or disagree) to be exclusive, it’s socially acceptable to start having sex, all that fun (terrifying) stuff. You’ve had some casual coffee and lunch hangouts between your second date and now, but tonight will be your third official date.  

He doesn’t have any expectations, of course. He could tell from what you said on the first date that you’ve been hurt in the past.

 Who could bring themselves to hurt you? Wade thinks as he daydreams about your shy smile, your variety of laughters to offer him, your soft cardigans and sweaters, the silly faces you make at babies in public, and the sharp glares you give strangers when they stare at him for too long (oh, and the ones he gives them when he catches them staring at you.) 

He even finds his thoughts wandering to the way you speak to him — sure, you can’t pick the tones of the words, but your choice of them is all yours. You’re kind, clever, and honest in your words, in everything you do. 

Oh, shit, he realizes, his stomach dropping. I’m in love. 

You’d insisted on planning your date this time around, since he’d planned the previous two. You told him you’d be having a picnic and to make sure he dressed warm since fall is on its way and the nights are growing colder. He assured you that his healing factor made him run hot, but you insisted that he at least bring a jacket. 

He texts you, confirming you’re still on for dinner. You reply positively, but reading your text only has him missing your eclectic voice, or, rather, voices. Over the past few weeks, more and more of your words have been taken from him, but he still loves to hear the random country or British accent, the occasional shout… 

Your suggestive exclamations have completely faded from your vocabulary, interestingly enough. Wade may be softening up a little due to his relationship with you, but his more perverted side can’t help but wonder if it’s because you’ve started to prefer your imagination over what videos on the internet have to offer. Do you think about him? He definitely thinks about you, especially his hypothesis on the way you’d sound. Low, masculine grunts shifting to high-pitched, over the top whines and back, all for him.

Someone smacks him upside the head. 

“You’re daydreaming again. Why don’t you just go see her? She’s just as sickeningly obsessed with you,” Ellie complains, coming around the couch and plunking down on the opposite end. 

“Really?” he wonders. You’re super nice, sure, and you’ve agreed to continue seeing him despite, well, everything about him, but…

She rolls her eyes, smacking her gum. 

“Dude, yes. It’s annoying. She’s working right now, but I bet she’d appreciate the company. You remember where her office is, don’t you?”

Wade nods, getting up and taking off towards it. He has to keep himself from running, he’s so giddy. 

He knocks on your office door. 

“Just a minute,” you reply from inside. 

You open it, smiling once you realize who’s come to visit. 

“Hi, Wade,” you greet him. 

“Who’s that?” he asks. The voice with which you said his name is entirely unfamiliar. 

“Oh, I’ve been experimenting with AI voices,” you explain. “I figured it’d be WEIRD for you to keep hearing Ellie and Yukio say your name when it’s me.”

“A little weird, yeah, but it doesn’t bother me too much.”

You turn a little pink, your smile widening awkwardly. 

“Oh, you meant-! Yeah, no, that’d be kind of uncomfortable. I appreciate the effort. Sorry to bug you like this, I- Well, speaking of Ellie, she caught me daydreaming about you and told me I should just come see you.”

“Remind me to thank her later,” you reply. “It’s nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, I mean, of course it is, or I wouldn’t have come, well, um…” He’s gotten better about talking around you, but he still trips all over his words. “Yeah. What are you up to?”

“I’ve actually had some down time today, so I’ve been working on-” You stop, grimacing as your happy blush deepens to an embarrassed one. You’ve lost the words. 

“Wanna show me?” he asks, grateful for the excuse to learn more about what you do. You nod, leading him to your desk. You sit down in the office chair and roll over, leaving him room to stand beside you. He looks back and forth between your monitors – on the one off to the side, a video of one of the Xavier’s School classrooms with subtitles by you; on the center monitor, a document with notes and practice questions. 

“A study guide,” he realizes, reading the title of the document. 

“Yes, a study guide,” you repeat. “Thank you. I noticed a lot of the students struggle when school starts up again, so I thought I’d take the time to put one together for the classes that don’t already have one.”

“That’s so awesome! Seems like you’re pretty busy, though. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree. 

And later, you do. Wade wanders around the courtyard looking for you, finding you sitting on a blanket with electric tealights spread all over it. The sun is just barely starting to set, but the extra light is nice nonetheless, not to mention how adorably romantic it all is. 

He jogs over to you, sitting next to you and finally taking in what you’ve put together. It has to be every kind of cheese known to mankind, like, eight different kinds of deli meat, and an insane amount of Club crackers, not to mention the strands of juicy green grapes curled in the corners, avocado slices, and even a pomegranate! 

“I’m sorry if it’s a bit much,” you tell him. “I was inspired by our conversation the other day about charcuterie boards and how we wish we could just eat them as meals. I also remembered what you said about your healing factor and how hungry it makes you.”

“No, no, this is perfect,” he breathes. No one’s ever done something so nice for him before. “Uh, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

Your face goes pale, eyes widening. You’re bracing yourself for something, but what? Oh, no. You think this is going in the exact opposite direction from where it is. 

“No, it’s good, I mean, maybe. I just wanted to know if you were cool with the idea of us being exclusive. Y’know, not seeing other people? Going steady?” His elaborations get weaker as you stare at him, still wide-eyed. You lips part, and you…

You cackle wildly, gasping for air. You try to stifle it, holding onto his shoulder as the laughter completely overtakes you. Is the idea of being with him so humorous to you?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say once your hysterics wind down. “Wade, do you really think I’d be seeing anyone else?”

“Well, you’re very pretty… And nice… And funny…” he explains. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Well, one: I really like you. I’ve never felt so strongly about someone before. Two: you are the only one interested in me.”

“I just can’t believe that. Either thing,” he replies. 

“You better believe it, because my answer is yes, Wade, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Awesome, that’s… Awesome. Cool,” he stumbles over his words. He wants to say more, but you’re smiling so widely that he’s concerned for your cheek muscles. You’re even more beautiful to him when you’re happy.  It puts a lump in his throat. How can you possibly be interested in him? You’re not just devastatingly beautiful, you’re a good person. He tries to be, but he feels like the scum of the earth next to you. 

“I’m starving, let’s eat!” you playfully scold him, gesturing to the board. He takes in the platter once more, and finds his eyes watering at the amount of thought you must’ve put into this. “Well, you can’t eat with that thing on. Come on, it’s just us, and…” You trail off.

“Need help?” he offers. You shake your head. 

“Just feeling shy,” you admit. 

“No need to be shy around me, I’ve seen and heard it all,” he assures you. 

“I guess that’s part of the reason why. I can’t say the same,” you reply, your cheeks turning a little pink as your smile becomes sheepish. 

Wade finally takes his mask off, figuring it’s an equivalent exchange for your show of vulnerability. You grin, scooping some brie onto a cracker before adding a chunk of turkey and passing it to him. He gratefully accepts it, pulling you closer to him and pressing a kiss to your temple. He leaves his arm around you, and you adjust your posture, getting comfortable in your place by his side. You put together a cracker of your own. 

The two of you go on like that for a while, creating combinations of cheese and meat on crackers, some bordering on sacrilege, before he finally finds his words again. He always seems to be at a loss for words when faced with you. 

“I don’t mind, y’know,” he starts. “I mean, that you haven’t been in a lot of relationships and all that entrails. Sorry, I meant entails. I usually talk more about entrails.”

You giggle. 

“Are you sure? I just don’t want you to be bored,” you reply. “You’ve had a very exciting life so far. I like the simple things… Like picnics at sunset.”

“I’m learning to appreciate them a lot more. Don’t get me wrong, there’s definitely going to come a day when I drag you onto a beach vacation, or to an even swankier restaurant than De Luca, or whatever… But I like this, too. I like it a lot.” And I love you, he thinks. It’s way too soon to be saying something like that, isn’t it? “Besides, exciting doesn’t always mean fun. When we’re together, I have fun.”

“Me, too,” you agree bashfully. “What I was wanting to say before was that I think you’re beautiful. I like your face and your hands.”

“Kinda specific,” he remarks, trying to avoid the compliment. 

“They’re all I’ve seen. Well, other than your voice. I like that, too.”

“It sounds better coming from you,” he deflects once more, but you don’t fight him this time, instead blushing. “I like your voice. I know you don’t feel like it’s yours, but it is to me. The way you speak tells part of your story, just like an accent does.” He’s tempted to admit hearing your words in his voice satisfies his possessive streak, but despite how cute you are when you’re nervous, he doesn’t want to frighten you.

When you don’t respond, he’s worried he’s somehow done it anyway. He looks up from the platter to see your hand clamped over your mouth, a tear rolling down your cheek. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m so-”

You shake your head fervently. 

“That’s the nicest thing someone’s ever said to me about my voice,” you clarify, sniffling as you awkwardly chuckle, trying to laugh it off. “I’m sorry for getting emotional.”

“Never be sorry for that,” he insists, squeezing you closer to him. “The only thing I dislike about what you just said is that no one’s ever said something so nice to you about one of the things that makes you… You. I love you, so that really bothers me.”

Your mouth falls open, and once he realizes what he said, he wants to stick his foot in his. 

“I’m-”

“I love you, too,” you tell him. It’s all in his voice. 

Wade can’t help but kiss you. When it comes to you, he normally tries to be a gentleman and ask first, but the adoration in your eyes, the red tint to your cheeks, the hint of a smile on your parted lips… It’s all too much. You kiss him back just as eagerly, your lips moving against each other until you’re on your back with him slotted between your legs. You cling to him for dear life, your hands clutching his hoodie like if you let go he’ll float away. 

He can’t believe how good your body feels against his, his hands laced in your hair as your chests press together like your hearts are trying to touch each other. 

The two of you break for air, both with awestruck smiles and flushed faces. 

“Do you… Want some help with that?” you ask, face turning redder. He scrambles to sit up, suddenly aware of his pre-dick-ament. You sit up, too, though much more gracefully.

“Have you ever..? Sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable. I just want to do right by you.”

“Fair enough… I have, but only once. It didn’t go well. After that, it was just-” You pause, but he doesn’t offer to help this time, not wanting to rush you. You blow air out of your mouth. “Until I gained some self-respect and broke up with him.”

His jaw drops.

“Well, that’s not entirely true. He cheated on me and then I dumped him.” 

“Someone cheated on you?! I guess what they say is true, then – it doesn’t matter how gorgeous you are or what all you do for somebody, if they’re a cheating piece of shit, they’re a cheating piece of shit.”

Your smile is bittersweet as you respond: 

“At least I know I’m good at-” You blow air out of your mouth again. “Even if I don’t have practice with other things.”

“I believe you, but I’m not taking you up on it this time around. First time’s definitely going to be all about you. You deserve it,” Wade informs you. “And, uh, I think I want to wait a little longer before that,” he adds, surprising even himself. “Not that you’re not totally hot – I really like you and Little Wade does, too, but…”

“You don’t have to give me a reason. We should wait until we’re both ready,” you assure him, putting a comforting hand on his knee. He kisses you again, more chastely this time. 

“Thanks,” he says.

“I’d like some advanced notice, anyways, so I can make sure I’m adequately stocked,” you reply– flirtatiously, but in an intentionally goofy way based on the way your eyebrows waggle –tapping on your neck in the general area of your vocal cords. He can’t help but laugh at that, and you join in, making his volume double. 

“Don’t worry about that. I mean, if it’d make you more comfortable, go for it, but… I don’t need you to do that, seriously,” he insists. 

“Well, I’d rather not wail just because you kissed my neck and that’s the closest thing I have to an appropriate sound.” 

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “Now, let’s polish off the rest of this charcuterie board.”

“I can’t eat another bite. Have at it, I’ll just cuddle with you if that’s okay.”

“More than,” he assures you. You lean on his shoulder as he finishes it off. He babbles throughout, but eventually your lack of response becomes concerning. 

Wade turns his head to find that you’ve fallen asleep. He’d sit perfectly still all night just to make sure that you weren’t disturbed, but you had a point earlier. It’s pretty chilly, you could get sick if you slept out here without anything but your jeans and sweater to keep you warm. 

“Y/N,” he hums, stroking your face. You stir, face scrunching in distaste for being awoken. He giggles. “It’s time to head back in, cutie.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” you groggily grumble, though your tone doesn’t reflect that, reaching for the basket as you sit up. 

“I got it,” he says, gently batting your hand away. “Go on up to your room, I’ll meet you there once I’ve got this picked up.”

“Are you sure?” you ask. 

“Yeah, hon, I’ve got it.”

You get up from the blanket, ambling back to the house sleepily. Wade tosses the grape stems to the treeline hoping some bird or something will enjoy it before he pushes the board off of your picnic blanket. He folds said blanket, tucking it into its matching basket. He carries both the board and the basket back to the house, eventually catching up with you due to your slow pace. 

You open your door, and he follows you in. 

“Where do you want them?” he asks, looking around. Your room is cluttered, but not necessarily dirty or messy, just filled with things: pictures, curios, crystals, dried flowers… Pretty things. Fitting, he supposes, because it’s your room. 

“Where ever is fine. I’ll deal with it in the morning,” you answer. “Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for dinner, it was great.”

“You don’t have to go. Just because we’re not sleeping together doesn’t mean we can’t sleep together,” you offer. “It’s late.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” he says, kicking himself for giving you an out and appreciating himself for it at the same time. 

“Very sure,” you assure him. “I have some- Some tee shirts a man can wear.”

“Men’s?” he offers. You nod gratefully. 

“It’s what I usually wear to bed,” you explain, tossing him one before pulling another out of your dresser, shucking your pants and taking off your sweater while still turned around. Wade yelps, turning around himself. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” you remind him. He swiftly gets into the tee shirt you offered him, feeling the heat in his cheeks. Even your back is pretty, goddamn it. 

“Haven’t seen you,” he says as he turns around, eyes still downcast as he joins you under the covers. 

“I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal for you, I’m sorry.” 

“Didn’t you hear me earlier when I said I love you?” he half-jokes. 

“Yeah, I did, which is why I’m insisting on cuddling,” you declare. “I love you, too, and I want cuddles in exchange for it.”

“Is that so? I like sleepy you. She’s demanding, I’m into it.”

“Oh!” you squeak. “Not too demanding, I hope.”

“Not even a little,” he assures you, pulling you into his arms. 

It’s the easiest time he’s had falling asleep in a long time. Possibly ever. 

When he wakes, you’re still beside him, but you hover, propped on your arm as you gaze at him with downright eerie fascination. 

“Your scars move,” you say. “I didn’t notice it before, but it’s faster when you’re sleeping.” 

“Yeah, part of the whole cancer constantly fighting itself thing,” he mumbles, sheepish under your scrutiny, no matter how gentle it is. The next thing he’s hyper-aware of is the pain in his groin. 

You follow his gaze. 

“You weren’t exaggerating,” you remark, a smug, pleased look on your face. “Are you sure you don’t want any help with that? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“How about tonight?” he offers. This is the second time you’ve offered yourself to him, so he doesn’t want to turn you down. It’s not that he feels pressured, though. Rather, he’s coming to terms with the fact that you really want him like that – not even just that you’re attracted to him, but you trust him that much despite being hurt so badly before in what was clearly a long-term relationship, maybe even your only one. “Is that enough notice?”

“Plenty. It’s a weekend, so I have all day to listen to-”

“Don’t wear yourself or your vibrator out,” Wade cuts you off, excited to inform you: “I happen to think of those as teammates, not competition.”

You smile, blushing. 

“Understood.”

“Is it alright if I go ahead and head out? I’m supposed to meet Logan and Laura for breakfast.”

“Of course. What time do you want to meet up later?”

“Do you want to get dinner first?”

“Shit. I’m supposed to have dinner with Ellie and Yukio, Yukio’s dads are in town and- Well, I guess that means I don’t have all day. How about seven, to give me time?”

“Sure, but-”

“I know. I want to, it’ll make me feel better.”

“If you insist. See you later, cutie.”

“Later,” you echo. 

Later rolls around and you have your headphones on. 

“Fuck me harder,” the voice actress whines. 

“Fuck me harder,” you echo, biting your lip at how illicit it sounds. Hopefully he likes it. You practice the little moans and gasps you’ve heard, making sure they sound right and aren’t too different from each other. 

There’s a knock at the door. Surely it’s him. You stop the audioporn track, setting your headphones and phone aside. You peek under your skirt at the black lace-trimmed panties you’re wearing. You don’t have much red in your underwear collection, so hopefully he’s happy with the mismatched set you’re wearing, your previously-mentioned black bottoms with a red bralette. 

You answer the door. 

“Wade,” you say, unable to hold back the grin on your face. He’s quickly become your favorite person with his outrageous sense of humor, his constant stream of new words for you to say– one of your favorites is chucklefuck, you even repeat it to yourself when you’re alone just to make sure you don’t lose it –his textured skin, his radiant smile, and… Oh, crap, he’s been talking, hasn’t he?

“I’m sorry, I got lost in thought. What were you saying?” you ask, cringing at yourself. 

“I was just saying that if you’re starting to psych yourself out, we don’t have to do this. Guessing I was right.”

“Not at all. I really want you,” the last bit comes out as a moan, and you remember the exact context in which you heard it. Maybe Brat Begs for Her Master’s Cock wasn’t a good decision, it was especially wordy – you’re probably going to have to sort that out of your vocabulary for the next week. You just wanted to make sure there was enough kink in your repertoire – Wade’s reputation precedes him. 

“Well, if you’re sure… Let’s get to it, I guess.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, concerned. He nods, and you pull him into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. “It’s been a while, how exactly do we get started?”

“Hm, a little something like this,” he hums fondly before pressing his lips to yours. You love the way he kisses, it’s so overpowering that it feels like nothing else exists, just him and you. You melt in his hands, needy little whimpers forcing their way out of you as they caress your jaw before wandering down to your waist, a few teasing, curious touches along the way driving you wild. 

His lips trail down to your neck and you gasp as his tongue swirls against your skin. 

“Not too long,” you warn him, the last word in breathless excitement.  

“Of course,” he assures you. “Can’t have a few hickeys ruining your reputation.”

You nod, and he places his next kiss in the curve between your neck and shoulder. He carefully introduces his teeth to the equation and your knees almost give out as a high-pitched whine leaves your lips. You clutch his back for purchase, and he leads you backwards into the bed, the two of you laying there together like you were yesterday evening. He’s right there between your legs and you can feel his excitement growing as you paw at him, needing to be even closer than you already are. 

He unbuttons one button of your blouse before looking to you for permission to continue. 

“Yes,” you agree, and despite the tone itself being over-the-top, he only smiles as he reveals your body to him. 

“Red,” he murmurs. “Just for me?”

“Just for you,” you concur, only the last word being a moan due to his interference. “You were supposed to let me say that,” you half-heartedly complain. He chuckles. 

“I kinda like it more when it’s in my voice. Reminds me that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you agree. “I’m all yours.”

“You spoil me,” he replies fondly before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your breast. He takes his time, not even pushing one of the thin cups aside until you’re whining and rocking against him. He flicks his tongue against your nipple and the sensation sends sparks through you. You arch into his mouth with the same high-pitched moan as before. He chuckles, switching to the other. 

You’re already shaking and you have no doubt that you’re embarrassingly wet. Hell, even last night’s makeout session, which hardly qualified as one, left your underwear damp. He urges you up, helping you out of your shirt. He goes to take off your bra, but you stop him. 

“You wanna stop?” he asks, his hand quickly making its way to cup your face comfortingly. 

You shake your head, nudging him off of you so you can take off your skirt. 

“Just for me?” he asks again, looking pleasantly surprised. 

“Just for you,” you repeat. 

“You’re so thoughtful. It’s one of the things I love most about you,” he informs you. 

“You can take it off now. Or them, whatever you choose.”

He snickers. 

“Let’s start with the bra for now,” he decides, reaching behind you for the clasp. He fumbles around, looking for it for a bit until you’re both laughing. You pull the bralette over your head for him. It then hits you then that you’re mostly naked and he’s mostly clothed. You pout, batting your eyelashes as you look him up and down. 

He gets the message and huffs out another laugh, getting off the bed to take off his shirt and jeans. 

Holy fuck, he’s ripped. If you weren’t bright red before, you are now. You should’ve expected it, what with his metabolism and super-strength and all that, but… Wow! 

“That bad, huh? I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“No,” you quickly disagree. “You look amazing.”

“You, too,” he replies, his eyes lighting up at the erotic tone of your last spoken word. 

“Come back,” you urge him. It’s getting to the point where every other word or so is a moan. He doesn’t seem to mind, if anything, he likes it. 

“Say it again. ‘Come.’”

“Come,” you reply, unamused. “You forgot the rules, didn’t you?”

“Oops,” he says with a giggle. “That’s alright. ‘Cause the next time you say that word, it’s gonna be because of me. It being in my voice will only be a reminder of that fact.”

You shudder, leaning back and opening your legs up a little more as a reminder that he should really rejoin you in bed right now. His nose twitches and his eyebrows furrow. 

“Wade?”

“I have… An enhanced sense of smell.”

“Oh, is it… bad? I mean, I took a shower and drank water and all that, but-”

“No, baby, you smell so good, just… Really strong, like...” He presses his hand to your most private place and you can’t help but squeak – between everything he’s said and done, the content you were consuming before his arrival, and how long it’s been… You’re unbelievably sensitive. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” you ask. 

“You’re so… I like foreplay, sure, and you deserve it, but aren’t you getting frustrated? If you need me, you should tell me.”

Once you get over your breathlessness at the last thing he said, you explain yourself:

“I like what we’re doing. Why would I stop you?”

“Aren’t you aching down here?” he wonders, pressing his hand firmer against you for emphasis. 

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you tell him, a little embarrassed at the variation in your moans. 

He smiles, though, caressing your thighs in a teasingly gentle way.

“Then maybe I should go ahead and show you the real reason they call me the Merc with a Mouth. You’re not the only one who knows how to give a blowy.”

He hooks his fingers in your panties and drags them down your legs with your attempted assistance as you try to move them in helpful ways. He props your legs open before finally rejoining you in bed, this time with his mouth… Oh, his mouth, it’s…

A symphony of pleasured sounds flows out of you, some cheap and overexaggerated and some a little more realistic. 

“Good girl, tell me how much you like it,” he says, before returning his lips and tongue to you just as swiftly as they left. 

“I fucking love it,” you reply, gasping for air. “No one’s ever done this to me before.”

He’s got his face buried between your thighs, moaning and groaning as he tastes you. When your eyes aren’t clenched shut from pleasure, you see him grinding his hips into the comforter for friction. Holy shit, he really likes this, doesn’t he? 

Your legs are trembling uncontrollably as fire courses through your veins and you feel yourself getting higher and higher.

“I’m close, Wade, I’m gonna- Gonna come,” you tell him. He holds onto your thighs, keeping you right in place as you unravel, forcing you to take what he’s giving you. The sounds you’re making are chaos, you think, but you realize as you come down that that’s what he thrives on. 

“It’s too much,” you whine as you start to get overstimulated, when it feels so good it hurts. He hesitantly pulls away, panting a little himself. 

“How was that?” he asks.

“Amazing. Couldn’t- You- Tell?” 

He grins. 

“Wanna keep going?” 

“Fuck me,” you implore him. “Please.”

“Yes, ma’am! Let me see here…” he fishes in the pockets of his discarded jeans, finding a condom. He holds it up, and like a magic trick, the interconnected packets fall down, leaving you both with a whole ribbon of them. After tearing off one, he tosses the others onto the bed beside you. “I doubt we’ll go through all those tonight, but I’d appreciate it if you kept the rest in the nightstand.”

You nod, still catching your breath from the previous round as he rolls it on. 

“I’m gonna use my fingers first,” he informs you. You nod, your breathlessness now in anticipation of what he’ll do next. He gently pushes one inside you. It feels bigger than it really is as he carefully slides it in and out before curling it right against-

He smiles in response to your pleasured exclamation. 

“You sound so pretty, honey,” he hums, “Ready for another?” 

“Yeah,” you agree. He repeats the same motions as before but with a second finger. “Holy fucking shit, so good.” 

“We’re barely getting started,” he reminds you, but he doesn’t seem displeased with your eager sounds as he adds a third finger into the mix. 

“So full,” you moan. “I don’t know if I can take it.”

“You know just what to say, don’t you, baby? I know you can take it, though. You're such a good girl, aren’t you?” 

“I try,” you reply. 

“You succeed,” he confirms. “Do you still want-”

“Yes, please, I’m ready,” you cut him off, starting to get impatient. His fingers feel absolutely incredible, but you want more, you want all of him. You’ve never been so greedy before, but you just can’t help it. Just as you're his, he’s yours. No one’s ever really been yours before and you want to experience it for all that it's worth. 

“Alrighty, then. You should be careful, though — I’m trying to be all nice and gentlemanly and all that, but if you keep looking at me like that I might lose control.”

“Would that really be such a bad thing?” you half-flirt, half-wonder, propping yourself up to look at him once he removes his fingers from you. He’d never hurt you in a way that you didn’t want him to, not intentionally. Would it really be so bad for him to give in to his baser urges and just pound you until you cry and then some? You don’t think so.

“Oh, I get it, you’ve been holding out on me. I guess I should’ve known, the geeky types are always total freaks in the sheets,” he remarks. 

“I wanted to be gentle with you, too,” you explain. “I know you’re just as nervous as I am, just for different reasons.” 

“Not that different,” he admits. “Are you really sure?”

“Mhm,” you hum, trying to meet his downcast eyes. “I want you. Really… I’ve really never felt this way before.”

“Me, either. Don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“Then fuck me instead,” you tease, knowing he doesn’t like to linger on the deeper subjects for too long. 

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he agrees with a smile, lining himself up with your entrance. You’re really glad he used his fingers first, because there’s no way his member would even be close to fitting inside you if he hadn’t. He eases in, checking every inch or so to make sure you’re still comfortable. 

You're still propped up on your hands, your eyes flicking between his face and his dick as it sinks further and further into you. You lift one hand and bring his forehead to yours, your labored breaths intermingling as he enters you. You keep your hand on the back of his neck, stroking him — you’re not sure if the motion is supposed to comfort you or him, but it feels good. 

“Is it okay for me to move?” 

You nod into him, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. It feels so good to connect with someone like this, to connect with him like this. 

He slides back and forth, it’s mind-boggling to watch something so large disappear into you. 

“You feel so good, baby, fuck,” he groans.

“You feel so good,” you echo, eyes scrunching shut as he picks up the pace. Your other hand rises from the bed and now you’re holding onto him as he thrusts, hitting that amazing place deep inside over and over again. You’re once again making mismatched sounds of ecstasy, his own grunts and groans working their way into your lexicon and making them even more diverse. 

He wraps an arm around you, helping you to stay balanced. 

“Touch yourself for me, sweetheart, I wanna feel you like that, please, please make yourself come all over my cock,” he nearly begs. 

“Yes, sir.” You remove your hand from where it was bracing on his neck, leaving the other draped around his shoulders as you start to stroke your clit. 

“Oh, fuck, shit, you-“ You feel him twitch inside of you. “Just a second, I… Oh, god.”

“You weren’t kidding,” you reply as he carefully pulls out, tying off and disposing of the condom before getting another one ready. 

“Honestly, I was, but- I mean, the refractory period is legit. I am so sorry, seriously, you- You just pushed a button that hasn’t been pushed in a while, goddamn, I- Say it again, please, if- If it’s not too much to-”

“Sir,” you repeat, grateful that he remembered the rules this time so you can elicit the right response from him. 

“There we go. Right as rain,” he says, jostling his re-hardened member in his hand comedically before rolling on a new condom. “Still-”

“Please,” you cut him off. “Please fuck me, Wade.” It’s all in his voice. You love the sound of his voice, but damn him for talking so much after you put all that effort into making sure you had a good catalogue for tonight! 

He cups your face and kisses you once again before entering you once more. You touch yourself as he thrusts in and out of you, no longer able to watch as your eyes clench shut — it’s everything you need and it’s too much. Fuck, it’s too much, you feel like he’s gonna break you, or you’re gonna break yourself. 

“That’s my good girl, you feel even better when you do that, squeezing around me just right,” he pants, continuing his erotic rambling. Every word gets you closer, even the ones you can’t process due to just how good this feels. 

“It’s- I’m- Come, gonna come again, oh, fuck, ah, please, Wade…” Your voice is steadily becoming more from him than what you watched earlier, but that only increases his fervor. 

“Love it when you talk in my voice, love the way you love me,” he replies, just as locked-in. That’s how he sees it? It almost brings you to tears in the best way, you’re so touched.

“Oh, god,” you murmur, just as he did before, but you really wanna scream it as you claw his back, desperate to cling to something physical as you reach the pinnacle of bliss. 

He stills as well, pushed as deep inside of you as he can go as you come down. You fall back into the bed, thoroughly worn out. 

He pulls out once more, repeating the same actions as earlier when taking care of the condom. He takes the unopened packages from beside you and tucks them into your bedside table. 

“Wanna go again?” he offers cheekily. 

“We don’t all have healing factors,” you remind him with a sigh. “Fuck, that was… Amazing.” 

“Was there anything you didn’t like?” he asks.

“No. What about you?”

“Getting overexcited and- Well, y’know.”

“I thought it was sweet,” you reassure him. 

“Anything you liked in particular?”

“What you said about when I talk in your voice,” you admit. “You?”

“I meant it,” he quickly says, like he’s scared you thought it was just pillow talk. “I could list a lot of things that I liked in particular, but I really- I loved it all.”

“Me, too.” you reply. You hold open your arms and he eagerly takes his place there. 

The two of you take a while to fall asleep, giddiness and excitement still buzzing in the air at your newfound love, but eventually you make it there.

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: thisapplepielife! @thisapplepielife has 37 works posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and 24 of them are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by @thisapplepielife:

Tuesday's Gone With the Wind

Take the Money and Run

You Oughta Know

Never Not Mine

Let the Boy Be Merry

"They are my favorite Corroded Coffin writer. I found by accident their fic “Tuesday's Gone With the Wind” and loved everything they wrote since!" -- Anonymous

Below the cut, @thisapplepielife answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

Steve Harrington. I found myself not connecting with S4 when it premiered, and decided that I probably just needed to rewatch the other three seasons again first, since it'd been a while between seasons. Well, Steve was always my favorite, but I left that re-watch with his voice fully lodged in my brain. So, I had to write something for him, just for myself. That was You Oughta Know. We all knew Eddie identified as a runner, and that just felt like the story to tell. Then somehow, for some unknown reason that I still cannot possibly explain, I decided to actually post it. I still don't know what possessed me to do that, honestly.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

I love a good second chance fic: A divorced couple that eventually rekindles. A missed first chance that they get to take another crack at, later in life. I also like a good heartbreaker of a fic. I know, I know. Don't get me wrong, I still love happy endings, but I don't require them. Break my heart. Do it.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Slice of life? Is that considered a trope? I know I like to write about things we all deal with in real life, from the small and inconsequential: a mattress with a bad spring. The delight of clean sheets. Or the bigger: the real life heartbreak of unavoidable loss and grief.  And older Steddie is my favorite, I think. I love to spend time writing for them. These boys that turned into men, who made a full life together, and it's great. Maybe not perfect. But they wouldn't trade it for the world. That makes me happiest.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting by badpancake is the one I think of that grabbed me first, and did not let go. I still need to read the final part of the trilogy! My fic TBR is so, so long because I definitely struggle with writing and reading at the same time. I know there is amazing work out there that I've just never read yet. But I look forward to it, absolutely. It's just something I've never figured out how to manage well. Joining Tumblr has helped that immensely, though! Reading the shorter fics here has been wonderful, and I've enjoyed it so much. There are amazing things being posted every single day! And I gotta say that don't start (too late) by Ark is one of the best "first time" fics I've ever read in any fandom. Eddie's inner voice is wonderful. I believe every word he thinks while he experiences this brand new thing with Steve.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

It's not brand new to me, but there's a found family one that I've been tinkering with for a very long time, and that excites me.  And I do love events for tossing me situations or prompts to write for that I may not have thought of, independently. @steddiemicrofic especially has been so, so fun. I think it was the very first event I wrote for on Tumblr, and the challenge of having a very limited amount of words, but still trying to make it feel like a whole story has been told, has been a blast. Thanks to @wynnyfryd and @steddieas-shegoes for challenging us all each month!

What is your writing process like?

I don't outline or anything. I just write, and edit, as I go. And I'll edit obsessively. I'll tweak and change small things over and over, ad nauseam. And even then, I know I still miss mistakes. But my mistakes are my own, I have no beta, because I kind of like being solely responsible for anything I write. Right or wrong. Here it is, take it or leave it. I also talk things through things in my own head a lot, especially dialogue, or I'll open a document, and just see where that takes me. And if I'm writing a long fic, like Tuesday's, I write totally out of order when scenes come to me. I wrote on every single year of that fic all at once. Then kept writing until they'd stitched themselves together into a full story. That's my last part of writing. Putting in the transitions from one scene to the next, when needed.  Sometimes ideas are more fully formed before I start putting words to the page, and other times I literally just start and figure it out as I go. There's one fic I wrote for Steddiemas last year where I sat Steve down at a mall food court and then just started writing. I had no idea what that was going to be. (It was Eddie turning up as the Mall Santa.)  Also: Research, research, research. I love the research aspect of writing. I'm curious in general, and if I can even think to look something up to see if it's true, or of the right time period, I will. And I like to add mixed media to my fics. That was a huge part of Take the Money & Tuesday's. All the newspaper articles and such. I felt like they were needed to make it feel like this really happened to these characters we all love so much. I did newspaper articles all throughout writing Tuesday's. In fact, I think that main article, the one at the top, was written and designed very early on in the writing process. They weren't all done at the end, they were done as the story needed them.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Short paragraphs. I love 'em. You'll pry them from my cold, dead fingers. Also see: Long sentences.  Honestly, I do like to throw out the rules, a bit. I write by feel. How does it sound, to my own ear? If it works, for my character, my fic or just me in general, I'll use it. "Don't use two "ands" in a sentence." Okay, but sometimes I'm gonna when that flows the best. Or: "That's a run-on." Okay, but I like the way it reads. "You don't need a comma there." But, I like the way that it breathes, so it's getting one. All this is especially true if writing from someone's POV. I know I don't always think in proper grammar, and I don't expect them to either. I don't want things to feel hard to read, but I do want them to feel natural. If that makes sense. I walk around, pacing as I write or edit on my phone, as if the moving somehow lets me see it differently. I think it does! And I don't know if this is a quirk, but some of the characterizations formed while writing Tuesday's have stuck, hard. Gareth is Gareth Jones, and where you find him, you'll probably find Di. Freak is Goodie. Jeff is Jeff Williams. These things have been decided in my brain, and now I feel compelled to take them with me, fic-to-fic. I didn't intend to build a headcanon I wouldn't be able to shake, but here we are.  I feel like I can transplant Steve and Eddie anywhere, into anything, and be comfortable changing things up. But the Corroded Coffin boys are cemented, as they were created, for the most part. Maybe that's because I did have to do so much shaping for them. Steve and Eddie, we know. We're all working off a decent amount of canon content. Corroded Coffin only had a few moments on screen to help flesh any of us flesh them out into real characters. And now that I've made my choices, for good or bad, they're here to stay.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Finished, definitely. My three long fics were all mostly written before I started posting, and I still struggled to get the last part of All of Across the Universe out in a timely fashion. Tuesday's was posted over one week, one chapter per day, and I really enjoyed that fast schedule. It didn't give me any extra time to overthink the finished product. It was going out, and that was that. I had to trust that I knew what I was doing when I deemed it finished.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Tuesday's Gone With the Wind. I truly thought I was done after Take the Money and Run. And then this idea slapped me in the face, and I spent five months just lost in their world. These versions of the characters came so naturally, and they are still with me today. I feel like most of what I've written since then is shaped by those versions. Also, that was the last fic I wrote without anything else coming down the pipe. The last one before I joined Tumblr. The last one that had my full, and utter, undivided attention. It's really special to me, and I'm beyond grateful to everyone that has embraced it and recommended it to friends. I know it's got some scary warnings, but for those that have dove in and let me know that it spoke to you in some way, you've made me so happy. It spoke to me, too.

How did you get the idea for Tuesday's Gone With the Wind?

By watching the documentary "If I Leave Here Tomorrow" about the band Lynyrd Skynyrd. As I was watching it, there was an interview section where one of the band members spoke about their assistant road manager, saying: "He was like a bartender roadie. Where he took care of us really good, you know? Anybody who was sick, or needed a little more attention, he was just there for you. He was like the big brother, and sister, and your mama and everything." My brain whispered, Steve Harrington.  And that was that. Corroded Coffin were going to get Road Manager Steve Harrington, and he was gonna take care of them as they headed towards this unavoidable disaster. I wrote like 5k words the first night. It was just in there, waiting to spill out, somehow. And I think it's also an anomaly for me, but I'm fairly certain I started that fic with what turned out to be the opening. That first bit of Eddie's first interview section. I think that's where I started telling the story, and it held throughout. That's pretty rare for me. (Fun fact: I wrote all the interview bits in a separate document, and then just fit and tweaked them into the story, as needed. But not that opening. That was the launch pad into everything else.)

When writing Tuesday's Gone With the Wind, what was something you didn’t expect?

It's not exactly a Steddie answer, but - Gareth! Gareth Jones, my beloved. I wasn't on Tumblr when I wrote Tuesday's or any other social media in a fandom way. I was in my own bubble, doing my own thing. So, I didn't know the fandom had given him a fanon surname. I chose my own, and now he's just Gareth Jones to me, and always will be. He's also Eddie's best friend. I've pondered on more than one occasion on if Take the Money and Run would be different if I knew that first, lol. Just exploring my version of a character that had so little screen time to work off was incredibly fun. And has remained fun. Gareth is definitely gonna show up again in my future works. He's to Eddie, as Robin is to Steve in my head now and forevermore.

What inspired Take the Money and Run?

These lyrics from the song "Me and Paul" by Willie Nelson: Almost busted in Laredo But for reasons that I'd rather not disclose But if you're staying in a motel there and leave Just don't leave nothing in your clothes I had a literal shower thought that made me laugh. And thought, well, why are they even in a motel? Oh, they must be on a road trip. So, I wrote that little scene mainly in my head, but jotted it down, just in case, and assumed that was the end of it. But then I just kept writing it. Until I was knee deep in maps and mileage and research trying to figure this road trip out from a logistics standpoint. All because I thought it'd be funny if Eddie left weed in his pants and Steve got all put upon because of it.

What was your favorite part to write from You Oughta Know?

I loved getting to include all the fun 90s things, since that's when I was a teen, and can remember a lot of it very distinctly, first-hand. And I loved getting to use El's powers to look in on Eddie, so while they might not know where he is, they did know that he seemed to be doing okay out there in the world. Also, if I could go back and change one thing about it, I'd fix that I said Eddie's never had an acoustic guitar. I didn't notice his acoustic in his room until my re-watch. Oh well. This version of Eddie didn't, I guess, lol. (This might be from the second part, Eddie's POV. But still. It's my Roman Empire. I think of this mistake at least once a week and beat myself up. If I'd been on Tumblr at the time, I feel this would have never happened, because someone would have blogged about it, drawing my attention to it, surely.)

How do/did you feel writing Never Not Mine?

This one is heavily inspired by the Taylor Swift song imgonnagetyouback. It was fun to dig into a slightly angstier world for a bit. Because things don't always work out, or if they do, not always the first time around. I like to think they'll find each other again, in any universe, but they might not take the easiest path. They aren't perfect, and that's realistic.

What was the most difficult part of writing Let the Boy Be Merry?

Crying while writing it. This one slapped me around a little while writing. Life isn't always as romantic as fic leads us all to believe which, the audacity, honestly, lol, but the kind of love and relationship in this fic? That feels real to me. Old, and familiar, and even as well as you know a person, you can't read their mind. You don't always get what the other needs immediately, you don't get how important things can be to them, but figuring out how to compromise is love. Real, lasting love.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

This question was hard! I'm gonna pick two from Tuesday's: For the first, I cried while writing and then cried again while editing the scene where Eddie and Steve hash out how serious their relationship is, and realize they've kind of been on different pages. There are two scenes in Tuesday's that got to me, and made me cry while writing them, over and over, and I don't even know why. (The other is Gareth picking that fight with Steve. Yeah, yeah, I know. Neither of these parts are the saddest parts of Tuesday's. But they stripped me raw, for whatever reason.) And a second, more fun, favorite: I'm gonna go with the scene where Eddie's naked and tripping on mushrooms in the backyard while Steve hangs out with him, and Eddie thinks they've written "Tom Sawyer" by Rush. That was so fun, and just a feel good write, if that makes sense. That whole summer they spent at the lake I look back on writing fondly. They are so in love there. They are all happy. And this scene is carefree in a way that they won't always be, due to circumstances coming down the pipe.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I run @corrodedcoffinfest and I've got a whole list of planned pop-up events coming up over the next few months for that. Steddie is absolutely welcome, so if anyone would like a little more Corroded Coffin works in their life, consider coming to join us! I also finally updated my masterlist, so everything I've written for Stranger Things is finally gathered together. There's a lot that's still only on Tumblr and not on Ao3 at this point.

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thanks so much for including me and my works in this! And to the person who nominated me, thank you, thank you! You really made my day. It was fun to think about these fics again, and answer these questions. I've really enjoyed writing for Steddie, and I've also enjoyed making friends in the fandom. Thanks for welcoming me. Thanks for showing my fics love, and commenting or leaving kudos or reblogging. Just, thank you all so much. And I'm sorry if these answers were too long, lol. As a habitual "end notes" kind of writer, that's just the way I roll. 

Thank you to our author, @thisapplepielife, and our anonymous nominator! See more of thisapplepielife's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!