#2. burn scars on he leg

[cathnospam]

Bakugo, but his sex drive sky rocketed when you both got together and he doesn’t realize it.

“Here. Drink.”

“Mm.” Was all you were able to mumble out from your face being smooshed into the pillow.

Your body was already growing in soreness and your little blonde firecracker could tell, he rolls his eyes playfully at your starfish figure, littered in pre developed hickies and your decorative blanket covering only what’s between your legs

He takes a sip of the cold water bottle he took from your mini fridge to sit beside you back on the bed, “Y’ still with us or what. I wasn’t even that rough this time.”

“I know, but you have to count this morning too when you had me damn near do the splits on the wall.”

“You said you wanted to try that move next time I ate your pussy?!”

“Yeah well.” You groan rolling over, his hand touches your side while guiding you to sit up and take his water bottle, “Didn’t realize I’d be in that position for 4 minutes.”

“Yeah…you usually cum within like 2 and a half when I eat—“

You cover his dirty mouth and sip the drink, it felt like your body was already getting cooled down from the inside you gulped it for a few more seconds, “Shut up.”

It was a comfortable silence, you threw your head back on the headboard to focus your thoughts again. You knew Bakugo had stamina like a mad man but the way how he’s able to get so viscously pussy drunk and the moment he cums he’s able to just get up and walk around like it’s nobody’s business concerns you.

He just had you face down a few minutes ago, crying out and hollering his name and now he’s just staring at you with a soft look of love

….and possibly lust because his eyes wandered back down to your breast and back to your neck. You couldn’t see him do it, but you definitely could feel it.

He leans in to suckle your throat, peppering quiet kisses to pull you closer. You eventually felt his warm hand slide between the wet mess between your thighs, gliding against your clit to make you shriek and clench your legs as a reflex.

“Hey!” You giggle at his ministrations, but firmly grasp his hand, “Again?”

“Only if you want to. Figured you wasn’t sleep right after so….”

It was really a surprise to you Bakugo was more than willing to have sex back to back and so much with you once you both started doing it, it’s almost all you two do when you have free time together if you aren’t training or studying. You’re not complaining at all, but it definitely was something you giggle thinking about.

“What?”

Your thoughts resurfaced and he quirked his eyebrow up in confusion almost breaking into a laugh without you, but still curious, “What? Spit it out.”

“I don’t know…I just never pegged you for a guy that liked to have sex this much.”

Almost immediately his cheeks burned a tinge of red, eyes widening he sit back and crosses his arms in a pout, slightly embarrassed at the realization, “Just because I never fucked anybody, but you doesn’t mean I’m a fucking prude or something.”

“Of course you’re not. I just…assumed after we had sex the first time you’d only wanna do it like…once every two weeks or something.”

The look on his face was pure confusion and offense.

“Every t—- so you think I’m a fucking prude???!!”

“I don’t!”

“You do, —-TWICE EVERY MONTH ARE YOU INSANE?!”

His tone was annoyed and offended you couldn’t help but to laugh even more, but he seriously was confused as to why’d you think that. I mean have you seen yourself ? He can’t get enough??!!

“Well excuse me for wanting you. God forbid a man loves his girl.”

Hearing his voice gravel and wear down you stop your laughter to look at him, he tries looking the opposite way, but you knew from how he side eye’d you he was just being dramatic.

Using the bit of strength you had left you climb on top of him. For a moment you admire his scars and flushed body, the way his chest practically turns into a deep cleavage when he crosses his arms, his sharp jawline, the veins.

Hell, you was happy as fuck he loved to fuck you. Look at him.

“That’s not what I meant. Growing up you always were so focused on being a hero, that seeing you doing anything but is….fun to see. And im happy I’m the one to bring that fun side out of you.”

Still looking away you cup his chubby cheeks, thumb rubbing against them and you kiss his forehead, he looks up at you, “If you think I’m only with you for the sex you’re wrong, dumbass.”

“I know. Sex is just a plus. You remind me that everyday we are together.

Though he was still a little pissy about your twice a month comment he pulled you closer, chest to chest, “yeah? I feel the same way, and the whole reason why I started having consistent sex with you is to catch up.”

“Catch up?”

“Yeah….we dated for 2 years and never done it…gatta make up for it.”

“Baby we been having sex for 3 weeks straight, 5 days a week.”

“So.”

“We started having sex almost 4 months ago.”

“SO?! Jeez if you don’t like fucking then tell me.”

“Oh no…pfft I love when we do this. You make pretty faces when I ride you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Nah…but can I fuck you?”

You didn’t let him respond back, you just kissed him again, before adjusting your body to grind against his already growing erection again.

“Damn nympho.” Bakugo wanted to retort again, but it was broken up into a strained groan when you started stroking his dick.

“Takes one to know one.”

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Pretty and beautiful are two very different words or atleast they are to damian wayne.

Sure damian had seen pretty girls all around gotham. Sure they had good looking features and nice looking eyes. But none of them caught his eye.

Not like you have...

The moment Damian had seen you he had determined then and there that you were absolutely beautiful.

Perfect in his eyes. Not a flaw in sight.

Sure other girls had nice looking eyes but you?

Oh your eyes were the most beautiful thing he had seen. They held so much in them.

His heart included.

Sure your eyes might have not been the rarest in the world ,but to him he'd rather look into your eyes then remember his own name if give an alternative.

Your skin was much different then his own in texture and color. And he liked that.

No, he loved that.

You were different then him. Not as broken.

Sometimes he envied your perfection.

Because to him you are perfect. He doesn't notice your scars because to him they make you more special.

Or your stretch marks because to him they add detail...

Everything about you fascinated him. From your name to how you had gotten the smallest scar on your leg that was barely visible now.

He wanted to know everything..he needed to know everything.

But he couldn't.

He's not your friend ,no. He's not even your classmate. Hell you two don't even go to the same school.

Because as luck would have it the one thing damian wanted didn't even know he existed.

He's a stranger to you.

But to him your everything. His biggest desire.

His hearts keeper.

He had first seen you when he was on patrol. He caught a glimpse of you through your window and he had fallen right there on then.

And he had fallen hard.

He took notice of everything. From the color of your shirt to the pair of socks you were wearing.

You didn't see him though. And he's partially thankful for that. Because he knows he probably would've looked like a creep looking at you through your window.

You were in simple pjs, some Christmas ones to be exact. You weren't dressed up and your hair wasn't done. You had just showered and your hair was still slightly wet.

But gods did damian think you looked like a goddess.

In that very moment you had taken the ex assasins boys heart out of his chest and held it in your hand ever since that day.

But you didn't even know his name....

Oh and when he heard you speak for first time?

He new he was absolutely smitten.

He'd burn down gotham just to hear your voice.

And your smile?

He'd bring the world to their knees for your smile.

He doesn't know exactly how he'd do it. But for your smile he'd figure out.

His honor be damned.

When he looked at you he knew no morales would keep him from you. Bruce's rules might as well not exist. Because nothing was going to keep him from you.

For months Damian had kept his distance. Afraid of rejection Afraid of you not even liking him enough to be his friend.

But there was only so much time before the way his heart ached out weighed his fear.

After all he's an Al ghul.

Al ghuls take what they want.

Damian watches you as you sleep and whispers goodnight knowing this would be the final night that he is a stranger to you...

"You are mine ,beloved."

Thanks for reading! 💗

Comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated!

Part 2 is here.

[eepwtf]

PUNISHABLE—soldier boy x catholic boy part 2

find part one here ⤷ part numero uno

warnings; religious guilt and themes, power dynamics, somnophilia, degradation and humiliation kink, jerking off to underwear (i think my boy has a fetish for that, ben lock your underwear drawer), handjobs, jerking each other off, blowjobs, (not lasting even a minute because first time blowjob, ben being a little shit about it) wc: 5.5k

“you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

“liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.”

after that night, you couldn’t look at benjamin the same way. the memory of his hands on you, his voice low and coaxing, lingered like a brand burned into your skin. it churned in your gut, twisting and gnawing until it felt like your insides were corroding, eaten away by the acid of shame. each time you saw him—his easy smirk, the casual way he draped himself over the furniture, the faint smell of him that hung in the air—you felt your stomach turn, the shame rising thick and bitter in your throat.

you couldn’t stay in the room. the air felt too close, too full of him, his presence pressing against you like a weight you couldn’t bear. so you fled. the small catholic temple on campus became your refuge, though it offered no comfort. it was little more than a cramped chapel tucked into an old building, the stained glass faded and chipped, the pews scarred with years of scratches and carvings. the faint smell of candle wax and incense clung to the air, mingling with the scent of mildew from the damp stone walls. the temple became a tomb, and you were the corpse, rotting from the inside out.

you spent hours there, more time than you did in class or the dorm. you’d sit in the shadow of the crucifix, its weathered wood warped and splintering, staring up at the lifeless eyes of Christ as if begging him to look back. the silence was oppressive, heavy and suffocating, but it felt right—like the weight of your sin, tangible and inescapable. you sat for hours in the shadow of his body, staring at the weathered wood, splintering and warped, as if waiting for him to come alive and condemn you. his hands were outstretched, pierced and bleeding, his face frozen in agony. you imagined he looked at you with that same pain, that same accusation, and it broke something inside you.

you tried to pray, the rosary beads dug into your palms, leaving angry red marks that faded too quickly to feel like real penance. you clutched them tighter, grinding the crucifix into your skin until it almost bled, muttering the Act of Contrition until the words blurred together, but the guilt remained, festering like an open wound.

o my God, i am heartily sorry for having offended Thee... the words came out cracked and hollow, meaningless, swallowed up by the suffocating silence of the chapel. …because i dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell... but it was too late for heaven. ...but most of all because they offend Thee, my God...

the guilt felt like chains around your chest, tightening with every syllable, dragging you down into an abyss you could never climb out of. …who art all good and deserving of all my love. You didn’t deserve his love. you didn’t deserve anything.

you took to kneeling on the cold stone floor, refusing the comfort of the pews. the sharp bite of the stone against your knees felt like punishment, the only tangible way to feel the weight of your sins. sometimes you stayed there until your legs went numb, until the pain turned into a dull ache and then into nothingness. other times, you pressed your forehead to the ground, curling into yourself like a body at a wake, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

your whispered prayers became desperate, broken things, half-choked with sobs you tried to silence. “i’m sorry,” you’d mutter, over and over, your voice cracking. “God, i’m so sorry. please, forgive me.” but no forgiveness came. only silence.

at night, you dreamt of fire. the memory of benjamin played on an endless loop in your mind: his hands gripping you, his voice low and coaxing, the heat of his breath against your skin. it burned you from the inside out, an inferno you couldn’t escape. when you closed your eyes, you could still see the smirk on his face, the way his gaze had locked onto yours in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.” the words echoed in your skull, a taunt, a curse, a brand seared into your very soul. you felt it sinking into your flesh, carving itself into your bones. you’d wake up gasping, clawing at your skin, trying to scrape it away. but it was always there, a stain you couldn’t wash off.

you thought about confession, about spilling your sins to the priest behind the screen. but the idea of speaking the truth aloud, of hearing it in your own voice, made your stomach churn. The words “i touched myself, i wanted him, i wanted it” felt too filthy to utter, even in the privacy of the confessional. so you stayed silent.

the darkness festered inside you, growing like a sickness. you began to wonder if this was your punishment—not the fires of hell, but this slow, quiet decay. a part of you hoped it was, because it meant God was still watching, still listening, even if only to damn you.

and yet, no matter how much you prayed, no matter how deeply you knelt, the memory of benjamin lingered. his touch, his voice, his scent—they wrapped around you like chains, dragging you down. you were no longer yourself. you were a sinner, a vessel for guilt and shame, rotting in the shadow of the cross.

each day bled into the next, the hours merging into a haze of suffocating monotony. time slipped through your fingers like sand, gritty and coarse, leaving only the weight of your sins behind. the chapel became your entire world, a dim, crumbling sanctuary where you sought absolution and found only torment. you avoided your dorm, your classes, even the dining hall—anywhere benjamin might be. the thought of facing him, of seeing his smirk twist into something cruel or indifferent, made your chest seize.

still, he haunted you.

he was in every shadow, every flicker of light that danced on the stone walls. his voice lingered in the back of your mind, a low, mocking drawl that you couldn’t silence no matter how many Hail Marys you whispered. and the worst part? it wasn’t just shame you felt.

in the deepest recesses of your mind, where the guilt couldn’t reach, a darker truth festered. you wanted him. you still wanted him. the memory of his hands on you, the sound of his breath in your ear, the warmth of his body pressed close—it didn’t just torment you; it consumed you. late at night, you found yourself replaying it all in your mind, over and over. your body betrayed you in the quiet, a burning need rising up that you couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly you clutched the rosary, no matter how fervently you prayed for absolution.

the shame was unbearable, searing hot and cloyingly thick, but it wasn’t enough to stop the betrayal of your own body. your cock ached, straining against the fabric of your sweatpants, a constant reminder of your weakness. you rolled onto your side in your bed, clenching your fists, digging your nails into your palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. you whispered prayers under your breath, begging for the ache to subside, for your body to stop betraying you. but it didn’t.

it never did.

and then there was benjamin, sleeping across the room. the rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady, filled the small space with a rhythmic calm that only made your torment worse. the soft sighs he gave in his sleep, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—it was maddening. you hated him for being so effortlessly beautiful, for existing in a way that made it impossible for you to look away.

your hand found its way to your cock before you could stop it, the need too overwhelming to resist. you pressed your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the shameful sounds threatening to spill from your throat. your other hand clutched the rosary still tangled around your wrist, the beads biting into your skin as you stroked yourself, slow and deliberate, trying to stay quiet.

your eyes stayed fixed on him, on the faint glow of moonlight that traced the curve of his jaw, the soft shadows that played across his face. each breath he took seemed louder than the last, each shift of his body under the covers like a whisper meant only for you.

it was wrong. it was so fucking wrong. but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop. the crucifix above your bed seemed to watch, its lifeless eyes boring into you as if condemning every shudder, every gasp, every sinful thought. you imagined Christ’s agony, his blood dripping from the crown of thorns, his body nailed to the cross for your sins—and here you were, defiling his sacrifice with every stroke, every filthy thought. it should have stopped you. it should have made you fall to your knees in repentance. but instead, it only made the guilt more unbearable, the shame more suffocating, until the pressure inside you broke. your lips moved in silent prayer even as your strokes quickened, the contradiction tearing you apart. "forgive me, Father," you whispered, your voice choked and broken. but even as you begged for absolution, your body craved release.

your gaze flicked to benjamin. he had shifted in his sleep, one arm flung above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. the sight made your mouth go dry, your hips bucking into your fist as a low, shuddering moan escaped you. you imagined his hand replacing yours, his voice a low, mocking drawl coaxing you to give in. the thought alone sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breaths coming faster, more desperate. “ben,” you whispered, the name slipping past your lips before you could stop it. the sound felt sacrilegious, an invocation of something dark and forbidden.

the beads of the rosary dug deeper into your wrist, the pain grounding you even as your strokes grew frantic. pre-cum slicked your fingers, the wet sound obscene in the silence. the shame was suffocating, a thick, rancid weight that settled in your chest, but you couldn’t stop. your gaze stayed fixed on him, on the soft curve of his jaw, the soft fluttering of his lashes. the ache inside you swelled, sharp and consuming, until it was too much to bear. your body convulsed, thick spurts of cum spilling over your hand, your hips jerking against the mattress as you bit down hard on your pillow to muffle your cries.

the shame was instant and suffocating, crashing down on you like a wave. you froze, your body trembling as the reality of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. benjamin stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips as he shifted again, his face relaxing back into the peaceful stillness of sleep. you watched him, your heart pounding in your chest, and the weight of your sin crushed you.

you wiped your hand on the sheets, bile rising in your throat as the reality of what you’d done sank in. you whispered a broken prayer, the words cracking in your throat, and vowed never to give in again. but deep down, you knew the truth. you would.

the shame should have stopped you. it should have dragged you to your knees, should have compelled you to throw open the chapel doors and confess everything—every sinful thought, every wretched desire, every stroke of your hand that mocked the sanctity of your faith. and yet it didn’t.

the guilt had only festered, growing into something dark and rotten that you couldn’t contain. and now, hidden beneath your blankets in the suffocating quiet of your dorm, it had led you to this. benjamin’s underwear was clutched in your trembling hand. you’d stolen it—there was no other word for it—plucked it from his laundry basket earlier that day when the dorm was empty, your chest pounding with adrenaline and revulsion. you had told yourself you wouldn’t do anything, that you just wanted to hold it, to feel the weight of him, the scent of him.

but now, here you were, your cock throbbing in your palm, slick with pre-cum as you wrapped the soft fabric around yourself. it was warm from your grip, but not nearly as warm as you imagined it would be if benjamin were still wearing it. the thought sent a shiver through you, your hand tightening as you began to stroke yourself again, this time slower, more deliberate. the waistband of the underwear brushed against the sensitive head of your cock, and you bit down on your lip to stifle a groan.

in your mind, benjamin wasn’t asleep in his bed across the room. he was here, standing over you, wearing nothing but the underwear now wrapped around your cock. you imagined the way it would cling to him, the fabric stretched taut over his hips, his cock outlined against it. you imagined the heat of him, the weight of him pressing against your palm as you slid your hand beneath the waistband, your fingers brushing against his skin.

you imagined him smirking down at you, his voice low and mocking. "you couldn’t help yourself, could you?" he’d say, his tone dripping with condescension. "you’re so fucking desperate for me." your hips bucked at the thought, the motion jerking the fabric tighter around your cock. the shame clawed at you, hot and suffocating, but it only made the pleasure more acute, more overwhelming.

you closed your eyes, the image of benjamin vivid behind your eyelids. you imagined his cock hard against the fabric, slick with his own pre-cum, mixing with yours. you imagined the way he’d groan, low and guttural, as your cum spilled over the fabric, soaking it, staining it. your hand moved faster, the friction of the fabric almost too much, almost unbearable. the scent of him clung to your skin, faint but intoxicating, filling your lungs with every breath. it was wrong—God, it was so wrong—but you couldn’t stop.

"ah—fuck, ben," you whispered again, the word slipping out unbidden, dripping with need and desperation. the sound of his name on your lips sent you over the edge, your body convulsing as your cum spilled over the stolen underwear, thick and hot and endless. for a moment, you couldn’t move. the shame was immediate, cold and biting, sinking into your chest like a blade. the crucifix on the wall seemed to loom closer, its lifeless eyes staring down at you in silent condemnation.

you looked at the mess in your hand, at the fabric now stained with your sin, and bile rose in your throat. you felt filthy, wretched, unworthy of the air you breathed. but even as the shame suffocated you, even as the bile threatened to spill, a darker thought twisted its way into your mind. you imagined slipping the underwear back into benjamin’s laundry basket, unwashed, unclean. you imagined him putting it on, feeling the dampness against his skin, not knowing—never knowing—that it wasn’t his sweat, but yours.

the morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the room. you pretended to sleep, curled beneath your blanket as benjamin stirred in the bed across from you. your body felt heavy with the lingering weight of guilt, your stomach churning as the events of the night before replayed in vivid, shameful detail.

you could hear him moving around—footsteps padding softly across the room, the faint rustle of his laundry basket as he dug through it. your pulse quickened, a sick sort of dread rising in your chest as you realized what he was doing. you squeezed your eyes shut, your breathing shallow and uneven, your entire body tensed as you waited for the inevitable moment when he would find it. the underwear, his underwear. covered in your mess.

the sound of fabric being shifted stopped abruptly, and for a moment, there was silence. your heart pounded in your ears, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but you didn’t dare move. “fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, and your stomach twisted into knots.

you risked the smallest glance, peeking through your lashes just in time to see him holding the underwear up, his brow furrowed as he inspected the faint, crusted stains on the fabric. your breath hitched, panic clawing at your throat. he knows, you thought, the words ringing like a death knell in your mind. but then he shrugged, tossing the underwear onto his bed. “guess it’s just detergent or something,” he said to himself, his voice casual, unconcerned.

relief flooded through you, hot and dizzying, but it was short-lived. because then, to your absolute horror, he began to undress. you turned your face back into the pillow, your entire body trembling as you tried to feign sleep. but no amount of self-control could stop the way your breath quickened, the way your cock stirred traitorously beneath the blanket as you listened to the soft rustle of his shirt being pulled over his head, the faint thud of his sweats hitting the floor.

and then, the sound of him slipping on the underwear.

you couldn’t see him, but you didn’t need to. the image was burned into your mind: benjamin, his toned body half-dressed, the stolen underwear hugging his hips, clinging to him. you imagined the fabric pressing against his cock, damp and sticky with your dried release. “shit,” he muttered suddenly, a note of irritation in his voice.

and then, benjamin turned. you quickly shut your eyes, feigning sleep as your heart hammered in your chest. the sound of his footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right beside your bed. “you awake, perv?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

you didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, praying he’d lose interest and go away. but instead, benjamin chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the quiet room like a taunt. “yeah, that’s what i thought.” you felt the blanket shift, a slight tug as he pulled it down just enough to reveal your growing bulge. the cool air hit you, making your cock twitch beneath the thin fabric of your sweats, and you cursed yourself silently. “look at this,” benjamin murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. his palm pressed harder, rubbing against you through the fabric. you bit down on the inside of your cheek, struggling to suppress the gasp threatening to escape.

“can’t even keep it down in your sleep,” he said, palming you through the fabric. “what were you dreaming about, huh? was it me?” you wanted to die. you wanted to disappear, to sink into the mattress and never resurface. your hips shifted involuntarily, just slightly, into his touch. it was instinct, pure and pathetic, and you hated yourself for it. and oh, benjamin didn’t miss it. “oh, you like that, don’t you?” his fingers curled around the outline of your cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, as if to prove his point. the friction of your sweats and the heat of his hand made your entire body tense, a shudder running down your spine.

“bet you’d like it even more if i used my mouth,” he mused, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “or maybe my hand. would that make you feel better, freak?” your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as his hand moved with deliberate, maddening slowness. you could feel the heat of his palm, the friction of your sweats against your sensitive skin, and it was driving you insane. “you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

benjamin froze, his smirk audible even before you opened your eyes. “oh,” he said, dragging the word out, his voice dripping with mockery. “so you are awake.” you couldn’t help it; your eyes cracked open, just barely, and you met his gaze. his green eyes were bright with amusement, his smirk sharp and predatory. “figures,” he said, his voice soft and cutting. “couldn’t even keep up the act, could you?” before you could think of a response—or even move—benjamin’s hand moved again, his strokes deliberate, slow enough to make you squirm. you hated him, hated yourself, hated the unbearable heat pooling low in your stomach, but most of all, you hated that you didn’t want him to stop.

and then, to your shock and mounting arousal, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your sweats, his touch hot and unforgiving against your skin. benjamin’s smirk only widened as his fingers curled around your bare cock, stroking with a firm, teasing grip that made your breath hitch. he watched your face, his green eyes sharp with predatory amusement as he took in every twitch of your features, every shudder of your chest. “look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “so fucking hard for me. bet you’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, haven’t you? jerking off into my underwear, imagining my mouth on your cock.”

the words sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over you, burning hot and stifling in your chest. the guilt churned, twisting your stomach into knots even as your hips bucked into his hand, completely betraying you. you felt trapped between the two warring parts of yourself—the part that wanted to resist, to run, and the part that wanted nothing more than to give in, to let him ruin you completely. “you know what your problem is?” ben said, his grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur. “you’ve been holding back, keeping all that tension bottled up. you’re so fucking repressed it’s almost sad.”

your throat tightened at the accusation, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t even realize was raw. he wasn’t wrong. every day spent in the chapel, every whispered prayer for forgiveness, every shame-fueled confession—it had all built into this. the weight of your own guilt loomed heavy over you, wrapping around your chest like a vice even as benjamin’s touch ignited a fire deep in your core. “you probably think this is a sin, don’t you?” he whispered, leaning in close enough that his breath was hot against your ear. “some terrible, shameful thing. but you don’t look very sorry to me.”

his voice was like a devil on your shoulder, coaxing you further into the abyss. your lips parted, a faint, broken sound escaping as his hand moved faster, slick with precum now, the obscene sounds of his strokes filling the air. “you’re not gonna pray your way out of this one, baby,” benjamin murmured, his tone mockingly sweet. “but don’t worry—i’ll take care of you. all you have to do is let me.” before you could process what was happening, he dropped to his knees, his smirk softening into something almost reverent as he looked up at you. the sight was enough to steal your breath—benjamin, kneeling between your legs, his hands on your thighs as he tugged your sweats down just enough to free your cock completely.

“fuck,” he muttered, his eyes darkening as he took you in. “look at you. so hard, so desperate. you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart.” you wanted to deny it, to shrink away from his words, but the evidence was undeniable. precum beaded at the tip, glistening in the soft morning light. benjamin’s thumb swiped over it, smearing it down the length of your cock, and you couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped your throat. he gripped your cock at the base, his hand firm and unyielding as he guided it toward his lips.

the first touch of his mouth was almost too much. his tongue flicked out, teasing the tip, before he took you in slowly, inch by maddening inch. the heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft and wet and perfect, and your hands clenched the sheets in a futile attempt to ground yourself. “ben—” you choked out, your voice cracking as your head fell back against the pillow.

he hummed around you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and teasing, as he took you deeper, his throat constricting around you in a way that made your vision blur. “relax,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. his lips were slick and red, glistening with saliva and precum. “let me take care of you, sweetheart. just let go.”

you wanted to. God, you wanted to. guilt clawed at your chest, sharp and suffocating, as your mind flickered with memories of whispered sermons and fire-and-brimstone warnings. this was wrong. every touch, every flick of his tongue, every obscene sound he made was a nail in the coffin of your soul. but benjamin’s mouth was so hot, so wet, and his hands gripped your hips with a strength that kept you grounded, kept you present. “you’re thinking too much,” benjamin said, his voice low and commanding. “stop fighting it. just let me make you feel good.”

he didn’t give you a chance to argue, his mouth enveloping you again with a renewed determination. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he worked you over, his pace slow and deliberate, savoring every moment. you barely lasted a minute. the pressure built too quickly, the heat coiling tight in your stomach and shooting down your spine. your breaths came faster, shallow and desperate, and you tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

“don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice muffled around you. “i want it. cum for me.” the command was your undoing. with a choked cry, you shattered, your hips jerking as you spilled into his mouth. stars burst behind your eyes, your entire body trembling as the release hit you like a tidal wave. benjamin didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. he took everything you gave him, his throat working to swallow it down, his hands steady on your thighs as he held you through the aftershocks.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his smirk impossibly smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “damn,” he said, his tone full of mockery and amusement. “came so fast i barely got started. guess all that religious repression really does a number on you, huh?” you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks burning as fresh waves of shame crashed over you. But benjamin wasn’t done.

benjamin didn’t hesitate, tugging his sweats down in one smooth motion. the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. he was hard—thick, flushed, and straining against the fabric of the underwear you’d stolen just last night. your stomach churned when you noticed the faint, crusted stain near the waistband, the humiliating evidence of your lack of control.

“unbelievable,” benjamin said, his lips curling in disgusted amusement as he ran a hand over the bulge. “you actually came in my underwear.” he let out a short, derisive laugh, holding the elastic band out so you could see the stain more clearly. “for this?” He shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips making your stomach flip. heat rose to your face, shame and arousal twisting together into a nauseating cocktail. you tried to look away, but your body betrayed you again, your cock twitching faintly despite the raw, overstimulated ache still pulsing through you.

“oh, no,” ben said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low timbre. “don’t you dare act embarrassed now. not after everything.” His green eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “you’re into this, aren’t you?” you shook your head weakly, your voice caught in your throat, but benjamin wasn’t buying it. “liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.” before you could muster a response, Benjamin grabbed your sweats and yanked them the rest of the way down, leaving you completely bare beneath him. his gaze swept over you, predatory and hungry, and your stomach flipped at the way his lips curled into a smirk. “you’re hard again,” he pointed out, his voice thick with amusement. “didn’t even give yourself a minute to recover, huh? you really are desperate.”

benjamin stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of the said stolen (and stained) underwear, dragging them down his legs with an exaggerated slowness that had your pulse hammering in your ears. when his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, your breath caught. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered without thinking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“close,” benjamin quipped, his grin widening into something wicked. “but i don’t think He’s gonna save you now.” he wrapped a hand around himself, his thumb swiping over the head to gather the bead of precum there. his gaze flicked to you, his smirk deepening when he saw the way your eyes lingered.

“guess i can’t blame you for wanting me so bad,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “look at what you’ve done to me.” he gestured vaguely to his cock, his hand stroking slowly, deliberately, as if to taunt you further. the heat of his body was overwhelming as he climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. the heat of his body was overwhelming, his cock hovering just above yours, so close you could feel the faint pulse of it. the sight of him straddling you, his lips twisted into that infuriating smirk, was enough to make your breath hitch.

“i should make you clean up your mess,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “wouldn’t that be fair?” you swallowed hard, unable to respond. your mouth was dry, your mind spinning, every nerve in your body alight with tension. “but,” he continued, leaning down until his face was only inches from yours, “i think i’ve got a better idea.”

before you could process what was happening, benjamin reached down, his hand wrapping around your cock again. his grip was firm and confident, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. then, to your absolute shock, he shifted, pressing his cock against yours. the heat of him, the weight of him—thick and pulsing beside you—sent a bolt of arousal shooting through you so intense it made your vision blur. benjamin hummed, clearly enjoying your reaction, as he wrapped his hand around both of you, his fingers curling tightly to hold you together.

“fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and strained as he began to move. his hand stroked the length of both of you in a slow, maddening rhythm, the friction electric. the slick mix of precum made the slide effortless, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

your head fell back against the pillow, a choked sound escaping your throat as the pleasure built quickly, overwhelming you. benjamin’s gaze stayed locked on your face, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he took in every twitch of your features, every broken gasp that slipped past your lips. “look at you,” he murmured, his tone thick with mockery. “so fucking desperate. you’re not even trying to hold back, are you? just letting me ruin you completely.

you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the words caught in your throat, tangled up in a mess of shame and arousal. your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing the friction despite the raw ache of overstimulation. “s’not true,” you choked out, your voice weak and trembling.

ben laughed, low and derisive. “no? then why are you fucking into my hand like a goddamn slut?” his words cut deep, but the pleasure was overwhelming, drowning out everything else. the tension coiled tight in your stomach, building faster than you could control. benjamin’s grip tightened, his strokes growing firmer, rougher, as if he could sense how close you were. “pathetic,” benjamin said, his voice a low, teasing growl. “you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you? can feel it—feel how close you are.” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “do it. make a fucking mess. show me how much you need this.”

his words pushed you over the edge. with a low groan, your body tensed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. hot, sticky ropes spilled across your stomach and benjamin’s hand, the sensation so intense it left you trembling beneath him.

but he didn’t stop, his hand stroking both of you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last ounce of your pleasure. his own breathing grew heavier, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as his hips jerked forward. a moment later, he came, his cum mixing with yours in a sticky mess across your stomach and his hand.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of your ragged breathing. benjamin sat back slightly, his chest heaving as he looked down at the mess between you. “well,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “guess you weren’t the only one who couldn’t hold back.” you groaned, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away, but benjamin only laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw. “don’t worry,” he murmured. “i think it’s cute.”

[twi-liight]

Hi! I suffer from Baldur's Gate brainrot. I just stumbled upon your blog and love your writing! Could you do some Astarion, Gale and Karlach headcanons for taking care of Tav after they're badly injured in battle?

Reckless Attack ❣

Grieve, weep, and agonize over a corpse - but know that death is never final in Faerun. The burden of injuries will instead always be present: pain is eternal, no matter how numb. ❥ Astarion/Tav, Gale/Tav, Karlach/Tav. ❥ TW: Descriptive mentions of injuries and gore. ❥ Act 2 spoilers. ❥ They/them pronouns for Tav. ❥ Tav is the nickname for the reader/oc insert. Their real name is up to you!

An Absolutist cult has gathered deep in the bowels of the forests of Rivington. Nothing out of the ordinary... Other than the sheer numbers they possess, creating a dense population of Absolute extremists gathered in stone ruins.

Adventuring parties that dare to end their machinations perished slowly and painfully. Their corpses - what is left of them - are displayed pierced from the gnarled branches of the trees, where they bleed out on the forest ground.

Tav, Astarion, Gale, and Karlach had a plan: throw a barrel full of smoke bombs into the middle of the ruins, firebolt, and profit. Except things didn’t go according to plan (they never do). That barrel was supposed to be at their rendezvous point, but the cultists found it before they did and thought it a gift from their Goddess.

Trapped in hiding, Tav decided to do what they do best: attack.

A potent necromancy curse was successfully cast on Tav, negating any healing spells thrown their way.

Well.

Fuck.

ASTARION

"As always, you refuse to listen to me. And now look at you: a mess. What did I say about running afool to the vanguard?" Astarion does not wait for their response. “Don't do it. It is smarter to be in the shadows in this instance. And what did you do? Ran alone into a quarry of cultists with no sense of self-preservation!”

Anger, pure anger, is present in his voice, sharpening his typical melodic lilt into daggers. If he cared about the present company - Shadowheart, Halsin, and Gale crowded into a tent, surrounding Tav upon their cot - it is nonexistent in his wine-red eyes. They could get lost in those bloody depths for hours. But not now. Not when seething rage roils off of his body like a cloud of darkness.

They look away.

"Nothing to say for yourself, darling?” he mocks. Astarion’s visage twists into a sneer, sharply turning his face away from them. He finds an unused rag, wets it, wrings it of excess water, and then moves past Shadowheart. “Allow me,” he murmurs to her, gentler.

Shadowheart’s inquisitive green eyes understand the depth of the situation immediately. She sighs, clearly annoyed he has taken over her job, but is dissuaded by Astarion’s next string of words: “I’ll clean them up. Magic and healing and all that wonderful nonsense are not necessarily my area of expertise. A firebolt here and there, surely, but I wouldn’t know where to begin with a curse that... Negates healing magic.”

“Sure,” Shadowheart replies, eyes flicking to Tav. Worry is evident over her features. Worry hangs heavy around everyone. Emerging out of battles victorious and grievously injured is commonplace; nothing a mass healing word couldn't fix along with a good night’s rest. Open wounds would be closed scars, ailments would be cured, and broken bones would be unbroken. Rinse and repeat.

This time, it is different.

They, and they alone, were cursed with a necromancy spell that makes all healing magic useless to their wounds.

Their wounds are appalling: Broken ribs evident with the pain swelling in their chest and labored breathing, purple and black blotchy bruises from the hammer blows they took to the shoulder, an open laceration across their chest, their ankle snapped in two, burns on their left leg crawling up their thigh. Blood all over their face from their own and from the enemies they felled.

“Hey, it’s fine,” they wheeze out. "Nothing I can't handle. The cultists are down and dead and buried - everything else can come after."

Hesitantly, Gale opens his mouth to reply, but is abruptly cut off by Astarion snapping out: "No."

"No," they echo. Their brows furrow.

"What a saint you are," Astarion snarls. His lips are down-turned, fangs bared as he speaks, but his ministrations upon their face are soothing. Gently, he rubs off the blood with a cool washcloth, eyes focusing on the task at hand as he cannot bear to look at them.

"Throwing yourself into the heat of battle like that, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Tell me, my dear, do you enjoy watching rational fly past you when you make your impulsive decisions?"

They flush with humiliation and hurt. Broken and battered, they dig their elbow into the cot to prop themselves up and face Astarion head-on, but Halsin presses a hand into their shoulder and pushes them down.

Fuck. Their head spins in circles.

"You're one to talk. Impulsivity is your middle name; you said yourself that planning is not your forte." Even raising their voice hurts but they do it anyway. Their eyes, threatening to slip into oblivion, flood with frustrated tears. "What the fuck is your problem, Astarion?"

"Must I really spell it out for you, sweetheart? You go around, telling everyone exactly what they need to hear. You tell them they aren't alone. That you will help them, that you will ensure they see the future that they want." The words are venom: petty and spiteful and yearning to be understood. "You," Astarion hisses out, "are so blind."

Tempers rising to fever pitch, Halsin tenses from his spot at the foot of the cot. From the corner of Tav's eye, they see Gale murmur something to him, something like, Let this play out. Astarion would never hurt them.

"I am the only one who will take the first step!" Tav cries. The words explode out of their broken chest faster than they realize, flying like an arrow straight toward Astarion's unbeating heart. "I risk my life - every day - for all of YOU! For all the people that need me! For all that I am because-"

"Because what?" He taunts. "Because it is the right thing to do? Look at yourself, Tav! You are on death's door if not for everyone in this room!"

"Because no one else will do it! Not anyone in this damn camp cares enough to- to help the people we could-" They cough violently, but they slam their elbows into the cot to prop themselves up. No one stops them this time as they meet Astarion's burning eyes. "No one cares but ME-"

"WE care about you!" Louder. Vicious. Astarion's voice splits in the air in two in one fell swoop, striking them down like lightning into silence.

He's breathing heavily, panting, as if exhausted. The adrenaline pumping in his veins is begging him to swoop Tav up and run away with them. Away from all of this bullshit and into hiding within the shadows. Maybe the Underdark. Maybe the Shadowcursed Lands. They can descend into madness together.

At least there, they will be safe.

"I care about you," Astarion chokes out before he can stop himself. "More than anything. Do you know that? I hope you know that."

Their mouth forms the words to reply, Of course I do, but it doesn't leave their throat. Instead, it stays stuck there like a fluttering butterfly, forced into silence. It hurts to speak. It hurts to talk. It hurts to see him like this.

He calls out their name so quietly it could have been a trick of the wind.

"Astarion," they plead.

He shakes his head, stubborn and unconvinced. "You don't owe these people anything. You certainly do not owe them your life for their burdens. I," he breathes out, voice as shaky as a leaf in the wind. He screws his eyes shut and clenches his fist around the rag, where their blood stains his palm.

"I almost lost the sun of my life today."

When Astarion opens his eyes, they are steeled with resilience and fury as they gaze into theirs. It is hypnotic. It is lonely. They yearn to comfort him.

"It will not happen again."

GALE

"Easy," Gale murmurs, a strong arm laying them down in his tent. Soft blankets and pillows meet their back, and the cushy grass beneath makes for a cool and comforting sleep. Their breath stutters, but Gale gazes at them so fondly as he pushes their hair from their face that the pain eases.

He does not miss their labored breathing. "Shhh shh shh. I've got you. Just focus on me."

His thumb lingers on the swell of their cheek. His eyes flutter close. A gentle glow of purple surrounds him, and eventually, that gentleness extends to Tav. The agonizing, piercing sensation in their chest numbs into a cool, muted nothingness. They gasp - then exhale in relief, slower than their panicky, short breaths from before.

"That's it," he encourages. "Well done, my love. How are you feeling?"

"So-so," they reply. Their voice aches and croaks, but for some reason, it makes Gale smile.

Oh no. He knows that look.

They study his handsome, tired face, looking for any signs of alarm. Is he hungry? Does he need to feed on another artefact? Was there an envoy telling them they missed another Absolutist hideout? Did they miss something? Did they do something wrong?

No. Nope. "Enough of that." He takes their hand, kisses their knuckles, then sighs. "You're the last person who should be worrying about someone. Such a pest, hm? Always buzzing around me like I'm seconds away from disappearing in front of your eyes..."

"You are," they say. Their brows furrow, and they pant out, "The-- your burden to carry, the--"

"The orb, I know. I know." His heart twists. It aches. He failed Mystra before and that was painful. But this is another subject entirely; it couldn't come close. Watching sheer heartbreak in their expression because of him? Oh, Goddess forgive him, he has failed them.

Gale can scarcely celebrate his victory, too. He undid the damned curse that affected Tav's ability to receive magic. The necromancy spell was so potent that Tav rejected any healing spells thrown at them. Late into the hours of experimentation, he, Halsin, and Shadowheart considered allowing the effects to wither and die rather than exterminating it outright. It was Jaheira who told them it would be inefficient, because how long would they have to wait in camp while Tav rode out the effects of the curse? Ideally? Hours. But days? Weeks? Months?

He spent the long night following and feeling out the curse with the Weave. It was a complicated hex - a tangled knot of magic that had to be unwoven carefully, thread by thread. Every connotation, every intent was traced back to the heart of the curse, and he followed it with abandon.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble, then," they whisper.

"You should be," he jests. "Nearly made my heart collapse, seeing you like that."

The image is still burned into his mind. He can't stop thinking about it. His mortality has always been a dreadful afterthought pushed into the further recesses of his tadpole-addled brain, but was he so taken with Tav that he never realized how mortal they were, too?

No. No. Gale tightens his grip on their hand, giving them a comforting squeeze as they breathe in and out, in and out. It's not that he never realized how susceptible they are to death and danger. He just never wanted to confront it.

"You are changing the very premise of my life," he says softly. An exasperated chuckle leaves him as he shakes his head, adding, "as always. I don't know what I would have done if I actually lost you, back there." What wouldn't I do? "No scrolls of revivifies, no Withers to bring you back. I wouldn't be able to accept it."

He understands Ketheric Thorm all too well, now.

"Come here," they whisper. Gale lets their hands press into the back of his head. He thinks, absently, that he would let them do much of anything. In their care, he is no grand wizard with a plethora of achievements under his belt. No. He is as humble as the Weave itself, and their hands compose music and art for him to simply bear witness to.

They rest his head upon their chest, where his ear can listen to the comforting sound of their beating heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud thud.

"Good night, my love," Gale says, when their breathing evens and they have finally fallen into peaceful slumber. He does not sleep at all.

KARLACH

"Oh gods. Oh gods!" Karlach clasps Tav's left hand between hers, holding tightly and vowing to never let go. Their blood stains her hand and chest and clothes. It's everywhere. Sickly sweet and sticky, drawing all of her attention from the room to the sensation of it dripping down her skin.

They've lost so much blood. It's nauseating, like an unsettling reality has just settled in her stomach.

"Tav!" She exclaims, helpless and pathetic. "Why did you do that, you big idiot? You seriously could have gotten killed out there, why-- why aren't you..."

Responding? Where are their quips, their sass, their brightness she fell so fast and hard for? Tav lays there upon the cot, broken and battered. Karlach has seen the remains of her enemies after she has slaughtered them and has barely flinched. She can barely stomach the sight of them bloodied, bones twisted in the wrong way, bruises so purple they're as black as a chasm.

All they can do is breathe. Their eyes focus distantly above them to the roof of the tent, but nothing else.

Panic seizes her faster than she can control it. "Are they breathing?! Are they going to survive this?! Fuck," she growls, running a frustrated hand through her dark hair, matted with blood. "I should have made those sons of bitches suffer."

"Karlach," Shadowheart says, firm but gentle, her hands bloody too as she applied pressure down on Tav's wounds, "it was important that you returned them to camp as fast as you did. Sometimes, we do not have the luxuries to let our enemies die in pain."

Right. Right. Karlach watched an Absolutist barbarian slam his warhammer into Tav's back. Once to knock them down. Twice to keep them plastered on the ground. Once more to keep them unconscious. She saw red, then: the rage she slipped into boiled her veins so hot, the howl she let out sent her surroundings enemies into a frightened frenzy. She hacked her great axe into the barbarian over and over and over until he was nothing but a bloodied pulp of a man, more gore than flesh.

She scooped Tav up from the ground. Karlach never let anyone else touch them. She snarled and snapped at the others who tried to come too close and dead sprinted as fast as she could back to camp.

She heard their choked sobs of pain in her arms. They choked out her name, and Karlach couldn't offer them much of anything other than an, "We're going home, bubs, just hang on. 'Kay? You just focus on me."

"Can I stay here?" She begs Shadowheart. "I won't get in the way. Just let me hold their hand, please."

Shadowheart exchanges a conflicted glance at Halsin. He nods, and she sighs. "Fine," she says. "But - I need you to stand to the side for now. You can hold their hand after we're done figuring out how to undo this curse."

"A fine specimen of a curse, really," Gale adds, his hand curled under his chin. "I'm almost impressed."

"I would be too," huffs Shadowheart, "if our reckless leader wasn't caught up in this mess. Really, what were you thinking?"

"Right?" Karlach shoves off into the corner of the tent, doing her best to keep herself as small and as out-of-the-way as possible. Tears flood her eyes, and she chokes out, "Of all the things to do, why did it have to be that? I thought you said you trusted me! To have your back! I have your back, don't I? Don't I?"

"Of course you do," Halsin croons. He hooks his finger into a bottle of salve, and spreads it on Tav's burns. Tav visibly winces and tenses, whimpering in pain.

"Stop whatever you're doing right now!" Karlach wails. "You're hurting them! I'll kill you, Halsin, I swear it!"

Gale exchanges a look with Shadowheart. He ponders deeply for a moment as Karlach sobs devastatingly behind them. He opens his mouth, then shuts it promptly.

"Just say it," Shadowheart urges impatiently.

"We should play a game," he suggests. "The quiet game."

"No way," Karlach hiccups. "I'm dogshit at that game. Anyway, focus on Tav or I'll gut you, seriously."

❥ Additional links: kofi | ao3

[just-nc-tea]

nine and three quarters pt. 2 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

⭑.ᐟ Roommate to Lovers - Park Sunghoon Recovery is never linear. You knew that. You just didn’t know what to do when all the progress you’ve made disappeared in days. So you do what you’ve always done. You pretend you're fine. And your new hot and cute roommate… pretends not to notice you're not. Only, he always notices. Sunghoon stated to take care of you in quiet ways—tea left by your side, dinner magically appearing, messes cleaned before you can see them. It isn’t until you’re back home, away from him, that it hits you: how far you’ve slipped, how much he’s held together without ever asking for thanks. And suddenly, all you want is to go back—to your couch, Sunghoons tea, the olympic figure skater who made it easier to breathe.

ᝰ genre. Figure skater!Sunghoon, college sports, angst, hurt/comfort, really SLOW burn, fluff, suggestive .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ warnings. Swearing, partying, consumption of alcohol, hospital visits, mentions of rape, mentions of date-rape-drugs, mentions of the police, panic attacks, eating disorder, psychologists PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I FORGOT ANYTHING AND PLEASE TELL ME IN CASE I MISREPRESENTED SOMETHING .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ features. Mark, Johnny, Ten, Taeyong & Jungwoo from NCT, Woonyoung and Rei from IVE ᝰ word count. 25 k .ᐟ₊ ⊹ --⟢ PART 1 --⟢ PART 3

series masterlist ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ GET ADDED THE SERIES TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT 🏒 ⤷ GET ADDED MY PERMANENT TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT ✨

The microwave beeped, pulling you from your thoughts. The smell of Johnny’s mom’s seaweed soup wafted through the kitchen. You finally reheated it after sat in the freezer for days. You had actually taken it out of the freezer and poured a bowl this time. Small, but a bowl nonetheless. You stirred it absently, watching the steam curl upward. 

The opening credits of My Demon played on the TV, casting flickering blue light across Sunghoon’s face. You carried the bowl to the living room, where Sunghoon was already sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over the back cushions. He glanced up as you approached, his gaze dropping to the bowl in your hands. A slow grin spread across his lips. "Look at you, actually eating." You rolled your eyes, perched on the far edge of the couch. "Don’t make it weird. It's not my fault my stomach is stupid." Sunghoon chuckled, shifting to make more room. The couch was still too small, forcing your knees to brush against his as you settled in. The contact sent a jolt of warmth through you, but you focused on the soup, taking a careful sip. The first sip burned your tongue, but the familiar taste of home made your shoulders relax. It was... okay. Today, it didn't feel like swallowing rocks. On screen, Guwon brooded dramatically in the rain.

"I swear she will have to die. Or he will. A hundred percent." Sunghoon said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. You scoffed. "No way. They definitely will survive. There is no way that this will have a bad ending." Sunghoon nudged your knee with his. "You’re underestimating the power of bad drama physics." You huffed a laugh, relaxing slightly.  The moment Sunghoon shifted again, you became acutely aware of several problematic facts:  His knee was now wedged firmly against your thigh. The arm he'd stretched across the back cushions brushed against your shoulders. You could feel every exhale he made against your hair. "Um," you said intelligently, gripping your soup bowl.

Sunghoon seemed oblivious to your internal panic as he adjusted his position, his stupidly long legs bumping into the coffee table. "Damn couch," he muttered, knees bending at an unnatural angle. "Built for gnomes."

You stiffened as his movement made his thigh press more firmly against yours. The heat of it burned through your sweatpants. "Maybe if you didn't sit like a starfish–"

"Starfish?" He turned his head to look at you, and oh god, now his face was too close. You could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. "I'm sitting normally. You're the one folded up like a lawn chair."

You became hyper-aware of how you were hunched over your soup, shoulders tense. "I'm trying to eat," you lied, staring fixedly at the TV.

Sunghoon shifted again, his arm accidentally brushing the back of your neck. You jerked forward so violently that soup sloshed over the rim.

"Shit–" He grabbed a napkin, dabbing at the spill on your knee before you could react. His fingers lingered a beat too long on the fabric. "You okay? You're all..."

"All what?"

"Twitchy." His brow furrowed. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Yes. No. You didn't know. The soup suddenly felt like a lead weight in your stomach. "It's just–" You gestured vaguely between your bodies. "You're. You know."

Sunghoon blinked. "Tall?"

"Everywhere," you blurted, then immediately wanted to evaporate.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Everywhere?"

"Shut up." You shoved at his shoulder, but he didn't budge. "I meant your limbs are invasive."

"Mmhm." He deliberately stretched his arm further behind you, his fingers now playing with the ends of your hair. "You know, most people would love to have longer legs."

You were pretty sure your face could power a nuclear reactor. "Most people don't think about long legs being a constitute public hazard."

He laughed, loud and sudden, and you felt it vibrate through where your shoulders were pressed together. The sound made something flutter in your chest.

He playfully tugged at a loose strand of your hair that had escaped your braid.

"My little sister used to make me braid her hair all the time. She would beg me to braid it before she went on the ice."

"Oh really?" you said and placed the now almost empty bowl onto the sofa table, trying to adjust your body in a way that wouldn't cause you or Sunghoon to have knees or elbows in places that knees and elbows were not supposed to be.

"Yeah. I bet I could still braid a banger braid. Even if it’s been like 7 years since Yeji last asked me.", he said and twirled the strand around his finger.

"Do... do you want to try if you still can?" you asked carefully and stared at the TV, pretending that you were interested in whatever Dodohee was doing just now, instead of hyper-focusing on Sunghoon’s fingers.

"Sure. If you will let me.", he cocked his head to the side. 

You hummed and moved to the floor to sit between his legs. "Go for it."

His fingers were careful as they unravelled your braid, combing through the tangles with surprising gentleness. You held your breath as they grazed the nape of your neck, the touch feather-light.

"Okay, Y/N," he murmured, dividing your hair into sections. "French or fishtail?"

"You know how to do a fishtail?"

"Y/N," he said, voice dripping with mock offense, “My sister was national junior champion three years running. My fingers have trained precision."

You snorted but stayed still as he began weaving the strands, his knuckles occasionally brushing your shoulders. The TV faded into background noise, replaced by the soft sound of his breathing and the occasional muttered curse when a strand slipped.

"My brother used to braid my hair when I was little," you admitted after a comfortable silence. "Before his military service."

Sunghoon's hands stilled for a beat before resuming. "Taeyong?"

"Yeah. He'd do it while I did homework." "That's cute," Sunghoon hummed. You sat in silence for a few minutes until Sunghoon's fingers trailed down the finished braid, smoothing the ends. "There. Not bad for a six-year hiatus, huh?"

You reached back to feel his handiwork, your fingers brushing against his. The braid was neat and tight without pulling. Better than you could do yourself.

"Showoff," you muttered, but you were smiling.

Sunghoon leaned around to see your face, his grin lopsided. "Admit it. You're impressed."

"Never."

He poked your side, making you squirm. "Liar." ──────────────────────── The drama played on, but Sunghoon hadn't processed a single word in the last twenty minutes. Not when his fingers were buried in your hair, tracing the braid he'd just finished like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever touched.

He should stop. Should pull his hand back, put some respectable distance between you. But you were leaning into his touch, your head tipping back just enough that his fingertips brushed the delicate skin behind your ear. 

"Sleepy?" he asked, voice lower than he intended.

You hummed in response, the sound vibrating through where your back pressed against his knees. Something dangerously warm unfurled in Sunghoon's chest. 

Before he could think better of it, he undid the braid with careful tugs, letting your hair spill loose over his hands. "Your hair's soft," he murmured, more to himself than to you. It was stupid, this compulsion to keep touching, to find excuses to let his fingers card through the strands again and again. But when you didn't pull away, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

"You're gonna put me to sleep," you mumbled, even as you nuzzled unconsciously into his palm.

"Good." His thumb traced the shell of your ear. "You look like you need it."

He had noticed, of course. How could he not? The shadows under your eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. The way your clothes hung just a little looser. The careful way you moved, like you were conserving energy. It made something primal in him ache - the need to fix, to protect, to wrap you in blankets and force-feed you until colour returned to your cheeks.

On screen, the female lead burst into dramatic tears. Sunghoon snorted. "This show is so bad."

"You picked it," you slurred, voice thick with drowsiness.

"Yeah, and I regret nothing." His fingers automatically started another braid. His little sister had made him practice for hours until he got it perfect. Back then, he'd complained. Now he was absurdly grateful for the excuse to keep his hands in your hair.

Your breathing deepened, your weight growing heavier against him. Sunghoon held himself perfectly still, terrified of disturbing you. The trust you placed in him - to touch you, to hold you up, to see you like this - was a gift he didn't know how to deserve.

When your exhales evened out into sleep, he finally allowed himself to look. Really look. At the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks, at the slight part of your lips, at the tension that had finally drained from your shoulders. 

"Y/N?" he whispered, knowing you wouldn't answer.

Carefully, so carefully, he resumed braiding your hair. Then unbraided it. Then started over. Again. And again. 

Outside, the rain picked up, tapping gentle rhythms against the window. The drama credits rolled, casting the room in shifting blue light. Sunghoon didn't move. Didn't dare. Not when you finally looked peaceful. 

So he stayed. Counting your breaths. Memorising the weight of you against him. And when his own eyes grew heavy, he let them fall shut - just for a moment - your hair still tangled between his fingers. ──────────────────────── The apartment was quiet, save for the sizzle of eggs in the pan and the soft hum of the coffee machine. Sunghoon moved through the kitchen with practised ease, flipping an omelette onto a plate. 

As he reached for the salt, his gaze wandered to the flowers by the window. The yellow chrysanthemums you’d bought the morning of the party were wilting. Their petals drooped, edges browned, stems slouching in the water. 

He’d noticed them days ago but assumed you would replace them. 

You always did. 

But it had been over a week and a half.

Sunghoon frowned, running a finger along a brittle petal. It crumbled at his touch.

When you fell asleep after your panic attack, Sunghoon went back to the kitchen. He picked up the flowers and put them in a spare mug because the vase was in pieces. He cleaned up the water and the glass. Then he stood there in the too-quiet dark, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles ached.

He didn’t go back to his room that night. He slid under the covers beside you, listening to your breathing, counting the seconds between each inhale to make sure they didn’t stop.

Now, staring at the wilted flowers, Sunghoon felt that same helplessness claw at his ribs. The coffee machine beeped, jerking him back to the present. He poured two mugs out of habit—one black for himself, one with a splash of milk for you—before stopping short.

Right. You’d left early for your studio, muttering something about a deadline.

Sunghoon set your mug down too hard, sloshing coffee onto the counter. He wiped it up with a ragged sigh.

It had been more than two weeks since the party. Sixteen days since he caught your limp body, since he’d sat in a hospital chair waiting for you to wake up. Sixteen days of watching you pick at your food, of finding you asleep on the couch at 3 a.m.

Sunghoon grabbed his keys, shoving the dead chrysanthemums into the trash.  ──────────────────────── The bell above the door chimed too loudly when Sunghoon stepped inside, the scent of earth and flowers thick in the air. 

Now, standing in the middle of the shop, he froze. He really didn’t think about what to buy. Which flowers you liked. Which colors. 

There were too many.

Buckets upon buckets of flowers, colours screaming at him from every direction. Vibrant reds, blinding yellows, pinks so bright they hurt his eyes. His grip tightened on his keys. You never brought back anything like this. Your flowers were quiet. Soft. 

A throat cleared behind him.

The florist, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, smiled at him, her pruning shears dangling from one hand. "Lost, sweetheart?"

Sunghoon swallowed. "I need flowers."

Her lips twitched. "Well, you’re in the right place." She gestured around them. "Anything in particular?"

He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought this far.

His eyes scanned over the flowers until they stopped on a bucket full of baby blue, pale pink and white flowers. They looked like something you would pick.

He pointed. "Those."

The florist hummed, pulling the bucket forward. "Good choice. These just came in." She plucked a few stems, holding them up. "Your girlfriend will love them."

Sunghoon’s face went hot. "Oh. Yeah." He coughed. "I mean—she’s not—we’re not—"

The florist laughed, wrapping the stems in paper before he could combust. "Relax, son. I was just joking." She tied the bundle with twine, then paused. "They’ll last longer if you trim the stems underwater."

He nodded and paid for the flowers. When he left the small shop, he decided not to rush to the bus stop to catch the next bus, but rather take his time to walk through the market.

He took a wrong turn somewhere.

The alley he was in now was narrow, cramped between two buildings, the cobblestones uneven under his shoes. He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was until a glint of blue caught his eye.

There, on a rickety table outside a cramped-looking store, sat a vase next to other miscellaneous items.

It was your vase. The one you broke. 

Or close enough. The same shape, the same curve at the neck. It had one deliberate gold seam running along its side.

Sunghoon reached out, fingertips hovering just above the glass.

"Kintsugi," a voice said. 

He jerked back. The shopkeeper, an old man with a cane, leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Means golden repair. You break something, you fix it with gold. Makes it stronger than before." He nodded at the vase. "That one’s seen a few drops."

Sunghoon ran his thumb over the flaw. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too. How much?” ──────────────────────── The ice had never felt so unforgiving.

Sunghoon dragged a hand down his face, his breath coming in sharp, visible puffs in the cold rink air. His skates scraped against the ice as he came to a stop, his body aching from yet another failed routine. The Olympic trials were creeping closer, and every session felt like he was regressing instead of improving.

All he felt was exhaustion.

He gripped the rink’s barrier and let his head drop forward. What’s the point? The thought slithered in, unwelcome but persistent. He was skating worse than he had in months. His jumps were off, his landings shaky. Every session felt like running in place.

Maybe he should just quit.

Not skating entirely, he could never give that up, but this relentless pursuit of the Olympics? The pressure, the scrutiny, the way his stomach twisted every time he imagined failing in front of millions? Disappointed not just his coach and parents, but the whole South Korean peninsula.

Maybe he should go back to skating for fun. Like he used to. Only attend University or school competitions. Something that came with less pressure.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, pushing off the boards to attempt the jump again.

An hour later, he stepped into Jay, Heeseung and Jake’s apartment. The smell of spice and garlic hit him the moment he stepped inside. Jay was at the stove, stirring the pot with one hand and shoving Heeseung away with the other as he tried to steal a bite. Jake was setting the table, but he paused when he saw Sunghoon’s face.

“Damn,” Jake said, eyebrows rising. “You look like shit.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just collapsed into a chair, his body heavy with fatigue.

Heeseung whistled. “That bad, huh?”

Sunghoon dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m done. I’m so done.”

Jay turned off the stove. “With…?”

“Everything. The Olympics. Skating. All of it.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I’m skating like shit, and no matter what I do, it’s not getting better. I feel like I should just quit. Honestly.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jake sighed, sliding into the seat across from him. “Yeah. I get that.”

Sunghoon looked up.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “NHL draft’s coming up, and I swear to god, if I hear one more scout say ‘potential’ like it’s a consolation prize, I’m gonna lose it.”

Heeseung and Jay, who have both been successfully drafted and will play for two rather big teams, just nodded solemnly.

"Do you really want to quit the tryouts?" Jay asked from his place in the kitchen. He was frowning at Sunghoon, "Maybe just try your best there, and if you don't get in, you can still say you gave your best and tried it. Don't let an opportunity like that just go by."

Sunghoon groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, "No. I don't. I just know that I won't get in, and it's frustrating. But maybe if I do well enough they consider me for the games in 4 years or something else. Whatever."

"Well. You did have fun up to like a few weeks ago, right?" Jay turned back to the Curry and continued stirring.

"Yeah.", Sunghoon grumbled.

"Well see. Maybe if all the pressure is gone it's fun again. If you already know you won't qualify, just have fun performing. I know you love doing that.", his friend hummed.

Sunghoon just nodded and was thankful for Jake when he switched the topic to tell them about his and his girlfriend’s exes. They married last year and invited Jake and his girlfriend just to taunt them, well, at least the groom did so. Y/N reconnected with some of her friends who are still kind of friends with the bride so now she has insider information on everything that is going on. 

Sunghoon’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

Y/N Thank you for the flowers And the vase

His breath caught. He hadn’t expected a response at all.

Sunghoon No worries

He paused. Then, against his better judgment typed:

Sunghoon Did you eat today?

No immediate reply.

He set his phone down, trying to ignore the twist in his gut.

Heeseung eyed him. "Y/N?"

Sunghoon nodded, stirring his curry absently. "She thanked me for the flowers."

Jay raised an eyebrow. "You bought her flowers?"

"Yeah. After—" Sunghoon hesitated. "She had a panic attack after we came home from the hospital. A Really bad one. A vase broke during it, so I… replaced it and put new flowers inside."

The table went quiet.

Jake frowned. "Shit. Is she okay?"

Sunghoon’s grip tightened on his chopsticks. "I…don’t think so? She’s not eating. She’s not sleeping. I don’t—" His voice dropped. "I don’t know how to help her. Or if she even wants my help."

Heeseung leaned forward and frowned. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Sunghoon exhaled sharply. "It's not my thing to tell."

"Fuck.", Heeseung leaned back in his seat, "I am so sorry Sunghoon. I should never have invited her."

Sunghoon's chopsticks clattered against his bowl. "It's not your fault," he said. "No one could've known that bastard would spike her drink." His knuckles went white around his spoon. "Not you. Not me. Not even Y/N knew until—"

His phone buzzed.

Y/N I did a little today I still had some of my Imus soup

My stomach handeled that very well yesterday so I ate the rest today.

Sunghoon signed. "She ate like three spoons of soup."

Jay frowned. “She is not eating? Like… at all?”

Sunghoon shook his head. “Not enough. She picks at her food or says she’s not hungry. I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

Jake hesitated. "Have you… talked to her about it?"

Sunghoon stared at him. "What, just ‘hey, are you developing an eating disorder because a dickhead drugged you?’"

"No, idiot. Just—ask her how she’s feeling."

Sunghoon opened his mouth, then closed it.

His phone buzzed again.

Y/N The blue ones are my favorite

Sunghoon’s throat tightened.

He typed back slowly.

Sunghoon I’ll be home soon

"I cleaned up glass for forty minutes," he heard himself say, voice hollow. "She couldn't breath. When she calmed down enough she asked me to spend the night with her. Like sleep next to each other not with each other. She slept for fourteen hours."

Jay's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "You stayed the whole time?"

"Where else would I go?" Sunghoon countered.

Sunghoon's phone lit up.

Y/N Don't rush back  Have fun with the others Tell them I said hi

He stared at the message until the screen went dark.

Jake snatched the phone from his limp fingers. "Enough." His thumbs flew across the screen before Sunghoon could protest.

Sunghoon Too bad Already on my way Do you want chicken or pizza?

"You can't just—" "Watch me," Jake said, dodging Sunghoon's grab. 

Y/N Oh I ate already But thank you!

A beat. Then:

Y/N Maybe we can eat it tomorrow? For lunch? Could you bring the one with the garlic powder? From Mom's Touch?

Sunghoon's breath left him in a rush.

Jay clapped him on the back hard enough to sting. "See? It's not that bad. Maybe her stomach is really just upset. Now order enough for three days worth of leftovers." ──────────────────────── The apartment was dark when Sunghoon returned, the only light coming from the muted TV casting blue shadows across your curled-up form on the couch. Your eyes were closed, but the way your fingers twitched against the throw pillow told him you weren't asleep.

"I brought the chicken," he said, toeing off his shoes by the door. The scent of garlic and fried dough lingered in the takeout bag as he set it on the counter. "With extra powder, like you asked."

You hummed without opening your eyes. "How was training?"

Sunghoon hesitated. The frustration from earlier still coiled in his muscles, but the words came out softer than expected. "Shitty. Couldn't land anything." He shrugged. "Dinner was nice, though. Jay made curry."

"That sounds good." Your voice was light, but when you finally looked at him, your gaze was clearer than it had been in days. "Did you tell them I said hi?”

The question startled a laugh out of him. "Obviously. Jake claimed he wants to come back here with his girlfriend so she can enjoy our apartment as well." He nudged the coffee table with his knee. "You sure you don't want any chicken now? It's still hot."

You shook your head, pulling the pillow closer to your chest. "Tomorrow. I’m full." Sunghoon glanced toward the kitchen and noticed the rinsed-out plates in the sink you used for rice and the soup. 

He sank onto the couch beside you, careful to leave space. For a moment, there was only the sound of some variety show's laugh track and your steady breathing.

Then, almost shyly you asked: "Do you... want to watch My Demon?"

Sunghoon blinked.

"Yeah," he said, too quickly. "Yeah, I'd love that."

Your arm brushed against his, he didn't pull away.

And when you eventually slumped sideways, your temple coming to rest against his shoulder, he didn't mention it. ──────────────────────── The knock at your door was so light you almost missed it. You paused your sketching, charcoal smudged across your fingertips. "Yes?"

Sunghoon hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched. His hands fidgeted with something behind his back. "I—I know you’re busy, but…" He held out a box of hair bleach, the plastic crinkling in his grip. "Could you… help me with this?"

You furrowed your brows: ”You want to… bleach your hair?"

He nodded, avoiding your eyes. "For the Try outs. I thought—" A pause. "I just wanted to try something different."

You wiped your hands on your jeans, hesitating. Your project wasn’t due until next week.

"Only if you have time," he added quickly, already stepping back. "It’s okay if—"

"I’ll do it," you blurted, interrupting him.

His head snapped up.

You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck. "J-just let me read the instructions first."

The bathroom felt too small with both of you in it. Sunghoon sat on the edge of the tub, your oversized paint smock draped over his shoulders. It swallowed him whole, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips. You bit your lip to keep from smiling. It was ridiculous. He looked ridiculous.

You squinted at the bleach instructions. "It says to do a strand test first—"

"Skip it."

"Sunghoon. This could melt your hair off."

He met your eyes in the mirror, deadpan. "Being bald would be good for aerodynamics."

You couldn’t help laughing out loud at that. Sunghoon’s shoulders relaxed .

"Are you sure about this?" you asked, watching while he wetted his hair under the faucet. The water darkened his strands to near-black, dripping onto the smock when he sat down on the kitchen chair you covered with multiple towels.

He hummed, eyes closed. "Yeah."

You mixed the bleach with trembling hands, the chemical smell stinging your nose. During the last few weeks you had more migraines then you usually had. It was probably the stress.

Sunghoon’s eyes flickered open. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah." You hesitated, the brush hovering. "It’s just… permanent."

A beat passed. Then, so quiet you almost missed it: "I know."

Something in his voice made your chest tighten. You started applying the bleach, working in small sections like the instructions said. His hair was softer than you expected beneath your fingers. It was a shame to destroy such beautiful hair with bleach. You were hoping that it would still be soft and fluffy afterwards. Whenever Sunghoon came from a shower, with his hair unstyled it made you envy having his hair. Yours has been thin and brittle for a few years now, no matter what you did, it wouldn’t grow much past your collarbones. Right now it was the longest it has been in a long time. Thanks to various scalp treatments, biotin capsules and a lot of hair care your hair could now be considered longer mid length. You would have to cut it again soon. 

Sunghoon let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing under your touch. "Feels nice," he murmured.

Your hands stilled above his head. "Does it hurt?"

"No." His voice was rough.

"You're sure about this?" you asked for the third time, carefully coating another section near his crown. The chemical smell burned your nose. "This isn't... reversible."

Sunghoon's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, his back pressed against your knees where you sat behind him on the washing machine. Standing was exhausting. "Neither is fucking up my short program at trials next week." A pause. "At least this way, people will remember me for something."

Your hands stilled. "You... don't think you'll make it?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. But Sunghoon just exhaled through his nose, tipping his head back slightly into your hands. "Not sure I want to anymore."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavier than the bleach fumes. You resumed your work, fingers moving methodically through his hair to hide their sudden tremor. 

"You're good though," you murmured before you could stop yourself. "Really good."

He huffed a laugh. "At jumping. Not at..." His voice dropped. "Whatever comes after. You just saw me on a good day."

The timer beeped, startling you both. As you reached to turn it off, Sunghoon unexpectedly leaned back, the full weight of his upper body coming to rest against your legs.

This close, you could feel the heat of him through his tank top and the coat against your thigh – the solid muscle of his shoulders pressing into your too-sharp kneecaps. You'd seen him shirtless once or twice in the hallway, but feeling his body against your own bony frame made your face warm. The contrast was embarrassing.

"Sorry," he muttered, though he didn't move away. "My back’s killing me."

You swallowed. "It's... fine."

An odd silence settled as you both stared at his reflection in the mirror. His dark roots slowly lightening to orange, your hesitant fingers still tangled in the strands, playing and spreading the bleach around. The intimacy of it prickled along your skin.

"You know," you said quietly, "if you quit... you could just skate for fun." 

Sunghoon's eyes met yours in the glass. "Yeah?"

The word came out softer than you intended. "Yeah. Maybe you could just go to easier competitions?"

He held your gaze for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed fully against you, his warmth seeping into your legs. "Maybe I will."

Your hands resumed their work almost unconsciously, massaging the bleach through his hair with more care than necessary. The silence now was comfortable, broken only by the drip of chemicals into the towel around his shoulders.

When the timer went off again, neither of you moved immediately.

"I should—" you started.

"Right," he said at the same time.

As you helped rinse the bleach out, his hair streaming gold between your fingers, you tried not to notice how natural it felt. His head tipped back into your hands, your knees bracketing his shoulders. He looked so beautiful even in a position and an angle that would make anyone else look ridiculous.

"Shit," Sunghoon breathed when he saw his reflection after you were done, water dripping down his neck. "I look insane."

You wrung out the towel, hiding your smile. "Kinda?"

The second round of bleach smelled even stronger than the first. You wrinkled your nose as you mixed the powder and developer in the little plastic bowl Sunghoon had scavenged from the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his hair already a brassy orange from the initial processing, strands sticking up in damp clumps where you’d rinsed it out.

"Your scalp is going to hate me," you murmured, carefully parting another section of his hair. The gloves made your fingers clumsy, but you tried to be gentle as you painted the bleach onto his roots. Paint was something you knew how to do. On paper and apparently on hair. The strands already felt a bit rougher against your fingers when you separated his hair before putting on gloves again. 

Sunghoon hummed, his shoulders relaxed under your touch. "Worth it."

You worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the scrape of the brush against the bowl and the occasional drip of bleach onto the towel around his shoulders. The bathroom was warm, steam still clinging to the mirror from when you’d rinsed his hair earlier.

Then your stomach growled. Loudly.

You froze, the brush hovering mid-air. Heat rushed to your face.

Sunghoon tilted his head back just enough to peer up at you. "You hungry?"

"N-no," you said automatically, even as your stomach protested again. You focused on applying more bleach, willing him to drop it. You prayed he would. You wouldn’t know how to answer if he didn’t. Technically you knew how to. You just didn’t want to. 

The third round of bleach was turning Sunghoon’s hair white when your stomach betrayed you again. A loud, visceral growl that echoed in the tiled bathroom. Your hands froze mid-application, bleach dripping onto the towel around his shoulders.

Sunghoon’s reflection raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "We’re definitely getting food after this."

Heat exploded across your face. "I’m not—" Your voice cracked. "It’s just digestion. Doesn’t mean I’m hungry."

Sunghoon turned on the stool, forcing you to withdraw your bleach-stained gloves from his hair. His gaze dropped to your hands, then traveled up to the sharp angles of your wrists exposed by your rolled-up sleeves. When his eyes met yours again, something in his expression made you want to disappear.

"You’re shaking," he said quietly.

You balled your hands into fists, but the tremor persisted. "It’s the chemicals. I already had a headache–"

"Y/N." He said your name like a sigh.

Humiliation burned through you. You focused on peeling off the gloves just to avoid his gaze. "I'm fine"

He knew. He had to know. You knew that hiding it in front of Sunghoon would be hard. Mark, Jungwon, Taeyong or your parents would see it immediately. They knew the signs, knew what they would have to look for. Sunoo might also know already. 

Sunghoon stood abruptly, his newly blond hair catching the light. For a terrifying moment you thought he might hug you—but he just stepped around you to rummage in his duffel bag he put into the bathroom to throw it into the wash. The crinkle of a protein bar wrapper sounded like gunfire in the tense silence.

He held it out. "Here."

You stared it. The calorie count flashed in your mind before you could stop it. 280. Your throat closed up. Why did it even remember the number? Why did it start again? You were doing so good. It was so frustrating. You felt like screaming but instead you almost whispered: "I can’t."

Sunghoon didn’t withdraw his hand. "Why?"

The question hung between you. If you said it out loud, it would make it real. Make it real that it came back. That all of the work you put into a healthy relationship with food has vanished into thin air after your panic attack. Since the party. The stay in the hospital. 

Sunghoon exhaled sharply and tore the wrapper open himself. He broke the bar in half, crumbs scattering across the sink. "Just this much," he said, holding out the smaller piece. "Then I’ll shut up about it."

Your vision blurred. It wasn’t fair—how gentle he was being, how carefully he’d calculated this humiliation to be bearable. The smaller piece was maybe two bites. 70 calories. 

When you took it, your fingers brushed his palm. Sunghoon didn’t smile, but something in his posture relaxed.

The first bite tasted like sawdust. The second stuck in your throat. You chased it with water while Sunghoon pretended not to watch, fussing with his hair in the mirror.

"Okay?" he asked when you’d swallowed.

You nodded, even though your stomach churned with guilt. The protein bar sat like a lead weight inside you.

Sunghoon turned back to the mirror, examining his hair. "We should do one more round. Get it properly platinum."

The casual change of topic felt like mercy. You grabbed the bleach kit with too much enthusiasm, grateful for the distraction. But as you sectioned his hair again, your reflection in the mirror caught your eye—the sharp collar bones visible under your tank top, the hollows beneath your cheeks. You looked away quickly again. For the past few days you’ve been avoiding mirrors. After you realized what was happening. After you noticed your pants slipping down more and more. After you noticed what you were eating, how much you were eating. 

Sunghoon leaned back against your knees as you worked, his warmth seeping through your pants.  ──────────────────────── A few days later you were sitting in the front seat of Jake's car while the boys piled into the back. In the rearview mirror, you caught glimpses of them in the dark - Heeseung already asleep against the window, Jay scrolling through his phone, and Sunghoon with his hood pulled up, staring blankly at the passing streetlights.

No one spoke much. You weren't sure if it was the hour or because Sunghoon was in a really bad mood and no one wanted to make him even angrier. 

The past few days were hard on Sunghoon. He went to the rink at an ungodly hour and came back late into the night. You sometimes waited for him but most of the time you were too exhausted to do so. When he told his Coach he was thinking about his chances to get into the olympic team being so low he thought about quitting, he didn't react well at all and made Sunghoon train even harder. He claimed Sunghoon had the talent and the potential and he just had to use it.

The car hummed through the darkness, the only light coming from the dashboard and the occasional streetlamp that painted the inside in fleeting gold. In the rearview mirror, you watched Sunghoon’s reflection. His hood was shadowing his eyes, his jaw clenched tight enough that you could see the muscle twitching even in the dim light. 

A pothole jolted the car, making Heeseung slump further against the window. Jay reached over to adjust the beanie slipping off his forehead. You caught Sunghoon’s eye in the mirror for half a second before he looked away, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his knee.

When you got to the arena, Sunghoon disappeared inside almost immediately. The car door slammed shut behind him before you'd even fully unbuckled your seatbelt. You watched through the windshield as he stalked toward the arena entrance, his skate bag slung over one shoulder. The boys tumbled out after him, stretching in the chilly morning air. During the past week the temperature dopped pretty suddenly and you had to start wearing jackets outside again.

"Hey! Hoon-ah!" Jay called after him, but Sunghoon either didn't hear or chose not to.

To everyone's surprise Sunghoon suddenly turned on his heel and marched back toward the car. He crushed each of the boys in quick, rough hugs. Jay first, then a sleepy Heeseung, then Jake who pretended to gag but hugged back just as hard.

Then he was standing in front of you.

The morning light caught the exhaustion under his eyes as he hesitated for half a second before pulling you in. His jacket smelled like his clean perfume he liked to use. You really liked it. "Thanks for coming," he muttered into your hair, so quiet you might have imagined it.

Before you could respond, he was gone again, the automatic doors swallowing him whole.

"Damn," Jake whistled. "He really is nervous."

You stood frozen. That was the first time he'd ever hugged you.

Jay nudged your elbow. "Come on, let's find our seats before the crowds hit. The other two are gonna get us some breakfast. Sunghoon gets some inside but we have to bring our own." ──────────────────────── The seats were better than you expected - close enough to see the skaters' expressions but high enough to view the entire rink. You had just settled in when Heeseung and Jake reappeared, their arms full with convenience food.

"Breakfast has been served," Jake announced, dropping into the seat beside you. He handed you a gimbap roll still warm from the microwave and an apple so shiny it reflected the arena lights.

Heeseung wordlessly passed you a diet banana milk, the condensation cool against your fingers. You stared at the small feast in your lap. More food than you had eaten in a single sitting in weeks.

"Thanks," you murmured, peeling back the gimbap wrapper with careful fingers. You weren’t really hungry, but you also didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

As the first skater took the ice, the others have already eaten more than half of their rolls, while you were still on your third piece. Gimbap was pretty solid against headache and wasn’t too harsh on your stomach, so you should eat some more. 

You realized pretty quickly that the others didn’t really know much more about skating than you did. Well generally skating itself they probably did, but not figure skating. They also seemed awed by the performances. You wished you brought your sketchbook to sketch some of what you were seeing. 

Three or four performances in Jake nudged your shoulder with his gently. 

“You should finish your roll. I don’t know when we will get the chance to get more food without missing anything.”

You smiled sheepishly and ate another piece. If you took breaks in between pieces it wasn’t as bad.

Then the announcer called Sunghoon's name for warm-ups, and your breath caught. He glided onto the ice, his dark costume contrasting with his white hair. 

He was right.

He was outstandingly beautiful with the white hair, or as he phrased it he looked ‘dope’.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his frame. Maybe you could sketch this from memory later. 

Sunghoon looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes were visible even from the stands. He took his starting position. The opening chords of his music filled the arena, and for the first time all morning, he looked at peace, backlit by the rink lights, all sharp angles and effortless grace. You stopped breathing when he launched into his first jump.

It was perfect. Or at least in your eyes it was and considering the crowds clapping, it was a really good jump even in the eyes of a professional viewer. 

When he finished his performance you were all on the edge of your seats. Jake leaned back with a satisfied sign. “Oh man he fucking rocked that.”

Heeseung grinned from ear to ear. “Of course. Sunghoon strives for perfection. And he'll get it with whatever he does.”

Sunghoon skated past your section again and his eyes found yours. He was smiling. 

It was a bright and relieved smile.

You grinned back, your cheeks aching with it. ──────────────────────── Thirty minutes after Sunghoons performance you started to get tired and cold. You had gotten four hours of sleep last night and now that the adrenaline was gone you felt the exhaustion creep in together with the coldness of the rink. 

A warm weight suddenly dropped onto your shoulders. You startled, turning to find Heeseung just wearing a t-shirt. His blue hoodie being draped over your shoulders. “You’re blue,” he said simply.

You blinked. “I—what?”

“Your lips. They’re turning blue,” He nudged the hoodie closer. “Put it on.”

The fabric was still warm from his body as you pulled it on, the sleeves swallowing your hands whole. 

“Thank you,” you muttered.

On the ice, the first girl of the day finished her program to polite applause. The next skater was announced—Wonnie, in a cobalt-blue dress that made her skin glow.

She looked gorgeous in her cobalt-blue dress that made her skin glow.

Perfect.

She looked perfect. 

Every of her movement was polished to perfection. 

Her first spin sent her dark hair whipping in a perfect spiral, before settling back into place as if choreographed.

Each takeoff showed the lean muscle of her thighs through her tights. When she landed, her free leg extended in a picture-perfect line, not an ounce of unnecessary flesh jiggling beneath the sheer material. The sequins on her dress scattered light with every movement, drawing attention to how the fabric clung to her narrow waist before flaring over her hips.

A strand of hair had escaped her bun during the spin, curling artfully against her flushed cheek rather than sticking awkwardly to her forehead like yours always did.

You looked down at your own legs, the sharp angles of your knees protruding through your jeans. The sleeves of Heeseung's hoodie swallowed your hands whole when you curled them into fists.

When she finished her routine to what could be considered roaring applause from this crowd you saw how she and Sunghoon hugged each other enthusiastically in the athlete tunnel. They looked perfect together. 

Sunghoon and Woonie disappeared and ten minutes later both of them stood behind you.  ──────────────────────── The moment his blades left the ice after his final pose, Sunghoon knew.

Not just that he had skated well but that he’d done enough. The quad Salchow had been crisp, his step sequence sharp enough to make his coach nod approvingly from the boards. For the first time in weeks, the Olympic team didn’t feel like an impossible dream. 

Wonnie crashed into him the second he stepped into the athlete’s tunnel, her cobalt-blue dress fluttering around her like butterfly wings. “You bastard!” she laughed, squeezing his arms. “Saving your best for when it counts, huh?”

He grinned, breath still coming hard. “Had to remind you who taught you that toe loop combo.”

She swatted his shoulder before darting off to prepare for her own skate, leaving Sunghoon buzzing with adrenaline. The world felt brighter, sharper—the fluorescent lights less harsh, the ice smell less bitter. Even the judges’ scores (solid, not spectacular) couldn’t dampen his mood.

“Let’s go find the others,” Wonnie said when she returned after her own flawless performance, still glowing under the arena lights. Her friends were seated near his, and suddenly nothing sounded better than being surrounded by his friends.

The arena lights were blinding as Sunghoon followed Wonnie up the stairs to the spectator section, his skate guards clicking against concrete. Adrenaline still hummed in his veins from his performance, mixing with the giddy relief of having skated clean when it mattered most.

"There!" Wonnie pointed to their friends' section. Jake was already on his feet, arms raised in victory, while Heeseung and Jay flanked you—a small figure drowning in Heeseung's hoodie, offering them a tentative smile as they approached.

Jake reached him first, crushing him in a back-slapping hug. "You glorious bastard!"

Jay went next, his embrace quieter but no less firm. "Knew you had it," he murmured against Sunghoon's shoulder.

Heeseung fake-wiped tears before pulling him in. "I never doubted you for a second!"

Sunghoon laughed as the three of them immediately turned to smother Wonnie in even more enthusiastic hugs, her cobalt dress disappearing between their broad frames.

Sunghoon’s breath caught when you shyly stepped forward and kind of awkwardly, kind of endearingly wrapped him into a hug.

Your arms slid tentatively around his waist, your forehead brushing his collarbone for the briefest second before you pulled back. “You did really well,” you said, so softly only he could hear it.

Your ears were turning pink. Sunghoon's throat went dry.

"Thanks," he managed, returning the hug carefully. "Thank you for coming, Y/N."

When he handed you that ticket three days ago, he had half-expected you to decline. Who wanted to wake at 4AM to watch near-strangers compete? But you said yes and now here you were, wearing Heeseung’s hoodie and looking so so soft. He had to resist from smoothing over the few stray hair that loosened from your braid over the course of the day.

He dropped into the seat next to Heeseung as the next skater took the ice.

"She ate," Heeseung murmured under the applause.

Sunghoon blinked. "What?"

"Y/N. Half a gimbap roll. Some apple." Heeseung's voice was barely audible over the music. "Drank all her banana milk."

Something warm and fierce unfurled in Sunghoon’s chest. He chanced another glance at you. The dark circles under your eyes were more pronounced up close, your collarbones too sharp above the hoodie’s neckline. But there was color in your cheeks, and when you caught him staring, you didn’t flinch away, just tilted your head in question.

Before he could explain himself, Wonyoung draped herself over his shoulders, her chin digging into the top of his head. "I'm so fucking glad this is over. We're going clubbing on Saturday," she announced, stealing a handful of Heeseung's chips. "No excuses."

Sunghoon laughed at her, but his eyes flicked to you. You were still smiling but it looked a lot stiffer than just a few seconds ago. Fuck, he really didn't want you to go party again or anyone to be percise. No matter if it was you, Wonnie or any of the boys, he never wanted to be in the same situation he was in five weeks ago. Waiting and hoping for someone he loves platonically? likes? lives with? to be in a date rape induced coma.

He cleared his voice and interjected before Wonyoung could continue. "Yeah, but I won't drink. If this went as well as it felt like we might have individuals next week." 

Wonnie rolled her eyes. "Me neither, idiot. I just wanna dance." She turned to the others. "You're all coming, right?"

Everyone responded enthusiastically. His friends never let a good party go to waste. 

Jake said a exaggerated "Duh," Heeseung answered with "If Jay pays,". Jay quietly nodded. And then all eyes landed on you.

Sunghoon saw the way your fingers twisted in the hoodie strings, how your shoulders crept toward your ears. He leaned forward before you could answer. "Won, Liv is looking for you," he lied smoothly, nodding toward a few seats a few rows behind them. "She was waving like crazy when we walked up."

Wonnie sighed dramatically but untangled herself. "Fine, fine. I'll text you the details! I'm sure the others would love to join. Let's go eat out before the club!" She ruffled Sunghoon's hair before sauntering off, her skates clacking against the steps.

Sunghoon stretched his legs, the adrenaline from his performance finally ebbing away. "You guys have any food left? I'm starving."

You blinked down at the snack box in your lap. Three remaining apple slices were laying in there. "Just these," you said, holding it out. "But they're kinda sour."

He made a show of hesitating, hoping you would not insist on him eating the slices but eat them yourself instead. "I can't take your last ones, Y/N."

"My stomach hurts from the ones I already had," you admitted quietly, pressing the container into his hands before he could protest further. Sunghoons face did something he couldn't control but he didn't comment on your admission. He just nodded as he popped a slice into his mouth.

"Damn, you're right," he grimaced, chewing. "Who picked these, Heeseung?"

"Blame Jake," Heeseung said without looking up from his phone. "He chose looks over taste."

Jake gasped in mock offense, launching into a dramatic defense of his fruit-selection skills while you stifled a yawn against Heeseung's sleeve. 

The last of the sour apple slices dissolved on his tongue as Sunghoon stretched his legs. "Any more food? I’m still starving," he asked, though he’d already seen the empty snack containers.

You blinked down at the few pieces of the remaining kimbap roll in your lap before offering it to him. "Just this," you murmured. "But the filling’s kinda..."

"Spicy?" Sunghoon guessed, seeing the red paste in the filling. You have been avoiding spice recently. The big containe of gochujang you bought in the first week he moved in was still half full. You haven’t touched it in weeks.

You nodded, your nose scrunching in a way that made something in his chest tighten. "Stomach’s not happy with me."

He took it anyway, your fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact lasted half a second, but long enough for him to notice how cold your fingertips were despite the hoodie’s warmth. ──────────────────────── The car hummed through the darkened streets, the only light coming from passing streetlamps that painted the interior in fleeting gold. You curled deeper into the backseat, sandwiched between Jay’s solid warmth on your left and Sunghoon’s frame on your right. The exhaustion of the long day had settled into your bones, the adrenaline from the competition finally ebbing away.

Jay was already asleep, his head lolled against the window, soft snores escaping every few breaths. Up front, Heeseung focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, while Jake had his headphones in, nodding along to whatever music played.

“You looked happy out there,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the others.

Sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulder shifting slightly against yours. “Relieved, more like.” He tilted his head back against the seat, the streetlights catching the sharp line of his jaw. “But yeah. It felt good.”

You hummed and nodded tiredly, "I am glad. I am happy you tried even if you thought you wouldn't get far."

"I am glad too.", he answered and it was silent for a few seconds before you spoke up again.

"That second skater—the girl with the purple dress," you murmured, low enough that only Sunghoon could hear. "I wish I had my sketchbook. She looked so pretty in that long dress, even if she feel twice."

The streetlights flickered across his face as he turned toward you, close enough that you could see the faint glitter of leftover rink spray in his white hair. "Next competition," he said, voice rough with exhaustion but earnest, "bring it. If you want to come again, I mean."

You studied his profile, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the passing lights. "Yeah," you said softly. "Sure. Of course."

A quiet understanding settled over you both as the car crossed the Han River, its dark waters shimmering with reflected city lights. Jay snorted in his sleep, jolting slightly before slumping against the window again. The movement made you aware of how stiffly you'd been holding yourself to avoid crowding Sunghoon.

"Here," he murmured suddenly, lifting his arm slightly. "Just—" He demonstrated the awkward angle of trying to sit upright while sandwiched between you and Jay. "It's worse if we all lean back."

You hesitated for only a second before letting yourself lean into him, your temple coming to rest against the curve of his shoulder.

Sunghoon exhaled, relaxing into the seat properly now, his own shoulders finally resting fully against the backrest.

“Better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble you felt more than heard.

You hummed in response. The scent of your detergent—something clean and faintly citrusy—mixed with the lingering traces of ice rink and the fabric softener from Heeseung’s hoodie still draped over you. It was comforting, familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

Sunghoon didn’t move or shift, even as the car hit a bump that jostled you slightly closer. His arm brushed against yours and his breathing slowly steadied.

You felt his head tilt slightly, resting against yours as he fell asleep. ──────────────────────── The elevator doors slid open to a wave of sound that made your skull pulse. Bass-heavy music vibrated through your apartment door before you even turned your key, mingling with overlapping voices and laughing. Your fingers trembled as you finally got the lock to turn. Whether from exhaustion or the migraine brewing behind your eyes, you couldn’t tell.

Twelve hours.

You’ve just spent twelve straight hours in the university studio, your back aching from hunching over architectural models. The coffee you’d chugged hours ago had long since worn off, leaving behind only a sour aftertaste and a stomach that rolled dangerously when you opened the front door. 

You knew Sunghoon was going to have friends over. He had asked you if it was okay if he had his boys, Wonyoung and a few of her friends over to pregame. Of course he could, it was his apartment as well. 

As you stepped inside you were second guessing that answer right now. Your nose was assaulted by an array of smells of food and alcohol. 

Sunghoon and his friends were all sitting around the sofa, Jake, Heeseung, Jay and a girl you didn’t know were playing a seemingly intense round of Mario Kart. Sunghoon was balancing three soda cans in one hand while using the other to take a shot with who you assumed was Wonyoungs friends. So much to he wouldn’t drink. But didn’t you say the same thing last time? 

His entire face lit up when he spotted you hovering in the doorway.

“Y/N!”

Sunghoon weaved his way towards you with that effortless grace he carried everywhere. Up close, you could see how excited he was. His eyes were almost sparkling.

“You look dead,” he announced, reaching for your overloaded backpack. His fingers brushed your shoulder as he slid it off, and even that slight contact sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “We saved you food! I got you some of the garlic powder chicken and the fried rice cakes from Mom’s touch! With extra powder, just how you—”

A particularly loud burst of laughter from the sofa made you flinch. The motion sent a fresh spike of pain through your temples, and suddenly the smell of  the food was overwhelming and nauseating. You pressed your lips together, willing your stomach to settle.

Sunghoon’s smile faltered. He leaned in, his voice dropping below the music’s roar. “Hey. You okay?”

“Migrane,” you managed, gripping the door frame for balance. Your vision swam slightly at the edges. “Just need to… lie down.”

Behind him, Jake's girlfriend appeared, her face flushed from alcohol. “Y/N! You’re coming out with us, right? We’re going to B1!” Her pout was picture-perfect, her lip gloss catching the light as she spoke. How did Sunghoon only have pretty friends? But then at the same time, pretty people attract pretty people, right?

The thought of a crowded club, of flashing lights, pounding music and the amount of hot and sweaty bodies pressing into yours made your stomach lurch violently.

“Migraine,” you gritted out again, already edging toward the hallway. “Next time.”

Sunghoon caught your wrist in a gentle but firm grasp. His thumb brushed your pulse point, his brows drawn together. “I’ll make you tea,” he murmured. “You should eat something when your head is feeling better. I bought new ginger tea. It’s in the–”

“Cabinet above the sink.” You forced a smile, slipping free of his grip. “You don’t have to Sunghoon. Have fun and be carefull.”

Escape was all you could think about. You made it three steps down the hall before the nausea crested, sending you stumbling into the bathroom. The door swung open to reveal Wonnie mid-mascara application, her reflection flawless in the fogged mirror.

“Oh, Y/N!” She turned, her head tilting in mild confusion. “You look awful.”

The words weren’t malicious, just observant. That made it worse. 

Up close, Wonnie was even more devastatingly pretty. Her skin was poreless under the harsh lights, her collarbones delicate rather than skeletal like yours. When she shifted, her cropped top rode up to reveal toned abs, the kind that came from disciplined training rather than starvation.

"Migraine," you muttered, brushing past her to grab your toothbrush.

Wonnie's perfectly shaped brows furrowed. "That's too bad." She leaned against the doorframe, watching as you fumbled with the toothpaste. "I would have loved it if you came along tonight. The others too. We wouldn’t have let anyone close to you, but I understand if you don’t want to come. "

Your hands stilled. The toothpaste tube slipped from your grip, hitting the sink with a plastic clatter. ”I-yeah,” you croaked out, “maybe next time.”

Wonnie either didn't notice or chose to ignore your reaction. "Anyway, feel better!" She flashed a smile before disappearing in a cloud of her perfume.

The door clicked shut, leaving you alone with your reflection. The girl in the mirror was a ghost—pale skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, dark circles like bruises under bloodshot eyes. The sounds of laughter from the living room seemed to grow louder as you mechanically brushed your teeth, the mint doing little to combat the taste of bile.

By the time you emerged, the group was gathering by the door. Sunghoon lingered near the back, his gaze finding yours across the chaos almost immediately.

“I made you some tea. And the rest of the chicken is in a container in the fridge. Try to eat something before you go to bed,” he said, shrugging on his jacket. The others were already spilling into the hallway, but he hesitated, one hand on the doorframe. “Text if you need anything.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.

“Have fun,” you whispered.

Then they were gone, the apartment plunging into sudden silence. It still smelled like food, alcohol and a mixture of perfumes that the others had sprayed on before leaving. 

You stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly on your feet. Your body felt both weightless and unbearably heavy as you trudged towards the kitchen to clean up whatever mess Sunghoon and his friends had left and to drink some of the tea Sunghoon made. Sunghoon shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning up tomorrow and should sleep in. He deserved it. 

 You also had to somehow eat something so you could take painkillers. 

After fifteen minutes have you opened the windows, cleaned the kitchen and living room, set a trash bag with the empty containers outside for sunghoon to carry downstairs and drank almost all of the tea. 

Your migraine was now a full-force storm behind your eyes so you just dropped onto the sofa after closing the windows and dimming the lights. There was a new episode of My demon today. You would just rewatch the episode with Sunghoon tomorrow.  ──────────────────────── The bass thrummed through Sunghoons ribs like a second heartbeat, the sticky air thick with sweat and perfume. Neon lights pulsed in erratic bursts, casting the writhing bodies on the dance floor in garish pinks and blues. He hated it here.

He shifted against the bar, fingers drumming on the condensation-slick glass of his untouched drink. The music was too loud, the crowd too close, the laughter too sharp. Every brush of a stranger’s elbow against his back sent a prickle of irritation down his spine. He should’ve stayed home.

Sunghoons jaw tightened.

The memory of you in the doorway flashed behind his eyes. How your fingers had dug into the frame for balance, how your face had gone pale.

He had known you had a deadline. Known you have been skipping meals again, that your headaches were more intense in the last few days. But he’d let Jake talk him into hosting, let Wonnie chatter about her plans for the evening and let his friends invade the apartment.

His teeth ground together. The club’s music morphed into a distorted screech, grating against his skull. He could be on the couch right now. Could’ve dimmed the lights, pulled up My Demon, watch you curl into the armrest you the way you did when the pain got bad. Could’ve made sure you actually ate instead of leaving you to nibble at cold chicken alone in the dark.

A drunk girl stumbled into his shoulder, giggling an apology he didn’t acknowledge.

What was he even doing here? Pretending he wasn’t itching to go back to his apartment? Pretending he didn’t feel like an asshole for coming here? For inviting his friends over when he knew you would have a deadline?

He checked his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. No messages.

He hadn’t expected any. You wouldn’t text him. Not when you thought he was having fun.

Jake materialized beside him, shouting directly into his ear: “This place sucks! Let’s bail.”

Sunghoon didn’t need convincing. By 11:15, he’d extracted himself from the group and was striding toward the bus stop, the cool night air a relief against his overheated skin.

When he reached his apartment door an hour late, thanks to the million stops the night bus made from Hongdae to Sangdo, he was surprised to see a trash bag hanging from the apartment door handle, neatly tied, the weight of it pulling the plastic taut. Sunghoon blinked at it for a second, his brain slow to process.

He hadn’t taken the trash out.

Which meant...you did.

His fingers curled around the bag’s knot, the crinkle of plastic loud in the empty hallway.

Even though you had been pale and swaying on your feet earlier. Even though you had barely been able to keep your eyes open when he left.

His chest squeezed.

He carried it downstairs, the night air cool against his skin, and tried not to think about how you must’ve dragged yourself up to clean up his mess.

He exhaled hard through his nose and carried the bag downstairs, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been.

Sunghoon turned the key as quietly as possible, easing the door open inch by inch. The apartment was dark, the only light the faint blue flicker of the TV from the living room. He toed off his shoes, stepping carefully over the threshold.

The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner. 

He crept forward, peering into the living room.

There you were. A lump of blankets on the sofa, half-buried in fabric, one arm draped over your eyes and a cooling packet on your forehead. The TV cast shifting shadows over your face, paused on the title screen of My Demon.  You didn't even manage to watch longer than the intro?

Sunghoon’s throat went dry.

He should’ve been here. Should’ve stayed.

His eyes flicked to the kitchen. The counters were spotless. No trace of the takeout containers, no stray chopsticks, no sticky rings from glasses. Even the trash can had a fresh liner.

All of it—his mess—cleaned up by you, when you could barely keep your eyes open earlier.

His mug sat drying on the rack. The one he’d made your tea in.

Empty.

A stupid, warm feeling curled in his stomach.

You’d drunk all of it. Or at least he hoped you did so and didn't just toss it into the sink.

He was halfway to the couch—to wake you up, so you could go to bed and sleep in your own bed—when your voice cut through the quiet.

“Why are you home so early?”

Sunghoon nearly jumped out of his skin.

You were watching him, bleary-eyed but awake, the blanket slipping off your shoulder as you pushed yourself up on one elbow.

He swallowed. “Club was shit.”

You hummed. The TV’s glow caught the exhaustion still clinging to your face, the way you squinted at him like even the dim light hurt.

Sunghoon sank onto the couch beside you, his knee brushing yours. “You cleaned,” he said quietly.

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “I know. But you would have to do it hungover tomorrow, and that’s worse than my migrane. I am used to it.”

He huffed, but his throat felt tight. “Still. You should’ve just slept.”

“I did,” you said, nodding toward the TV. “After.”

Sunghoon followed your gaze. The screen still displayed My Demon, paused right at the beginning.

“You waited,” he realized.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled the blanket over his legs too, your fingers brushing his knee.

“Play it,” you mumbled, already settling back against the cushions. “Before I fall asleep again.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. Scoot over.”

You made a half-hearted attempt to shift, but the blankets had you trapped. Sunghoon huffed a laugh before wedging himself into the remaining space, his back pressed against the cushions, your legs now draped over his lap. It was awkward, too close and not close enough, the heat from your body seeping through the layers of fabric between you.

“Comfortable?” you teased, your voice still rough with sleep.

“Perfect,” he deadpanned, adjusting his arm to avoid elbowing you in the face.

You hit play.

Seven minutes in, you broke the silence. “How was it? The club.”

Sunghoon’s fingers drummed against your shin. “Loud. Wonnie spilled a drink on some guy’s shoes. The Dj played random european music because there were a lot of exchange students there.”

“Sounds eventful.”

“Boring,” he corrected. His thumb traced idle circles over the arch of your foot through the blanket. “I would have rather been here.”

"I don't want to be the reason why you aren't going out with your friends Sunghoon. I am an adult, I can be alone on a Friday evening. It's how its always been."

The admission hung between you. On screen, the demon said something sarcastic, but neither of you laughed.

Sunghoon’s hand stilled. “You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“You had plans.”

“I would’ve stayed.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. You blinked at him and then you just sighed, your toes curling into his thigh. “Point taken.” 

Sunghoon swallowed. “Is it that bad that I would enjoy spending time with you, Guwon and Dodohee, here more than with the others in a warm, loud, stinky and sticky club?”

You snorted quietly. “You can just admit that you want to thirst over Song Kang with me. I don’t judge.”

Sunghoon slightly hit your ankle but didn’t deny what you said. He did enjoy watching Song Kang act, he was hot. 

You reversed the part the two of you missed and pressed start again. 

Sunghoon’s thumb paused it's absent tracing over your ankle and he broke the silence this time. "Did the tea help?"

You nodded against the cushion, the movement small. "Mm. I drank all of it. Thanks." The admission came softly. "I ate some of the chicken too."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good." A beat. Then, quieter: "You get these often? The migraines?"

The demon on screen laughed sharply, masking your hesitation. "Not as much as I used to." You picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "They’re sort of…leftover. From when I wasn’t taking care of myself properly."

Sunghoon stilled. Taking care of yourself properly? Just like you were doing right now? Not eating, sleeping, overloading your schedule? His fingers tightened imperceptibly around your foot. "When was that?"

"High school." You shrugged, like it didn’t matter. "My body’s still mad at me, I guess."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly through his nose, his thumb resuming its gentle circles - this time against the jut of your ankle bone.

"Are you taking care of it now?," he asked quietly. 

Your toes curled slightly under his palm. "I’m trying to."

The TV flickered, casting shadows across his face as he studied you - the dark circles under your eyes, the way your collarbones stood out just a little too sharply. Something in his chest ached.

"Hey." He nudged your knee with his. "Next time you feel a migraine coming on–"

"I’ll tell you," you finished softly.

Sunghoon’s lips quirked. "Good."

You turned back to the drama and for a few minutes the only sounds in your apartment was the low murmuring from the TV. 

The demon heroine's voice trembled through the speakers: "You call this love? Real love doesn't make you question your worth."

Sunghoon felt your ankle tense slightly beneath his fingers as you asked, "Have you ever been in love?"

For a moment, neon lights and pounding bass flashed behind his eyes. He saw a girl in front of him, so lively it might have been real right now. Her chestnut hair smelled like vanilla. She was laughing brightly as she teased him about his terrible dancing, while she was dancing even worse. Taking his hand. Pulling him in. Kissing him. 

His thumb stilled against your ankle.

"There was someone," he admitted, voice softer than he intended. "Another skater. Not serious, but..." He swallowed, watching the TV's blue light play across your blanket-covered knees. "I could've loved her, I think."

He thought about how Soomin would tuck her hair behind her ears when nervous, how she'd bring him energy drinks before morning practices, how her mittened hands would brush against his when they walked home from the rink. The way his chest would tighten when she smiled at him, when they would giggle together like teenagers in love. They were teenagers in love, both of them just loving something else more than each other.

"I was seventeen," he continued, fingers tracing absent patterns on your socked foot. It were cute socks with small flowers on them. "Right before Junior Worlds. Every of my thought was about landing that damn triple axel." His mouth twisted. "By the time I was done with all that, she'd moved to Canada to train. She still lives there."

The confession tasted bittersweet. He wasn’t exactly heartbroken back then. He was somewhat glad that he couldn’t be distracted by her anymore so he could focus on school and skating. In the years after he had often asked himself what might have been if the two of them would have taken their eyes off of the ice for just a second. They would have been a nice couple. 

On screen, rain streaked down windows as the male lead walked away. You studied Sunghoon's profile in the flickering light. "Do you regret it?"

He shifted. "Sometimes. Not her specifically, just..." He gestured vaguely. "Being so single-minded. What I might have missed."

The admission surprised him. He'd never voiced that particular regret aloud - how he'd let routines and rotations come in between something so much more important. 

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you been in love?"

You smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Not even close. I haven't even kissed someone."

"Never?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"Never." You plucked at the blanket's edge, the threadbare fabric catching on your fingernail. "I think, now and back then, that...if you can't love yourself properly, you shouldn't let someone else try. It wouldn't be fair to them."

Sunghoon's breath caught for a second as the pieces clicked together - your careful portions, the way you'd deflect compliments, the migraines born from "not taking care of yourself properly." Jake was right. Or well. Halfways? it did sound like you had an ed in highschool. Maybe the party triggered something and you were going back to that mindset? You weren’t eating like this before. He was sure of that.

His hand slid up to cradle your calf, fingers pressing gently into the muscle there. "That's..." He searched for words that wouldn't scare you off. "Really mature, actually."

You huffed a brittle laugh. "Or just really good at self-sabotage."

The joke fell flat between you. Sunghoon's grip tightened, his thumb finding the delicate hollow behind your knee. He thought of Soomin's easy confidence, the way she'd owned every inch of the ice and then of you, folding yourself smaller, quieter, as if trying to disappear into the couch cushions.

"Hey." His voice dropped, rough with unspoken emotion. "Knowing your limits isn't sabotage. It's..." He trailed off, suddenly aware of how close your faces were in the dim light, how your breath hitched when his fingers brushed that sensitive spot behind your knee.

On screen, the demon whispered something about second chances. Neither of you looked away.

Sunghoon's pulse thundered in his ears. He didn’t remember what he wanted to say so instead, his thumb traced slow circles on your skin. 

The episode played on. The blue glow of the TV painted the curve of your cheek, the nervous flutter of your lashes as you stared at where his hand still rested behind your knee. Sunghoon could feel the minute tremors running through you.

"You know," you said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper, "that first morning you made breakfast? When we had barely known each other for two weeks?"

Sunghoon's fingers stilled against your skin. He remembered, the burned pancakes, the way you'd hovered in the doorway like you weren't sure you were allowed to eat with him. "Yeah?"

"You put honey in my tea exactly how I like it." Your fingers twisted in the blanket. "I don't even remember telling you that."

His hand slid up to cradle your knee properly now, fingers pressing gently into the soft skin behind it. "You always put in two spoons," he murmured. "Every time you make yourself a cup. It wasn't hard to notice."

You ducked your head, but not before he saw the flush creeping up your neck. "Still. Most people don't pay attention like that."

The 'most people' lingered between you, heavy with everything it implied about what you expected from the world. Sunghoon's thumb traced idle circles on your inner thigh, the touch feather-light but deliberate.

"You're wrong, you know."

"About what?" you breathed.

"About not being loved." His fingers tightened slightly around your knee. "I think people have loved you in all the small ways you didn't let yourself see. The way the ajumma at the convenience store downstairs saves you the last vegetarian kimbap. The way Mark sends you like a million pictures a day. How Jungwoo just randomly orders stuff to our apartment because he remembers you talking about it and how Taeyong remembered to pack everything you might miss from home." He hesitated, then added softly, "How I memorized your tea preferences after seeing you make it just once."

A startled laugh escaped you, bright and unexpected in the dim room. "That's not love, Sunghoon. That's just...being decent."

"Isn't it?" His thumb brushed higher, just beneath the hem of your shorts. "What's love if not noticing? If not remembering?"

Your breath hitched. On screen, the credits began to roll, the music swelling dramatically. Neither of you moved until you shook your head and cleared your throat. “I’ll go to toilet for a second. Can you stop the episode?”

Sunghoon nodded. “Sure thing.”

He stretched out across the sofa the moment you disappeared down the hall, groaning as his spine popped. The cushions still held your warmth, the blanket carrying the faint scent of your shampoo as he flopped onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. Just for a second. Just until you came back.

The apartment was quiet save for the hum of the fridge. Sunghoon let his muscles go lax. He was exhausted from the last week and from going to class and to that shitty club. His mind replayed your conversation. Of course he’d noticed. Somehow he noticed everything about you. 

He barely had time to roll onto his side before you reappeared, blinking down at him where he was sprawled out on the entire sofa.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “I go to pee for three seconds and you steal my spot on the sofa? Pardon me, take over the whole sofa?”

Sunghoon grinned, shuffling closer to the backrest in exaggerated courtesy. “Plenty of room,” he lied, patting the sliver of space left in front of him. He was joking and about to sit up to let you get into your original position when you suddenly lifted the blanket he was laying on. 

And crawled in.

Every synapse in Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited as you settled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your hair tickling his nose. He froze, arm still suspended mid-air where he’d been about to “adjust” the pillows.

“This okay?” you murmured, already curling into the space he’d made.

Okay? His lungs forgot how to work. He didn’t know where to put his hands. Could he touch you? Would that be okay? Slowly, carefully, he let his arm drape over your waist.

“S’perfect,” he managed, voice rough.

You hummed reaching for the remote and starting the next episode. 

The last coherent thought Sunghoon had before sleep claimed him was that he’d never moving again—not even for morning practice, not even if the rink burned down. Not when you were laying here, all soft and trusting against his heartbeat. ──────────────────────── The disinfectant smell of the cleaner burned in your nose as you scrubbed at the same spot on Counter #3 for what felt like the hundredth time. Your fingers trembled slightly against the rag—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you had to press your palm flat against the surface to steady yourself.

Sunoo's hip-check nearly sent you stumbling into the popcorn machine. "Earth to Y/N," he sang, waving a bag of sour gummies in your face. The neon lights overhead made the candy look almost fluorescent. "You've been polishing that same spot for ten minutes."

You blinked, your thoughts snapping back into focus like a rubber band. "Sorry," you muttered, snatching the gummies from him and placing them back in their exact spot on the shelf—third row from the top, between the strawberry belts and the chocolate-covered almonds. "What did you say?"

Sunoo studied you, his usual playful grin fading into something more careful. "Are you okay? If you're feeling sick, I'm sure Taemin would let you go early."

The concern in his voice made your stomach twist. You forced a smile, the expression stretching uncomfortably across your face. "No, I'm just tired."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You were tired.

Sunoo leaned against the counter, the red of his uniform vest clashing horribly with his peach-blond hair. "You sure? You've been super quiet today."

You wiped your hands on your jeans and nodded. "I promise I'm fine. Don't worry."

But Sunoo's eyes flicked to your fingers. 

"Did you eat something nice on the weekend?" he asked, his voice deliberately light, like he wasn't digging for confirmation.

You blinked, your mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn't make him worry. Just the fact that you had to think about an answer worried you. "Huh? Oh—yeah. I had fried chicken with Sunghoon on Saturday."

Sunoo's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Moms Touch?"

"Yeah," you said, turning back to the counter to wipe down an already-clean spot. The motion was automatic, something to keep your hands busy. "He ordered it for me when he and his friends ordered the day before because they had that 1+1 offer."

Sunoo's lips twitched. 

"And then we fell asleep on the couch," you added absently.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and Sunoo's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

You froze, the rag slipping from your fingers. Shit. You hadn't meant to say that. 

"It wasn't a big deal," you said quickly, your voice too high. "We were watching My Demon and I had a headache, so I kinda... leaned on him. Next thing I know, it's morning and—"

"—and you woke up in his arms," Sunoo finished, his voice pitching higher with every word. "Y/N. Y/N."

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the counter. "It's not like that."

"Oh, it's exactly like that," Sunoo said, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. "But we're circling back to that in a second. First—" He nudged your foot with his. "—you actually ate the chicken? Like, properly?"

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Four pieces. Three radish slices. Two sips of yogurt drink. 

"I ate," you said, the words sharper than intended. You pressed your lips together and scrubbed a bit more aggressively. 

Sunoo didn't miss the way you didn't answer the question. 

"Y/N," he said softly.

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a laugh. "Sunghoon even remembered to order with extra garlic powder." 

Sunoo exhaled through his nose. He and Sunghoon were similar in a few aspects. They were obsessive. Insistent. Careful. And they noticed.

"You know," Sunoo said lightly, stealing a gummy worm from the display, "if you did want to talk about the whole 'waking up cuddled with Sunghoon' thing instead—"

You threw a handful of popcorn at him but took the offer for distraction. The popcorn kernels scattered across the counter, and Sunoo yelped as a few bounced off his forehead. You took a deep breath before continuing, fingers tapping nervously against the laminate.

"I came home Friday with the worst migraine," you started, keeping your voice low. "Sunghoon had friends over, and the apartment was... loud."

Sunoo nodded, uncharacteristically quiet as he listened.

You swallowed. "I barely made it to my room before almost throwing up. When they left for the club, I cleaned up. So he wouldn't have to deal with it hungover."

Sunoo's eyes softened. "Of course you did."

You ignored that. "I was on the couch watching – well i tried watching but i fell asleep – when he came back early. Said the club was 'shit.' They went to B1."

A grin tugged at Sunoo's lips. "Sounds about right."

"He sat with me," you continued, tracing a water ring on the counter. "At first it was normal—just watching the show. Then..." Your throat tightened. "I went to pee and he was sprawled out across the sofa. And I think he jokingly offered me to come lie down with him. But I was tired and…I don't know. I layed down. Like my backside to his front and shit. He put his hand around my waist. And then...I don't even remember falling asleep. Just woke up on Sunday with his arm around me."

Sunoo's eyebrows shot up. "And?"

"And nothing!" You threw your hands up. "He asked if I wanted breakfast, but it was lunchtime, so we ate the chicken. End of story."

Sunoo studied you for a long moment. "You left out the part where you told me you scarfed down the whole box alone, because you love that chicken."

Your breath caught.

"Y/N." His voice was gentle. "You're doing it again."

The concession stand suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. You focused on the popcorn machine's hum, the steady drip of the leaky soda fountain—anything but the concern in Sunoo's eyes.

"It's not like before," you whispered.

"Isn't it?"

You didn't answer. Sunoo was there when it happened the first time. He saw the signs back then. He did so now as well. This time he saw it quicker. You weren't trying to hide it, you didn’t even realize you were doing it again. You wished you could just ignore your head. Ignore the numbers, the nausea. But you couldn't and he knew.

Outside, the rain picked up, drumming against the cinema's roof.

Sunoo reached over, squeezing your hand. "He notices, you know. Sunghoon. From what you've told me he definitely did." He sighed.

You hated it. Hated how easily Sunghoon saw through you, how he'd nudged the takeout box closer when you set your chopsticks down too soon, how his eyes had lingered on your untouched plate just a second too long. You knew Sunghoon knew. He probably has for a while. Food was not in their packaging but in boxes or their packages were conveniently ripped open where the calorie label was printed on. He definitely knew after you more or less told him on Saturday. And yet, your vision blurred and the counter beneath your hands felt suddenly unsteady.

"Hey." Sunoo ducked his head to catch your gaze. "You know I'm saying this because–"

"I know," you cut him off, voice thick. "Just... not right now, okay?"

He studied you for another moment before nodding. "Okay."

The two of you kept working, you scrubbing the already clean counter and Sunoo refilling the stands for the sweets.

His silence was louder than the movie's playing quietly in the background. When you dared a glance at him, he was already looking at you. "Y/N. Sweetheart. Light of my life.", he said "do you think Sunghoon has a crush on you."

You almost choked on your own spit at the topic change. "Sunghoon has a what on whom?"

"A crush. On you.", Sunoo said, shrugging his shoulders

"What makes you think that?", you asked, trying to regain your composture. 

"Well everything you've told me so far? He replaced our favourite vase? He is clearly looking out for you even if you aren’t."

"That's just—"

"Don't say 'being a good friend,' I swear to god—"

"—observant," you finished weakly, making your way over to counter 4.  

"Look, even if—hypothetically—Sunghoon liked me, which he doesn't—" You ignored Sunoo's dramatic eye roll. "—we live together. It would be a disaster. I'd have to move out. Probably change my name. Flee the country—"

"Or," Sunoo interjected, following you and leaning onto the counter next to you, "you could admit you think he is cute."

"I don’t think he is cute.", you lied, shaking your head aggressively.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Don’t lie to me.”, he deadpanned. “ You do think he is cute. And I’ll tell you one thing, you beautiful disaster," he said, uncharacteristically serious. "If Park Sunghoon is out here memorizing your food preferences, you better believe he's noticed your eating behaviours too. "

Your throat tightened. “I know.” ──────────────────────── Rain drummed against Sunghoon's umbrella as he stepped into the little flower shop at the market. It smelled like damp earth and the mixture of flower scents. 

The ajumma running it glanced up from trimming rose stems, her face breaking into a smile when she recognized him. "Ah! My dear boy," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "More flowers for your girlfriend?"

Sunghoon's ears burned as he ducked his head. "Ah, no—just my roommate. Y/N? She's, um. She comes here often."

The ajumma's eyebrows shot up. "Y/N?" She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "I wondered where she'd gone. It's been weeks."

Something sharp twisted in Sunghoon's chest. He'd noticed too—the empty vase on your windowsill, gathering dust. The absence of your weekly ritual of trimming stems and humming to yourself as you arranged them. The apartment felt colder without your little touches of life.

He missed the flowers.

"She has been very busy recently," he said, running a finger along the edge of a daisy petal. "Do you have anything… cheery?"

The ajumma hummed, already reaching for a cluster of flowers that looked like colorful miniature sunflowers. "For Y/N?"

Sunghoon hesitated.

"These," the ajumma said, handing him a bundle of the orange mini sunflowers. Their centers were a deep, warm brown, their petals vibrant against the gray afternoon. "Like sunshine. Good for gloomy days."

Sunghoon nodded, his throat oddly tight. "She hasn’t been feeling the best lately."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The ajumma paused, her shears hovering over a bundle of eucalyptus. "Ah," she said softly. "That's so sad to hear."

The ajumma wrapped the gerberas in brown paper, her movements deliberate. "You tell her Mrs. Park says hello and that she has to come by soon, mhm." She tied the bundle with twine, then added a sprig of something purple and feathery. "For luck."

Sunghoon paid, tucking the flowers under his jacket to shield them from the rain. As he turned to leave, the ajumma called after him:

"That girl—she always picks the flowers that are about to wilt. Says they deserve to be pretty for a little longer too. Take care of these ones."

Sunghoon stood frozen in the rain, the ajumma's words echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat. She always picks the ones about to wilt. You, who treated yourself like something temporary. Something only meant to be pretty in passing.

A drop of rain slid down his neck as he stared at the gerberas in his hands.

His grip tightened on the stems.

You deserve more than scraps, he thought, tucking them closer under his jacket as the rain thickened. ──────────────────────── Your phone lit up with Taeyong's caller ID - the ridiculous selca of him making fish lips flashing across the screen. A grin spread across your face as you swiped to answer.

"Oppa! I was just about to call you!" you chirped, tucking your legs beneath you on the couch. The late afternoon sun streamed through the balcony windows, warming your oversized sweater. You tugged your sleeves over your hands.

"Yah, you liar," Taeyong's voice crackled through the speaker, rich with amusement. "You haven't voluntarily called me since you stole my limited edition G-Dragon album in 2016."

You gasped dramatically. "First of all, I borrowed that. Second of all, I was fourteen!"

"And yet here we are, eight years later, and my collection is still incomplete," he fired back, but you could hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway - train tickets. Did you get the 9am or the 11am?"

Your fingers absently traced the edge of your laptop. "Eleven," you answered.

You'd actually been debating between the two all week - earlier meant more time with family, but later meant less time under scrutiny. "Less chance of me being a zombie when I arrive."

Taeyong snorted. "Please, you've been a morning person since you were in diapers. Remember when you used to wake me up at 5am to watch Saturday cartoons?"

The memory made you smile. "You always pretended to be annoyed but you'd make us those weird peanut butter and kimchi sandwiches."

"Hey! Those were gourmet!" His indignation was undercut by his own laughter. "Besides, you're one to talk - you put sugar in your jjigae until you were twelve."

You were mid-retort when the screen suddenly flickered to video call. Taeyong's face filled the display, his sharp features illuminated by the warm sun light. He blinked, then his expression softened.

"Oh." His voice went quiet. "Sorry. I didn't mean to click on FaceTime."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

For a fleeting second, you considered hanging up. The angle wasn't flattering - the sunlight catching the hollows under your eyes, the way your sweater swallowed your frame. But then Taeyong smiled, genuine and warm, and something in your chest unclenched.

"No worries, Oppa," you murmured, smiling back.

He tilted his head, studying you. "You look tired."

You shrugged. "Uni. You know how it is."

"Mm." His gaze was knowing but gentle. "Well, Mom's got three kinds of kimchi waiting for you. And Dad ordered the expensive meat. He says he's going to make you the best samgyeopsal of your life."

Your stomach growled audibly at the mention of your father's famous grilled pork belly. Taeyong's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Someone's excited," he teased.

"I haven't had real good samgyeopsal in months," you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sunghoon tried to make it last week and it was... an experience. Our fire alarms definitely work."

Taeyong threw his head back laughing. "Please tell me you didn't burn down your apartment."

"Obviously." You grinned. "The kitchen just smells a bit weird."

The conversation flowed easily after that - Taeyong updating you on Johnny and his traveling plans for later in the year, you telling him about your art project, both of you debating which Chuseok games to play this year.

"Jungwoo is bringing that new board game he's obsessed with," Taeyong said, then smirked. "Which means we can team up against him like always."

You groaned. "Last time we did that he didn't speak to us for three days."

"Worth it." Taeyong's expression softened. "It's not the same without you, you know. The summer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I know. I've missed being home too."

A voice called Taeyong's name in the background. He glanced off-screen, then back at you. "Gotta run, bug." He paused, his dark eyes serious for a moment. "One week. Don't be late."

You mock-saluted. "Yes, sir."

The call ended, leaving you smiling at your darkened screen. Excitement bubbled in your chest. You were going home. Finally. Just the thought of home made you crave eating your moms food. You realized you could actually eat some of your moms food. You still had some kolddugi muchim in your freezer. With a swift movement that made you stop and drop back down onto the sofa until your vision came back you stood up. You really had to remember to take your vitamins. ──────────────────────── The kolddugi muchim stared back at you from the plate like it had personally wronged you.

You’d cooked it perfectly—tender squid glazed in spicy-sweet sauce, the edges caramelized just enough to crunch. It smelled like home. But now that it was in front of you, your stomach twisted like you’d swallowed rocks.

Just one bite.

Your chopsticks hovered over the plate, trembling slightly. The numbers flashed in your mind unbidden. You squeezed your eyes shut.

You wanted to eat. You missed eating.

But your body recoiled like the food was poison.

The front door opened.

Sunghoon froze in the doorway, skate bag dangling from his fingers. His gaze flicked from your hunched shoulders to the untouched plate, then back to your face.

He kicked off his shoes and shuffled into the kitchen. “Did you make kolddugi muchim?” He peered over your shoulder at the food. “You gonna glare it into submission or…?”

You scowled. “I’m thinking.”

“Ah. Deep culinary meditation. Got it.” He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, his tone deliberately light.

“Need a taste tester? For scientific accuracy?”

You hesitated. Then nudged the plate toward him.

Sunghoon took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hm.” Another bite. “Interesting.” A third. “Yep. Definitely–”

You swatted his arm. “What?”

“–needs more.” He stole your chopsticks, splitting the squid into two uneven portions. The smaller one, he pushed toward you. The larger, he drenched in extra sauce. “There. That’s more my style.”

You stared at the modest pile–five manageable pieces. Five. You could do five.

Sunghoon didn’t watch as you picked up your chopsticks. He just launched into a story about his friend’s disastrous new haircut, waving his hands animatedly.

The fifth bite of squid sat heavy in your stomach. You pressed your palm discreetly below your ribs, willing the cramp to fade as Sunghoon rambled on. His voice was warm and slightly raspy from hours of yelling at the rink. You loved how it dipped when he was trying not to laugh, how he'd gesture wildly with his chopsticks when the story got good. Right now, though, you could barely focus past the fire spreading through your gut.

"—and then the clippers apparently just slipped and now—" Sunghoon paused mid-sentence. His chopsticks hovered over his plate. "You okay?"

You swallowed hard. "Just... stomach doing stupid stuff." The admission came out quieter than you'd intended.

Sunghoon didn't react dramatically. Just set down his chopsticks with a soft clink. "Spice too much?"

You nodded, shame heating your cheeks. Two months ago, you could've eaten this entire plate without breaking a sweat. Now your body rebelled against what should've been comfort food. You hated it so much.

Without another word, Sunghoon pushed back from the table. You watched his retreating back—the way his shoulders moved under his thin t-shirt as he filled the kettle, the practiced ease of his hands as he rummaged through the tea cabinet while he continued telling you about the class he had after his morning training session.

The kettle whistled. Steam curled around Sunghoon's face as he poured, his brow furrowed in concentration. You traced the line of his jaw with your eyes—the sharp angle you'd once drawn in your sketchbook, the faint scar near his ear from a childhood skating accident. How many times had you sat like this, watching him move through the kichen? A thousand quiet moments folded into the creases of your memory.

"Here." Sunghoon set the steaming mug in front of you, the scent of ginger and honey wrapping around you like an embrace. "Drink slow."

Your fingers brushed his as you took it.

"Thanks," you murmured.

He didn't sit back down. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you take the first sip. The tea was perfect—not too sweet, not too bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

The cramp had eased slightly.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Sunghoon’s fingers tapped an absent rhythm against his mug. “We should get bingsu next week someday. That place near campus.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That sounds good.” ──────────────────────── You were sitting on top of your luggage when Mark found you, your knees pulled up to your chest and your hoodie swallowing your frame. The fabric smelled faintly of your detergent and Sunghoon's room refreshener—something crisp and clean—and you tugged the sleeves further over your hands, hiding the way your wrists had grown sharper over the past few months.

"Hey, brat," Mark called, his voice bright with excitement as he jogged toward you. "You better not have forgotten my—"

He stopped dead the moment you turned around.

You saw it happen in slow motion—the way his grin faltered, the way his eyes flickered over your face. His grip tightened on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The bus terminal buzzed around you—people talking and laughing, suitcases rolling, announcements crackling over the speakers—but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

Mark's eyes traced your face, lingering on the hollows beneath your cheekbones, the way your collarbones jutted sharply above the neckline of the oversized hoodie. His expression darkened with each second, his initial joy draining away until only something raw and wounded remained.

"You look like shit," he said finally, his voice quiet.

You forced a laugh, standing up. "Thanks. I missed you too."

Mark didn't smile. He just stared at you, his jaw working.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, abruptly, he grabbed the handle of your luggage. "Let's go," he muttered, yanking it toward the bus without waiting for you.

You scrambled to your feet, your legs wobbling slightly as you hurried after him. "Mark—"

You collapsed onto the seat next to him, folding yourself into the seat. The bus hummed to life, the engine vibrating under your feet as rain streaked the windows.

Mark didn't look at you.

Not when you adjusted your sleeves for the fifth time, not when you dug your nails into your palms to keep yourself from fidgeting. He just stared straight ahead, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knee.

The silence was worse than the subway stairs.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly too tight. Mark had been the one who struggled most when you first developed your eating disorder as a teen. Where your parents, Taeyong and Junwoo had reacted with immediate concern and research, Mark had just looked... lost. Mark had been the one who found you purging for the first time when you were fifteen. You remembered how the bathroom door had crashed open, how he'd gone deathly pale seeing you hunched over the toilet. He hadn't yelled - his voice had been terrifyingly quiet when he asked "What are you doing?". The way his hands shook as he pulled you up, the broken "Why?" whispered against your hair as he hugged you too tight. He had never understood, not really - but his pain had been so raw it scared you more than your own illness.

But this was the first time he'd seen you since you relapsed. Really seen you.

And his face had fallen.

Not in surprise. Not in anger. Just—sadness. A deep, quiet kind of sadness that made your stomach twist.

The bus rattled over a pothole, jostling you sideways. Your shoulder bumped into Mark's, and he stiffened.

"You could've just told me," he said finally, his voice low.

You froze.

"I called you," he continued, still not looking at you. "Every damn week. 'Hey, let's get dinner.' 'Hey, come over.' 'Hey, Mom's asking about you.' And you—" His breath hitched. "You cancelled every time."

You dug your nails deeper into your palms. 

You wanted to explain how you'd thought about calling him a hundred times, how you'd typed out texts only to delete them, terrified of seeing that helpless anger in his eyes again. How even now, sick all over again, your first instinct had been to protect him from it.

But the words wouldn't come.

Mark finally turned to you, his eyes red-rimmed. "Was this why?"

You couldn't answer.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Y/N. You think I wouldn't notice? You think I wouldn't care?"

The bus hissed to a stop, the doors groaning open. A family boarded, their laughter too loud in the tense silence.

You stared at your lap, at the way your jeans pooled around your knees. The memory of eighteen-year-old Mark sobbing "Please just eat something" while you stared at your untouched plate burned behind your eyes.

Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You don't get to do this," he muttered. "You don't get to disappear and act like I don't fucking care Y/N."

You curled in on yourself, your knees pressing into the seat in front of you.

"Mom kept asking if you were sick," he continued, staring straight ahead. "I kept telling her you were just busy. That you'd call when you could." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Guess I wasn't wrong."

The words landed like a blow.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I'm handling it."

Mark finally turned to you, his eyes blazing. "Yeah? This is handling it?" His gaze raked over you, taking in the way your clothes hung loose, the way your hands trembled in your lap. "Jesus, Y/N. You look like a strong breeze could snap you in half."

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, willing the tears not to fall.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly.

The question hung between you, heavy and unanswerable.

You looked down at your hands, at the way your fingers curled into fists. "I couldn't... watch you hurt like that again," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Last time it destroyed you."

Mark exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. You destroying yourself destroys me worse."

The silence that followed was thick.

You turned away as a tear escaped the corner of your eye, tracing a hot path down your cheek.

Mark saw it.

His expression crumpled.

"Ah, shit," he whispered, reaching for you.

And then, for the first time in months, you let him pull you into a hug.

His arms were warm. Familiar.

You buried your face in his shoulder, your breath hitching.

"We're fixing this," he murmured into your hair. “You’re going to be okay.” He said more to assure himself than you.

You didn't answer, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket. ──────────────────────── The taxi ride from the bus terminal to your family’s home was silent. Mark sat beside you, his knee bouncing the entire way, fingers drumming against his thigh. You kept your gaze fixed out the window, watching the city blur into countryside, the weight of what awaited you settling heavy in your gut.

The moment the car pulled into the driveway, the front door flew open.

Your mother stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour, hands pressed to her mouth. Even from the car, you saw the way her eyes immediately welled up.

Jungwoo appeared behind her, his usual grin faltering for just a second before he recovered, waving exaggeratedly. “Finally! We were about to send a search party.”

Your stomach twisted—not from his words, but from the way his voice hitched ever so slightly when he saw you.

Mark yanked the car door open with more force than necessary. “Yeah, yeah, missed you too,” he muttered, already rounding the car to grab your luggage.

You stepped out slowly, legs unsteady. The scent of grilled meat and garlic hit you like a wave, thick, heavy, greasy. Your stomach recoiled.

Your mother was on you before you could take a second breath. Her hands fluttered over your face, your shoulders, your arms, like she was afraid you might dissolve under her touch. “My baby,” she kept whispering, her voice breaking. “My baby, my baby–”

You stood stiffly, letting her hold you, arms limp at your sides. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of your father in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. Taeyong stood just behind him, arms crossed, but his usual sharp gaze softened when it landed on you.

Jungwoo was already talking, filling the silence before it could settle. “Okay, but seriously, did you walk here? Traffic wasn’t that bad.” He reached out like he was going to ruffle your hair, hesitated, then settled for poking your shoulder instead. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Jungwoo,” Taeyong sighed, but there was no real scolding in it.“What? I’m just saying!” Jungwoo threw his hands up, grinning, but his eyes flickered over you too quickly, too carefully. ──────────────────────── Dinner was loud.

It was always loud.

Your father had grilled samgyeopsal. Thick slices of pork belly, the fat sizzling on the pan in the center of the table. The smell alone made your stomach turn, but you forced yourself to sit, to pick up your chopsticks, to pretend.

Jungwoo was mid-story from one of their evenings during the summer break, gesturing wildly with his utensils. “–so then the manager actually tried to kick us out, but Taeyong just–”

“You’re exaggerating,” Taeyong cut in, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Am not! Tell him, Dad!”

Your father chuckled, flipping another piece of meat. “I wasn’t there, but knowing you? Probably true.”

Your mother laughed, passing you a plate of ssam vegetables without comment. “Here, Y/N. The lettuce is fresh.”

You nodded, wrapping a small piece of meat, chewing slowly.

No one stared. No one pointed out how your hands shook.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Jungwoo’s jokes came just a little too fast, the way Taeyong’s usual teasing had an edge of something softer. You noticed the way your father slid the leanest cuts of meat toward you without a word, the way your mother “accidentally” nudged the banchan dishes you used to love closer to your side of the table.

Mark’s knee pressed against yours under the table.

“–and then Mark actually tripped over his own feet–” Jungwoo continued, grinning.

Mark groaned. “We agreed never to talk about that.”

“No, you agreed. I just nodded and lied.”

Laughter filled the room. You let it wash over you, let their voices drown out the static in your head.

You made it through half your plate before your stomach cramped violently. You set your chopsticks down carefully.

No one paused. No one looked.

Your mother reached for the kimchi, chatting about the neighbor’s new dog.

Jungwoo stole a piece of meat off Taeyong’s plate, yelping when Taeyong smacked his hand.

Your father hummed, flipping the last slice of pork belly.

"Okay, dessert time!" your mother announced suddenly, standing up.

Jungwoo perked up. "Finally. I’ve been waiting for this."

Taeyong smirked. "You’ve been waiting? You ate half the meat."

"And I’ll eat half the cake too."

Your mother returned from the kitchen with a small, simple vanilla cake, no frosting, just a light dusting of powdered sugar.

It was your cake. The one you used to love when you were younger, before things got complicated. Light, airy, easy to eat even when your stomach rebelled against everything else.

You looked around the table.

Jungwoo was watching you, his usual grin softer now. Taeyong took a sip of water, pretending not to notice your reaction. Your father busied himself with clearing the grill.

Your mother set the cake in front of you, her voice deliberately casual. "I thought you might like something sweet."

And that’s when it hit you.

The meal. The banchan. The way they’d all avoided commenting on how little you ate. The cake.

They’d planned this.

Not just dinner–all of it.

Every dish, every joke, every distraction. They’d orchestrated the entire evening so you wouldn’t feel pressured, so you wouldn’t feel watched.

So you’d feel safe. ──────────────────────── ​​The house was quiet when you crept through the apartment, the wooden floors cold beneath your bare feet. You had only meant to grab water but the hushed voices from the kitchen stopped you in the hallway.

"I just don’t get it." Jungwoo’s voice was thick, barely above a whisper. "Why wouldn’t she say anything?"

A chair creaked. "You think I know?" Mark shot back, but there was no real bite to it. Just exhaustion. "She didn’t tell me either."

"She didn’t tell anyone," Taeyong said quietly. 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, your breath shallow.

"It’s happening so much faster this time," Jungwoo muttered. "Last time it took months before she looked like—" He cut himself off, but you knew. Like this.

A heavy silence settled. Then Mark, his voice cracking: "I should’ve noticed."

"None of us did," Taeyong said.

"You knew," Jungwoo accused, though it lacked heat. "You saw her a week ago. You had to have—"

"And what was I supposed to do?" Taeyong’s chair scraped. "Force her? Yell at her? You think that fucking helps?"

Another pause. Then, softer: "No. But... fuck. I just thought we were past this."

Your chest caved in.

You didn’t hear the rest. You couldn’t.

You waited until you heard the soft snores from your parents’ room, until your brothers went to their rooms, until the glow under their door went dark. Then you slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a quiet click.

For the first time in five years, you knelt on the cold tiles, trembling fingers shoved down your throat.

The relief was instant followed immediately by a wave of crushing shame.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you gagged, your body revolting against itself. Between heaves, you thought of Jungwoo’s broken "I just thought we were past this." Of Mark’s guilt. Of Taeyong’s quiet helplessness.

You were doing this to them again.

The vomit burned coming up. It tasted a bit like the strawberry cake from dinner, which made you gag even harder. 

You were failing them again, you were hurting them again. No matter how much they loved you, you would always end up here, on your knees, betraying them in the worst way.

When it was over, you slumped against the bathtub, your forehead pressed to the cool porcelain. Your stomach ached. Your throat was raw. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You weren’t sure which was worse—the purging, or the realization that after everything, you didn’t change after all. 

You were still breaking their hearts.

You were still unable to stop.

Outside, the house was silent.

You wondered if they could hear you crying. ──────────────────────── The first light of dawn painted the sky in soft pinks and golds as you slipped out of the house, the screen door clicking shut behind you. The air was already warm, thick with the salt-scent of the sea, and the streets were quiet except for the occasional scooter rumbling past.

You walked the familiar path to your favorite beach. The sand was cool under your bare feet, the tide rolling in with a steady, soothing rhythm. You settled onto your usual bench—the one slightly hidden by a curve in the shoreline, where the tourists never wandered—and let the sun warm your skin.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls.

"Y/N?"

You turned, startled. Johnny stood a few feet away, Dukoo’s leash in hand. He looked older, the lines around his eyes deeper, but his smile was the same as when yu first met him. His golden retriever wagged his tail furiously at the sight of you, straining against his harness.

Johnny looked just as surprised as you felt. "I didn’t expect to see you here," he admitted, letting Dukoo drag him closer. The dog immediately shoved his head into your lap, his wet nose bumping your hand until you scratched behind his ears.

You managed a weak smile. "I could say the same."

Johnny sat beside you, stretching his legs out in front of him. He didn’t ask why you were here at sunrise. Didn’t comment on the way your clothes hung off you or the shadows under your eyes. He just let the silence settle between you, the kind of quiet that had always made Johnny easy to be around.

Dukoo flopped onto your feet with a contented sigh.

After a while, Johnny spoke. "How are you doing?"

You stared at the horizon, where the sea met the sky in a blur of blue. You captured this view well when you painted it a bit ago. It was Sunghoons favourite painting in the flat.

"I think you know how I’m doing," you said finally, your voice bitter.

Johnny didn’t flinch. "Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

Another stretch of silence. The waves lapped at the shore. Dukoo snored lightly against your ankles.

"You seeing anyone?" Johnny asked.

You stiffened. "What?"

"Therapy," he clarified. "Are you in therapy?"

You let out a humorless laugh. "Oh. No."

Johnny nodded, like he’d expected that answer. "You remember Dr. Lee?"

Dr. Lee was your old therapist. You remembered sitting in that sterile office, kicking your feet too hard against the chair while Johnny waited outside. How always stoped for ice cream after, even when you refused to eat it.

"He’s still practicing?" you asked, voice thick.

"Has his own clinic now." Johnny's thumb rubbed over his promise ring. "He asks about you sometimes."

You'd been one of Dr. Lee's first patients, back when he was just starting out. Back when Johnny just finished his PhD and believed he could fix you through sheer willpower alone.

You picked at a loose thread on your skirt. 

Johnny glanced at you. "He’s good. You liked him, didn’t you?"

You shrugged. "He was nice."

Which, in therapy terms, was practically a glowing review.

"You should call him, when it gets bad." Johnny leaned back on the bench, letting the sun warm his face.

You didn’t answer.

Dukoo rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs. You obliged, your fingers sinking into his soft fur.

"Taeyong’s worried," Johnny said after a while.

Your hand stilled. "I know."

"He’s not the only one."

You swallowed hard. The guilt sat heavy in your stomach, worse than any food ever could.

"I hated you," you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "When you'd make me get on the scale. When you'd watch me eat."

Johnny smiled a bitter smile. "I know."

A wave crashed against the shore, the sound loud in the silence between you.

"I hated it too," he admitted after a moment, his voice softer now. "Standing there, writing down numbers like they meant something. Watching you pick at food like it was poison." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I used to wish I could just—magic it away. Like if I studied hard enough, if I became a good enough doctor, I could fix it. Cure you."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening in Dukoo’s fur.

"I know relapsing is part of it," he continued, staring at the horizon. "Logically, I get that. But fuck, Y/N—I still wish it wasn’t happening." His voice cracked just slightly. "I wish you didn’t have to fight this again."

The honesty in his words made your chest ache. Taeyong sitting on the bathroom floor with you at 3 AM, holding back your hair, helping you up when you were too weak to stand. Johnny bringing home nutrition textbooks, highlighting passages, determined to understand. The way they’d take turns sleeping in your room during the worst of it, just in case.

You had to look away.

Dukoo whined, pressing his warm weight against your legs.

"I purged last night," you whispered. "First time in five years."

Johnny went very still beside you.

"I don’t even know why it came back. I just started again," you continued, staring at the ocean. "Just… skipping meals. Then weighing myself more. Then–" Your throat closed. "Sunghoon noticed before I did. Started ripping calorie labels off everything." A wet laugh escaped you. "He thinks he’s subtle."

Johnny didn’t say anything. Just waited.

"I’m trying," you said finally, your voice breaking. "I really am."

Dukoo licked your wrist, his tail thumping softly against the sand.

You stared at the ocean, the waves rolling in and out. "That's the worst part," you admitted. "I know what to do. I know the meal plans, the coping strategies, all of it. But this time—" Your throat tightened. "This time is different."

Johnny turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable. "How?"

"Last time," you continued, "I just wanted to be skinny. I thought if I was thin enough, I'd finally be pretty. Happy. Enough." You dug your fingers into Dukoo's fur. "But now? I don't want this. I don't want to be a skeleton. I miss having curves. I miss not being freezing all the time. I miss my hair not falling out in clumps when I shower. I miss being able to think."

The words tumbled out now, raw and unfiltered. "I can't concentrate in lectures. I almost missed two deadlines last week because my brain just—shuts off. The migraines are constant. And I hate it. I hate all of it."

A tear slipped down your cheek. "But I still can't stop."

Johnny was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured. "You know what I remember most from back then?" He didn't wait for you to answer. "The day you ate half a bowl of kimchi jjigae without crying afterwards. You were so proud of yourself. And then you looked at me—really looked at me—and said, 'I think I forgot what hungry felt like.'"

Your breath hitched.

"That's what this illness does," he continued. "It doesn't just take your body. It takes your hunger, your joy, your ability to recognize what you need. And the worst part? It convinces you that you're doing it to yourself."

You wiped at your face roughly. "But I am. I'm the one who—"

"No." Johnny's voice was firm. "You're not. Just like you weren't the one who chose to get sick the first time. It's not a fucking choice, Y/N. It's an illness. And it lies to you."

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

"I feel so guilty," you whispered. "For worrying you all. For disappointing you. For making you go through this again."

Johnny exhaled sharply. "You think we're disappointed in you?" He shook his head. "We're scared. We're heartbroken. But not for us–for you. Because we love you, and watching someone you love suffer and not being able to fix it?" His voice cracked. "That's the worst feeling in the world."

You curled in on yourself, your arms wrapping around your middle. "I don't know how to stop," you admitted, so quiet it was almost lost to the sound of the waves.

"You don't have to know," Johnny said gently. "You just have to keep trying. And let us help you."

Dukoo whined, nudging your hand with his nose and you resumed petting him.

"I'm tired," you said after a while.

Johnny nodded. "I know."

"And scared."

"I know."

The sun climbed higher, painting the water gold. Somewhere down the beach, a child laughed.

"You're not alone in this," Johnny said quietly. "You never were."

After a long silence, Johnny checked his watch and sighed. "It's too early to call Ten now. But I will later–today." He met your eyes, his gaze firm. 

You opened your mouth to protest, but Johnny shook his head. "Ten never really celebrates Korean holidays anyway. You know how he is—he'll probably be grateful for the excuse to get out of his apartment." A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Last Chuseok, he texted me complaining about how bored he was. He'll come."

You swallowed hard, staring down at Dukoo’s golden fur between your fingers. The thought of seeing Ten, of sitting in his office with the ugly abstract paintings he refused to replace, made your chest tighten. But beneath the dread, there was something else. Something like relief.

"Okay," you whispered.

Johnny exhaled, his shoulder pressing against yours. "We’ll figure this out."

Dukoo rolled onto his back, paws in the air, demanding belly rubs again. The sky lightened slowly, the pale gold of dawn bleeding into blue. Somewhere down the beach, the first early risers were beginning to appear—fishermen checking their nets, an elderly couple walking hand in hand. ──────────────────────── The leather of Johnny’s desk chair was cool against your arms as you curled into yourself, knees pulled to your chest. Outside the window, the last streaks of sunset bled into dusk, painting the walls of his home office in watery gold. The room smelled like him. Like cedar and the faintest hint of coffee grounds.

A soft knock at the door.

You didn’t turn. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Ten stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. He was wearing one of his old college hoodies, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming take out cup in each hand.

“Brought you tea,” he said, setting one on the desk near you. “Ginger-lemon. ”

You hummed but didn’t reach for it. The paper was probably warm under your fingertips, but the thought of lifting it made your arms feel heavy.

Ten settled into the armchair across from you, stretching his legs out. He didn’t speak right away. He just let the silence settle between you, the way he always did. The clock on the wall ticked. 

“Johnny said you wanted to talk,” Ten said finally.

You stiffened. “He made it sound like I asked you to be here.”

Ten raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

The question hung in the air.

You looked away.

Silence stretched. Ten waited. He’d always been good at that. Letting the quiet press until you cracked open just to fill it.

“I relapsed,” you said finally.

Ten didn’t react. Just nodded. “Tell me about it.”

So you did.

You told him about how you starte to skip meals. How food made you nauseus, the smell of it, sometimes even the thought of it. How your head still remembered the numbers so well and wouldn't shut up. How you purged yesterday.

Ten listened, his expression unreadable. When you finished, he leaned forward slightly. “What do you think triggered it?”

You laughed bitterly. “If I knew that, would you be here?”

Ten didn’t smile. “Try.”

You stared at the bookshelf behind him—at the framed photo Taeyong took of you and Johnny at the beach last summer, both of you sunburnt and grinning. “I don’t know. Stress, maybe. School. Life.”

“Mm.” Ten tapped his fingers against his knee. “When did it start?”

You hesitated. “A few months ago.”

“Anything special that happened a few months ago?”

Your chest tightened. “Nothing. Just-just normal stuff.”

Ten’s gaze sharpened. “Y/N.”

You exhaled sharply. “Fine. There was…an incident.”

Incident. Such a clean word for it.

Ten waited.

You swallowed. “I was at a party. Some guy…put drugs in my drink…” Your voice cracked. “I...Sunghoon and Sunoo called an ambulance after I fainted in the kitchen. Noting bad happened.”

Ten’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on his mug tightened. “And after?”

“I went home. It's not like something bad happened, right? People get blackout drunk often, right? I mean he didn't...touch me.” You picked at your sleeve. You actually couldn't remember if he touched you. “Then the skipping meals started. Then the scale. Then—”

Your fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. "But that's the thing - nothing even happened. Not really. I just overreacted. Sunghoon and Sunoo got there in time, I went to the hospital, end of story." You shook your head, frustration creeping into your voice. "The next day I had this stupid panic attack in the kitchen and Sunghoon had to talk me down for twenty minutes. That's it. That's all that happened."

Ten's gaze remained steady. "And how did that feel?"

"Embarrassing," you admitted immediately. "Sunghoon had to bring me to practice because he was scared of me being alone. I wasted hospital resources over..." You waved your hand vaguely. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Ten echoed.

"Well, nothing compared to what could have—" You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.

Ten leaned forward slightly. "What could have happened?"

You exhaled sharply. "That's not the point. The point is, nothing did happen. So why am I..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Why is this happening now?"

The room felt too quiet suddenly. The ticking clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator - everything seemed amplified.

Ten studied you for a long moment before speaking. "Tell me about the panic attack with Sunghoon."

You shrugged, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "It was dumb. I just... couldn't breathe all of a sudden. Sunghoon made me breath with him."

"And since then?"

"I don't know," you admitted, frustration creeping back in. "I just started noticing food differently. Like... if I could just control this one thing, then..." Your voice trailed off as the realization hit you mid-sentence.

Ten waited, letting the silence stretch.

You swallowed hard. "Oh." The word came out small.

The pieces were falling into place, and you didn't like the picture they formed. Your hands started trembling slightly. "But that doesn't make sense. Nothing bad actually happened to me."

Ten's voice was gentle but firm. "Your body doesn't know that."

"What?"

"When you were drugged, your nervous system went into survival mode. It doesn't care that Sunghoon intervened. It only knows that for those moments, you were in danger." He tapped his temple. "Up here, you knoiw you're safe. But in here—" He placed a hand over his chest. "Your body's still trying to protect you from what might have been."

You stared at your hands, the knuckles too prominent. "That's... not fair."

"No," Ten agreed softly. "It's not."

The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Somewhere downstairs, Dukoo barked once, his nails clicking against hardwood as he ran to greet someone, probably Taeyong, at the door.

You pressed your palms against your eyes. "So what? My brain just... made up this eating thing to cope with something that didn't even happen?"

"Not made up," Ten corrected. "Adapted. It's grabbing onto what it can control because that night, control was taken from you." He paused. "Doesn't matter that it stopped before the worst could happen. The threat was real enough."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up. "Some protection system. Starving myself over a maybe."

Ten didn't smile. "It's the only language your survival brain knows."

You let out a shaky breath, the truth settling heavily in your chest. This wasn't comforting. It wasn't reassuring.

It was terrifying.

The paper cup of tea had gone cold, the lemon scent fading into the evening air. You stared at the condensation rings it left on Johnny's desk, tracing them with your finger. Circles within circles. Like how one bad night kept rippling outward, touching everything.

"I keep thinking," you started, then stopped. Your throat felt tight. "If I had just been more careful—"

Ten shook his head before you could finish. "This isn't about what you should have done differently. This is about what was done to you. Someone did something horrible to you Y/N. Getting drugged is horrible. It’s scary. Just hearing about this makes me scared for you. Anyone would have a hard time dealing with this. I am so glad Sunghoon and Sunoo found you before it was too late."

The words landed strangely. You'd spent months minimizing it—it wasn't a big deal, nothing really happened, other people have it worse.

"But I—" Your voice cracked. "I don't even remember most of it. Just... waking up in the hospital with Sunoo crying over me." You swallowed hard. "Shouldn't I be over it by now?"

Ten set his own cup aside. "Trauma isn't about what you remember consciously. It's about what your body remembers." He tapped his chest again. "The panic attacks, the food stuff—that's your body's way of saying it's still working through what happened."

Downstairs, the faint sound of Johnny laughing at something drifted up. 

"So what do I do?" you whispered.

Ten leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "First, we stop comparing your pain to some imaginary threshold of 'bad enough.' What happened to you was violating. Full stop."

You blinked rapidly, surprised by the sudden burn in your eyes.

"Second," Ten continued gently, "we start helping your body feel safe again. That means regular meals, yes, but also..." He paused. "Have you told anyone? Besides Sunghoon and Sunoo?"

You shook your head, picking at the edge of the paper cup. "Mark was there. In the hospital. He called mom and dad and they told Yongie and Woo. But i didn’t tell him about the panic attack. Or that it came back. I didn't want to worry them. And like... what would I even say? 'Hey, remember that time nothing happened to me? I think its fucking me over.'"

Ten's expression softened. "Nothing didn't happen, Y/N. Someone drugged you. That's not nothing."

You realized you'd been holding your breath.

"Think about this," Ten said. "If it had been Sunoo, if someone had slipped something in his drink, would you tell him he was overreacting?"

The immediate "no" caught in your throat. You wouldn't. You'd be furious. You'd—

Oh.

Ten saw the realization dawn on your face. He nodded slowly. "Sometimes we need to imagine it happening to someone we love to understand how bad it really was."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. You swiped at them angrily, but they kept coming.

Ten waited, giving you space. The clock ticked. Dukoo barked again downstairs. Finally, you took a shaky breath. "So where do we start?" Ten smiled—small, but genuine. "Where ever you need to. Maybe with telling Johnny and Taeyong everything. Maybe with just getting through tonight." He nodded to the cold tea. "Want me to get you a fresh cup? I am sure Johnny has some good teas." It was such a simple offer. Such a normal thing. For some reason, that made your chest ache and remind you of Sunghoon. You wished you could go home and curl onto the sofa watching My demon with him.

"Yeah," you whispered. "That'd be... yeah." "I'll be right back.” As Ten stood, the door creaked open slightly. Dukoo's golden head poked through, his tail thumping cautiously against the doorframe. You let out a wet laugh. "Oh, come here." The dog bounded over immediately, shoving his head into your lap with a whine. Ten paused at the door. “Y/N?" He waited until you looked up. "This is already progress."

As his footsteps faded down the stairs, you buried your hands in Dukoo's warm fur, breathing in his familiar dog smell. Outside, the last light of sunset had faded, leaving only the soft glow of streetlights through the window. ──────────────────────── Your apartment was quiet, but your pulse roared in your ears. You stood in front of the stove, hands steady despite the tremor in your breath. Ten’s voice played in your head—"Small, frequent meals. Balanced. No extremes."—but you ignored it. The nutrition plan Johnny had printed for you sat untouched on the fridge. They’d run tests, checked your levels, gave you meal plans and recipes. This much protein. This many carbs. This often. The butter sizzled violently when it hit the pan. You added twice the oil the recipe called for, watching it pool golden and thick. The scent of garlic should’ve made your mouth water. Instead, your throat tightened reflexively. No. You clenched your jaw. Not this time.

The noodles were a normal portion, more than Johnny recommended you to eat at the beginning and probably with too much seasoning for your stomach.  You drowned them in sauce until they shone. A sprinkle of cheese melted instantly on contact. A norma portion.  Normal.  You just wanted to be normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. You chewed slowly, forcing yourself to breathe through your nose.

Halfway through, your stomach cramped—not from hunger, but from the sheer volume of food it hadn’t had to handle in so long. You set your fork down, pressing a hand to your ribs. The urge to stop, to push the plate away, surged up like a reflex. But then you thought of Johnny’s face when he’d seen your bloodwork. The way Ten had said, "Your body doesn’t trust you right now. You have to show it you’re safe." You picked up the fork again. This is what normal people do, you told yourself. They eat until they’re full. They don’t measure every gram. The ice cream you ate afterwards was even worse. Your stomach cramped violently but you gripped the counter and breathed through it, finishing the whole bowl.

Then your body betrayed you. One second you were standing in the kitchen, the next you were on your knees, heaving into the toilet. The noodles came up still whole, the ice cream sour with bile. Tears streamed down your face as you gagged, your body rejecting what your mind had forced into it. When it was over, you slumped against the washing machine, trembling. The bathroom smelled like vomit and that stupid air freshener Sunghoon insisted on buying. But as you wiped your face with a shaking hand, something unexpected bubbled up—not guilt, not shame, but anger. This isn’t fair.

You’d done everything right. You’d eaten like a normal person. You hadn’t purge but just vomited. Why can't you just eat. You wanted to eat that stupid ice cream. Those three spoons of chocolate.

You dragged yourself to your feet, flushed the toilet, and watched the evidence swirl away. Tomorrow, you’d try again. ──────────────────────── You woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains, your skull throbbing in time with your pulse. The clock read 2:37 PM. Shit. You’d meant to wake up early. To clean, to air out the apartment, to erase any trace of last night’s failure before Sunghoon came home. Three meals yesterday. Three. The number echoed in your aching head. You'd done everything right—ate the portions Ten recommended after you failed with noodles two days ago, kept it down even when your stomach rebelled—and now your body was punishing you for it anyway. Your stomach lurched as you sat up, a sour taste flooding your mouth.  You pressed a hand to your mouth, breathing hard through your nose. Don't. You know better. But your body didn't care. A dry heave wracked through you, your stomach contracting violently. Nothing came up—just bile, bitter at the back of your tongue.

The migraine pulsed behind your eyes as you stumbled to the bathroom. You splashed water on your face, the cold shock making you gasp. Your reflection looked haunted—dark circles, pale lips, hair sticking up in every direction. All you could think about was how you’d lost control. Three meals. Three full meals.  You stumbled to the bathroom, knees hitting the tiles hard. The urge to purge rose like a tide, your throat tightening reflexively. But nothing came up—just dry heaves, your body straining against nothing. You'd been so excited for Sunghoon to come home. Had carefully packed containers of your mom's kimchi, bought that stupid squid magnet from the Busan aquarium you went to with Johnny. You planned to stick it on the fridge with a silly doodle you drew on the bus ride back onto a random piece of paper. Now all you could think about was how you had finally done things right yesterday, and your body was still treating food like the enemy.

You slumped against the toilet, pressing your forehead to the cool porcelain. You wanted to throw up. Needed it, almost. But you couldn’t. You knew better. The front door open. "Y/N? I'm home!" Sunghoon's voice rang through the apartment. The familiar thud of his duffel bag hitting the floor. "Brought you mochi from that place you like—" The bathroom door was slightly ajar. One deep breath and he would smell the bile. One glance and he would see the way your hands braced against the toilet. Another dry heave threatened. You swallowed hard, tasting metal. Not now. Please not now. Sunghoon’s smiling face appeared in the crack of the doorway—sun-kissed from his trip to hawaii with his family, his stupidly perfect white hair slightly messy. His grin faltered the second he saw you.

"Whoa—" His hand shot out to steady himself against the doorframe. "Shit, are you sick?" You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand too fast. "No. Just—" Another dry heave threatened, your throat convulsing. You turned back to the toilet, gripping the edges until your knuckles turned white. "I’m just having a bad migrane." The lie hung pathetic between you. Sunghoon didn’t move. You could feel his eyes on the back of your neck, tracing the tense line of your shoulders. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of the faucet and your own ragged breathing. You heaved again. Sunghoon’s palms settled on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the knots of tension there. "Breathe," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Just breathe, yeah?" You wanted to shake him off. Wanted to snap that you were breathing, that you didn’t need coddling, that he should just go unpack his stupid bag and leave you alone. But then his fingers slid up to cradle the base of your skull, his touch feather-light as he massaged the spot where your migraine pulsed the hardest. A broken noise escaped you before you could stop it.

"Hey." His breath stirred your hair as he leaned closer. "I got your text about the kimchi. You didn’t have to—" Another heave cut him off. This time, when you gagged, Sunghoon’s hands moved and he brushed your hair out of your face, gently holding it in a ponytail. "It’s okay," he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear. "Just let it out." You shook your head violently, tears pricking at your eyes. "Don’t say that. I’m not—" Your voice cracked. "I’m not doing that anymore." Sunghoon went still behind you. For one horrible second, you thought you’d said too much. Then his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder, his exhale warm through your shirt. "Okay," he said simply. "Okay." His hands slid down to wrap around your wrists, his thumbs stroking over your racing pulse. "Then let’s get you some water. And maybe that mochi I brought. It’s the strawberry kind you like."

You closed your eyes.  Sunghoon pulled you away from the toilet and made you sit on the cold floor. You leaned back against the washing machine while Sunghoon went to the kitchen to get you some water. He came back carrying a bottle of water and sat down next to you.  Sunghoon opened the bottle and offered it to you. You took a sip and quietly thanked him before the two sat in silence for a few minutes.  "It started when I was fourteen.", the words tumbled from your mouth.

Sunghoon stayed quiet, but you felt him shift slightly. "I was...chubby." You swallowed hard, picking at a loose thread on your sweatpants. "Not even really fat, just—soft. I had round cheeks. Thighs that rubbed together when I walked. My skin was always dark from being outside too much." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "There was this girl in my class. Park Soomin. She was pretty. And petite. A nationally ranked figure skater, actually." Sunghoon went very still. You picked at a loose thread on your sweatpants. "We were partners for a science project. One day she grabbed my wrist and said—" The words stuck in your throat. "Wow, your arms are so thick. Do you even fit into normal uniforms?" A beat. Then Sunghoon made a wounded noise low in his throat.

"It wasn't even true." Your laugh came out broken. "Then a few days later my PE teacher made us all weigh ourselves in front of the class." Your throat tightened. "My number was higher than everyone else’s. The girl and her friends laughed. Someone called me whale." You could still hear it—the giggling, the way your face had burned as you’d stepped off the scale. "That night, I skipped dinner. Then breakfast. Then—" You shrugged, your knees pulling tighter to your chest. "It felt good, at first. Like I was finally in control. Like I was winning. If I was skinny they couldn't say shit about me anymore, right?" Sunghoon made a quiet, wounded noise in the back of his throat. His hands flexed like he wanted to reach for you, but he kept them pressed to his own knees. Your fingers drifted to your throat unconsciously. "I found forums. Learned how to make it look like I'd eaten. How to hide the throwing up." The admission hung between you. Sunghoon's breathing had gone shallow. "Mark walked in on me when I was fifteen." You stared at the toothpaste splatter on the baseboard. "He came home early from soccer practice and heard me in the bathroom. He–" A wet laugh escaped you. "He didn't even yell. Just stood there crying, asking why I was hurting myself." A tear plopped onto your knee.

"My parents were clueless until then." You wiped your nose with your sleeve. "They sent me to therapy. Put me on meal plans." The overhead light buzzed. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hummed to life. "Johnny and Ten turned into my personal doctors overnight. Both of them were fresh out of school." You wiped your nose with the back of your hand. "Meal plans, weigh-ins, fucking nutritional supplements. I hated it. Hated how they watched every bite, how they celebrated when I finished a whole bowl of rice like it was some fucking achievement." Sunghoon stayed silent, but his shoulder pressed more firmly against yours. "This time isn't even about being thin." You dug your nails into your palms. "It's about—" Your voice broke. "It's about subconscious control or something. After the party, after that guy—I couldn't control anything. Not my body, not what happened, nothing. But food? That was something I could fucking decide about." A sob clawed its way up your throat.

You finally risked a glance at Sunghoon. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. "And you—" Your voice broke. "You've known me three months and you're already stuck dealing with this mess. I am so sorry for—" Sunghoon moved suddenly, cupping your face in his hands. His palms were warm, his grip firm but gentle. "Look at me." When you didn't, he ducked his head to catch your gaze. "I don't care if it's been three months or three minutes," he said, voice rough. "You think I'd walk away from someone I—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "From someone important to me because things got hard?" You started shaking your head, but he held you steady. "That night at the party?" Sunghoon's thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "When I carried you to the ambulance, you know what I kept thinking? Thank god I was there. Not why me, not what a burden—just that I could be the one to keep you safe." A sob ripped from your throat. Sunghoon pulled you against his chest, tucking your face into his shoulder as you finally, finally broke. "I don't care if it's about weight or control or the fucking weather." His thumbs traced your shoulder blades. "You're not a burden. You're not weak. You're just—" His breath shuddered. "You're just someone who's been fighting for too long."

Sunghoon leaned his head against yours. "Let me help," he whispered. "Please." ──────────────────────── His heartbeat was steady under your ear. His arms tightened around you when you weakly nodded against his chest.  Sunghoon listened to your soft breathing as it filled the dim bedroom, your body curled into his. You felt so small like that. Fragile in a way that made his stomach knot. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, one hand moving absently through your hair, gentle and rhythmic. His throat tightened. Park Soomin. He knew that name. Knew the precise curve of her smile, the confident flick of her hair behind her ears before she stepped onto the ice. He could still hear the echo of her laugh at 5 AM across the rink, still feel the icy jolt of her hands pressed to his neck after practice. She used to do it just to make him yell. He'd kissed Soomin for the first time behind the equipment room when they were sixteen. Defended her when people whispered behind her back. Let her sharpness slide because her jumps were perfect and her fire made his heart race. He told himself that was just how brilliance came–razor-edged. Beautiful and cruel. Sunghoon adjusted his hold on you carefully, his palms grazing the angles of your shoulders. 

Purging. The word echoed in his head. He hadn’t realized you were doing this. He was pretty sure you hadn’t been like this before… right? He would have seen it. The image of a younger you, kneeling on bathroom tiles just like you did when he came home, your brother's horrified face in the doorway. If it had been Yeji he would’ve burned the whole world down. He still had Soomin’s number in his phone. He wanted to hit something. Scream. Fly to Soomin’s apartment and— A soft whimper from you snapped him back. You twitched in his arms, fingers brushing lightly against his chest. His breath caught. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, thumb pausing on the pronounced ridge of your cheekbone.  His exhale was long. Anger wouldn’t help you now. All those little moments where he thought you were getting better—when you finished half a bowl of rice, when you ate that soup from Johnnys mom—did you…did you keep it in? He tightened his arms around you instinctively.

Three months ago, he thought you were just shy. A bit quiet. A little too thin, maybe, but nothing alarming. Now he could trace every rib through your shirt. Three months of watching you paint, listening to you rant about brutal professors and architecture deadlines, catching you hum off-key to your favorite songs. Somewhere in all of that, you stopped being just a roommate. You became you. The person whose laugh made his chest ache, whose sleepy grumbles made him smile, whose stubborn "I’m fine"s made him want to shake you and hold you in the same breath. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. You stirred, your nose nudging the base of his throat. Sunghoon froze, barely breathing. Then, your fingers curled into his shirt. “S’ghoon…?” Your voice was heavy with sleep, slurred at the edges. “Shh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he could second-guess it. “I’m here.” A broken little sound slipped from you as you burrowed closer. He closed his eyes, heart aching in places he didn’t know could hurt.

He shifted gently, sliding one arm under your knees, the other behind your back. You didn’t stir as he picked you up, head falling against his shoulder. You weighed almost nothing. His grip tightened without thinking. Your bedroom door creaked open at his push. Streetlight spilled across your sheets. A half-finished architectural sketch sat on your desk. He set you down as if you might break, hands lingering longer than necessary to make sure you were okay. But when he started to pull away— “No.” Your voice was a rasp now, but urgent. Your hand fisted in his shirt. “Stay.” He froze.

He should go. You were roommates. This wasn’t his place. It wasn’t right. “Please,” you whispered. He caved. “Okay.” The bed dipped as he laid beside you, leaving space. You moved toward him instantly, pressing your face into the curve of his shoulder with a sigh. Your knee moved over his thigh. Sunghoon stared at the ceiling, your scent curling in his nose, your breath warm on his neck. And for a second, a stupid, fleeting second, he felt happy. That you trusted him enough to tell him what was going on. That you wanted him to be close.  Then he remembered the retching. He clenched the sheets in his fist. Soomin had been his first love. Or whatever sixteen-year-old heartbreaks were. He cheered for her. Believed in her. Watched her fly to Canada  with a lump in his throat. And she’d been the one to make you feel ugly. She and her little minions. He bent toward you, barely brushing his lips against your hair. Outside, the city hummed. The clock ticked on. Your fingers slowly loosened their grip in sleep. ──────────────────────── Sunghoon’s heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek. You lay curled into his chest, your hand resting lightly against his ribs, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. You thought he’d fallen asleep. You almost hoped he was. He hadn’t spoken in a while, hadn’t moved. The room had gone still except for the hum of the city through your half-open window and the occasional creak of your bed frame as one of you adjusted. You shifted. His arm was around you, heavy and unmoving.

You stayed in this position for a long moment. Just breathing. You should’ve been spiraling. Should’ve been replaying every raw word, every breath of last night with shame crawling over your skin. But you were too tired for shame. Too tired for fear. And too… glad. Glad he was still here.  Glad he knew.  Really knew now. He probably did know before too. But telling him made you feel... better. Relived. So instead of panicking, you just listened to the soft thud of his heartbeat, felt the quiet hush of his breath under your palm “You know,” he said quietly, startling you, “when I was twelve, I broke my ankle two weeks before Nationals.” You didn’t lift your head. Just listened. “I couldn’t eat for days,” he continued, voice low and steady. “Thought if I just—” He made a small, sharp movement you could feel more than see, his muscles tensing under your palm. “If I controlled that, it would make up for everything else I couldn’t control.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. A slow, painful ache bloomed in your chest. “What changed?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. There was a beat of silence. “My coach force-fed me kimchi jjigae,” he said. You felt a quiet huff of air from his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “And my mom cried. That sucked worse than the hunger.” You wanted to cry too. Sunghoon wasn’t supposed to understand this kind of thing. Not the gnawing emptiness. Not the counting. Not the bargaining, the guilt, the endless loop of maybe if I were smaller, quieter, prettier, then— Your heart cracked open in places you didn’t expect.

You hated that he had to feel that. That someone like him, someone so pretty and good, eve had to think that. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Tomorrow,” he said softly, “let’s get fried chicken. From Mom’s Touch. Let’s try the new flavor.” Your throat tightened. The tears stung again, hot and unspilled. You whispered, “Okay.” And when his pinky found yours beneath the blanket—light, tentative, warm—you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

You were so grateful that he stayed. Even after knowing the ugliest parts of you. A while later he shifted slightly, his voice even quieter than before. “Are you hungry?” You froze. You didn’t know how to answer. Not immediately. You turned your head into his chest, let the quiet settle for a few seconds. Let yourself think.

Were you hungry? You weren’t sure. You know you should be hungry, you haven't eaten since yesterday evening, but that didn’t stay down. So technically your yogurt and banana you had for breakfast yesterday was the last “meal” you had. And after a long moment, you gave the smallest nod against his chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think… I am.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay,” he said softly. “Do you know what you feel like eating? Something you think you can keep down?” You hesitated, then pulled back just enough to look at him. “I have a list,” you said, your voice scratchy but steady. “Ten, my psychiatrist helped me put it together. And Johnny, too.” Sunghoon’s brows lifted slightly as he watched you.

“They talked to my doctors from when I was a teen. Helped me figure out meals that weren’t too much,” you continued. “ Like… one egg, some toast. Or rice with soft veggies. Fruit I like. They even made a stupid little calendar and color-coded it. Like back when I was a child. I even have little monkey stickers that I am supposed to put onto it.” Sunghoon smiled, so soft it barely touched his lips but warmed his entire face. “That sounds like they really care a lot. Those monkey stickers would be a great addition to our kitchen.” You huffed a tiny laugh. “I was supposed to try one of them yesterday but I… I threw up.I tried to eat a normal sized portion. But just felt like too much and i think it just was. My stomach was so upset. I know Johnny said to start small. Half-portions, even less if I need to. I know it’s not about doing it perfectly. Just… trying.” He nodded, brushing his thumb against your pinky, still tangled with his. “Then we’ll try,” he said gently. “Just a little. Whatever you can do today. And if it’s too much, we stop..”

You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat and nodded again. ──────────────────────── The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clatter of plates and the low hum of the fridge. The sky outside had gone dusky. Streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting golden lines across the countertop. Sunghoon stood at the stove, watching the water boil. He had rinsed the egg twice already. Peeled the cucumber slowly. Checked the cream cheese twice for mold.  Behind him, you moved like a ghost. It made his chest ache. You didn’t say much. Just pressed the lever on the toaster and waited. Your hoodie sleeves were pulled over your hands, fingers curling in and out of the fabric like you didn’t quite know what to do with them. Sunghoon turned down the burner.

“One egg for you,” he said quietly, “and three for me.” You glanced at him, a flicker of something close to amusement in your eyes. “Greedy.” “Hungry,” he corrected, giving you a small smile as he sliced through the cucumber. “Greedy would be me eating the rest of the egg, too.” He saw the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of your mouth. That was something.  The toast popped, and you startled a little. Sunghoon slid the peeled egg, the cucumber slices, and the toast onto a plate and set it down in front of you. “Voilà,” he said softly. “Culinary masterpiece.”

You hesitated. Just for a second. Then you sat down. Sunghoon tried not to stare at you. He just took the seat across from you and started peeling his own eggs, letting the quiet settle between you. Every few seconds, he looked up. Not to check. Just to witness. You took a bite of toast. He didn’t let himself react. Then the egg. And finally, the cucumber, one thin slice at a time.

You didn’t talk. Neither did he. But when you pushed the plate away, eyes soft and shoulders just a little less tense, he felt something bloom in his chest that he didn’t have a name for. “You ate everything,” he said, voice low. You nodded. “Yeah.” His smiled, gentle and quiet “I’m really proud of you.” You blinked down at the table, lashes casting shadows against your cheeks. “Thanks.” Sunghoon picked at a bit of shell stuck to his second egg, heart thudding a little too hard for how calm everything looked. You had eaten. You were trying.

And God, he’d never wanted to hold someone so carefully in his life for eating a toast. ──────────────────────── After dinner, the apartment settled into a quiet lull. You padded to the couch while Sunghoon rinsed the plates. The finale of “My Demon” had dropped a new episode just the day before, and he didn’t even have to ask. You were already pulling up the streaming site by the time he sat down. You curled up in the corner of the couch like you always did, legs folded up against you, sleeves covering your hands again.  But five minutes into the episode, you stretched your legs out slowly… and draped them over his. Sunghoon didn’t move or say a thing. Just shifted slightly to give you more space and let one hand drift to your shin, his fingers tracing idle, feather-light patterns into your skin the way he always did. Somehow him sitting somewhere on the sofa and you laying down had become your usual position for watching TV.

He felt your breath stutter just a little the first time his thumb grazed over your ankle. But you didn’t pull away. The episode played on. After a good chunk of the first episode you asked, so quietly he almost missed it, “Do you… wanna lie down again? Like last time?” Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited for exactly one second. Lie down again. Like last time. With you in his arms and his heart threatening to break through his ribs. He kept his face neutral and just shrugged lightly. “Sure. If you want.”

You nodded and shuffled down, adjusting until you were stretched out on your side with your back pressed against his front, the two of you folded together like puzzle pieces. His arm slid naturally beneath your head, his other resting lightly at your waist. You didn’t say anything else. Just exhaled, soft and shaky, and settled. Sunghoon stared at the screen, but he wasn’t really watching anymore. He could feel the shape of you against him. The weight of your trust. The rhythm of your breath slowing as you got comfortable.  By the time the episode ended you were still there, unmoving, tucked under his chin. Sunghoon didn’t care about who of the two protagonists will die. He didn’t care about the other guy.

All he cared about was the girl in his arms. ──────────────────────── The episode rolled into its credits, soft music drifting through the room, and neither of you moved to reach for the remote. Your body was still nestled against his, back to chest, your fingers now loosely tangled with his where they rested against your stomach beneath the blanket. The glow from the TV painted your skin in flickering hues—blue, then gold, then back again. You were quiet for a long moment. You weren’t asleep. He could feel the way your breathing shifted. “Would you… would it be okay if we slept together tonight?” You hurried to add, “Not—not like that. Just. Sleeping. I don’t want to be alone. I just… I don’t think I can be.” His heart broke a little at the way your voice shook at the end. He leaned in, just slightly, his chin brushing the top of your head as he spoke.

“Of course,” he said gently. “You don’t even have to ask." You let out a breath then. Almost a laugh, almost a sob. Relief, he thought. Like maybe you’d been holding that question in for hours. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Hey.” He gave your hand a tiny squeeze. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” You nodded. He felt it against his chest. “I sleep better when someone is there,” you murmured. Sunghoon closed his eyes, just for a second.

“Then I’ll stay,” he said. “Every night you want me to.” You were quiet again.  Eventually, you moved. Stood slowly, blanket still wrapped around you like armor, and waited while he turned off the TV and followed you back toward your room. He didn’t say anything when you crawled into bed and left a space for him. Didn’t say anything when you curled instinctively into his side, your cheek finding the same spot over his heart where you'd rested before. But when your fingers brushed against his shirt and curled there—quiet and anchoring—he murmured, “Night, Y/N.” You whispered it back. And when your breathing evened out, Sunghoon stayed awake just a little longer. Not to watch you. Just to make sure the calm stayed, at least for tonight.

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty CONTINUE ON READING --⟢ PART 3 COMING SOON all feedback and reblogs is welcome ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ if you liked this you might also like the rest of this series ⭑.ᐟ

ᝰ taglist. @firstclassjaylee @enhaprettystars @vantxx95 @stormy1408 @fancypeacepersona @jaylvrsworld @xylatox @bluxjun @sumzysworld @outroherrr @50-husbands @ikeumina @softchannie @sirens-dreams @schmocolateschmchip @vviolynn @nishiimuraka @enhalxvr @ijustreallylike2read @enhastolemyheart @wintereals @planetmarlowe @baeeeeah @wonzzziezzzz @mochamvgz @lovtaesunu @makeme1cream @stars4jo @vviolynn @lylaloopsie @meimeiyh @motherscrustytoenailclippings @haerni

ᝰ an. AGAIN! A special mention and thanks to @xylatox for dealing with me and giving me advice! I am kinda sorry that this is split in three parts, but I wanted to adress Y/Ns ED properly. Recovery is never linear and it's okay to relapse and getting help is an important but very very hard step. If you are sturggling with an ED please know that you are perfect the way you are. Life is to precious to worry about number sall the time. Please take care yourself, Love Patty ₊ ⊹  

[aurmisery]

- a little death -

ronin b. x gn! reader !!

inspired by a friend of mine in the rose's rot discord, vanity! @vanitywoo

hi erm this is my first time putting down a killer chat! work of mine on here uhhhhhhh

cw // mentions of sh scars on mc -

please tell me if anything else in here can be considered triggering !!

okay enjoy!!!!!1!!1!!!!2! sorry if this is ass and or ooc for ronin bro i TRIED MY BEST I TRIEDMYBEST

1878 word count!!!!!!!

FUCKIFORGOT THIS US FLUFF BTW

-

you know when you walk into someone's room, you can immediately tell what kind of person they are? what posters they roll on their walls, what decor they line the edges of their room with- if they have LEDs, what merch they willingly buy and if they have a whole shelf for said merch, etc?

if you were to walk into ronin's room with no idea of who he is other than his oh so charming looks, you might just say "typical, makes sense given his aesthetic." even if the jars of human remains seemed a bit too hardcore and realistic.

it all fit though, the color palette ranging from all hues of red, black, and white, the masks, the lava lamp, the VHS tapes, the illuminated 'KORN' sign hung in the corner of his room matching the 'still alive?' frame with a cartoonishly drawn heart- it was all him- it screamed ronin.

the plainest thing in his room was probably his bed- and he knew that. it was just a black headboard and footboard, with a red duvet and pillows with a white blanket overtop it. it did match the color scheme, which was enough for now, but it was missing something.

.

.

.

but as his pupils grazed over your steady form, warm and breathing, he realized something.

the slight flush of your cheeks, the way your eyelids fell heavy over your unblinking stare, the hazy glare of his TV burning a light glow over your side-

the ruffle of your hair, your legs snaking awkwardly with his, fingers mindlessly tracing invisible doodles over his forearm, and the slight quirk of your brow as your eyes retrace back to his.

"what's up?" your lips curl upwards slowly as his eyes noticeably fade from the trance he planted himself into, brows slanted upwards as he slow blinked.

"...youuuu good?" a small giggle slewed unevenly from your grin, and he scoffs, a playful jab at the side of your waist following the roll of his eyes.

"'m fine, jus' thinkin'. what about you, darlin'? feelin' comfortable in the devil's den?"

you flop over on your right side, facing him rather than the TV, propping yourself up on one elbow with your other arm tracing the angle of his jaw.

"for a devil, you're rather accommodating, i'll give you that," you tease, and he revels in it; in your warmth, in the fiery trace of your finger along his jawline, and for once, his hell is starting to feel a bit hot.

"in a literal sense, if i'm laying in your bed, wearing your shirt, cuddled up with you, watching old slashers, i think i'm as comfortable as i can ever get."

it's his turn to grin, moving his hand from its resting position on your hip to the small of your back, letting a small exhale he didn't even know he was holding fall from his lips.

his downcast eyes flicker from the graphic tee bagging low under the curve of your shoulders to the width of your thighs, and he couldn't help but feel a little warmer.

you did look good in his clothes.

and as your hand caressed his cheek, his head melting into your warmth, he spots something along the flex of your arms.

his blackened irises almost narrow at them, but they reverted back to whatever you would call normal as his hand drags from your back to the base of your arms, fingers gently rubbing over the faded marks of your pliant skin.

at this, the knitted furrow of your brows came together, a slight wrinkle in your expression as you awkwardly chuckle, a defensive grin uneasily firming itself on your cheeks.

"what's this for?" you question, a wry smile on your face as you realize the implications of his stare, and the look on his face...was just blank.

"no reason, just glad you don't...do that anymore, i guess."

with a shiver up your spine, you firm up your lips into a sheepish smile, nodding with a creak to your voice. "aww, c'mon. can't even say that without the 'i guess' at the end?"

and then he laughed, the tiniest hue of cherry blending into his ivory skin, his onxy irises filled with amusement.

"is it like me to carve open my chest and bare it fresh? i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'."

it was your turn to scoff, turning over onto your stomach and reaching out to cup his chin with the flex of your fingers, thumb lolling over his bottom lip.

"'i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'," you mock, voice whiny and pitchy before you deadpanned, eyes narrowed at him.

"oh please, cut the bullshit, ro. not that much of a romantic my ass."

ronin weaved a palm through the plum tresses sitting upon his head, a dismissive hum resting in his throat as he looked you over. "i'm not really, i mean- i kill people?"

"yeah- abusers. usually, anyway."

you then fanned out your hands, your digits extending with each gesture you were about to point out, pupils darting upwards into your lashes as if recounting your times together.

"our motorcycle dates? the shirts you give me each time i come over? the way you snuggle against me while we watch movies, when you complain about being cold to get me closer to you, when you crack cheesey jokes about how lonely your lips are, how-"

"okay, okay, i get it."

and as you took a glance at your boyfriend, a bead of sweat brimmed at his forehead and neck, face flushing a hue of carmine as his words spewed out in an exasperated rush.

you grin.

"oh, and that time you rushed me through your front door after i got drenched by the rain despite the fact that you were also soaked. when you prepared me soup in worry that i would get sick, and while i didn't get ill, you did the next day."

you were trying to be subtle, but with how his pupils were blown out and watching your every move, he was probably more aware of your slow crawl over to him than you were, the mattress making a small dip where your knee paused.

"then, i stayed over the whole time and nursed you back to health while we watched your favorite movies? or when i stopped by your job and you purposely wiped your face with the front of your shirt to flash your-"

"okay, fine! fuck, you win!"

his face was hot and covered by a thin sheen of sweat, a hand flayed out over his jaw to hide his most-likely embarrassed expression, brows arched downwards into a glare. he couldn't even look at you.

ronin beaufort, flustered? ronin fucking beaufort, embarrassed?!

you just made the devil bow his head.

a boisterous laugh bounced out of the pits of your stomach- jesus christ, you've rarely never seen him like this before, all shy and flustered.

your arms snake over your own abdomen, trying to pat down the rumbling giggles orchestrating from your gut with a roll onto your side, and you feel his elbow butt between your ribs playfully.

"give ya an inch and you take a mile, huh?"

he grumbles, giving you a nudge as you only cackle further, slapping a palm over your eyes to smear the tears pearling at your lash line.

"god, your face is fucking priceless when you're embarrassed! geez, i shoulda taken a picture, would've been amazing to have that spammed in mai-"

without skipping a beat, he reeled you into his arms, before turning and slamming you down right in the middle of the bed, hands jabbing and feverishly dancing over your sides.

all the sudden, your laughing increased tenfold- tears springing out of your eyes like sprinkles as you jerked, bucked, and kicked in protest of his tickling, but you couldn't do anything against his iron grip.

you felt like you were dying, stomach exhausted as you guffawed and blabbered, hiccups along the lines of "i can't-" "wait, my stomach hurts-" "have mercy-" following between the tears pitifully steaming down your reddening face.

he lets out a soft-hearted snicker, his body over yours and his knees pinned on either sides of your hips. his plum locks tickles your forehead, reminding you of the teasing grin on his face as he mercilessly dug at your sides- before his fingers traced upwards to your collarbone, and-

his fingertips padded over your neck, before your head jerked instinctively and you could only cackle further. is he trying to kill you?

and finally- you fought back, hands reaching up into his shirt.

he stiffened, eyes widening as your hands snaked up into the black fabric and wandered over his lower waist, making him jump and bubble his cheeks- as if that would quiet his laughter.

but you powered through the pain in your gut from laughing your vocal cords out and frenzied your hands up his abdomen, he gave out, falling pathetically besides you as you took your sweet, sweet retribution.

his arms flexed over his head in defense, lashes clenched shut as his face buried itself into the pillow besides him, almost as if taking cover from your violent antics.

you curl over against him, hands jabbing and frantically scurrying up his shirt as his laughs and pleas muffle besides you, and then-

your hands seemingly touched a sore spot, his laughs dying out and his breath hitching, as if he was in pain. finally taking a second to feel the skin below your palm, you handle it with deft, and...

it's smooth, slightly arched in size, extending from the middle of his chest to the side of his pecs. you lift up your head to look up his already hiked-up shirt, and...

it's his scars. a cringe forms in the side of your gut, fuck- did you piss him off?

"sorry," you usher lowly, withdrawing your hands, only for his to grab your wrists, placing them back right back on his chest.

his thumbs roll over your wrists, reassuring your tense frame back into ease, and you eye his facial expressions carefully.

his eyes are beady, sucked into the way your thumbs navigate the faded discoloration of his torso, brows furrowed and watching with a slight quirk in his lips.

and then his eyes harden.

"do you, uh," he begins, tone devoid of that usual bite he has to it, gaze wandering away from your hands on him, from your face and to the corner of his room.

"do you see me as, y'know, uhm-"

"the devil? hell yeah."

he smiles.

it was so... genuine, so adoring, blooming through the erasure of his doubts, of your validation- even as his soft hair messily spiraled into his vision, he couldn't take his eyes off you.

and as you slink besides him, letting your head sink into the pillow conjoined with his- he realized something, and this time he took full joy in memorizing it.

your touch, your voice, your sweet, sweet lips- even the messy, unbothered display you shroud around.

the way you smile at him in the dim light of his room, the warmth radiating from your body as your lips brush against his.

you're all the decoration he needs.

-

okay hi i hope you liked itsorry for the words being kinda clunky here n there???? ok bye

[pretend-theres-a-name-here]

Everybody at the party seems to know somebody (who’s not me) pt. 2

Continuation of Part 1

2919 words | Set before the events of s3 | Rating: G (maybe T&up) |

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time Steve runs into Brown Eyes he’s freezing in an itchy, too small pair of shorts.

 He hasn’t seen him in—well he doesn’t know how long because keeping time after inter-dimensional shit goes down for the second time gets pretty difficult for him, but he knows he hasn’t seen him in long enough to forget what shade of brown his eyes were or maybe it was just dark and he never really got that good of a look in the first place but that didn’t really matter because he thought he would never see him again, he was supposed to never see him again.

Steve’s parents came back for all of three days to lecture him about hospital bills, bills he only had because the kids couldn’t tell their parents about the Upside Down. They didn’t ask about the scar that ran down his left arm, they didn’t ask why he was wearing medically prescribed glasses to numb the headaches they didn’t know he got and they didn’t ask if he was okay. The conversation ended with his father telling him that if he wasn’t going to college then he had to get a job to pay back the bills.

So here he was, elbow deep in ice cream that dried in flakes on his skin and pulling at the hem of shorts that couldn’t be his own. Robin must’ve mixed them up again. Hers fell to her knees and she had to pull them up with a huff whenever she moved. 

“Hello and welcome to Scoops Aboy!” She chirped at the kid standing in line, only just able to hide the dead eyed stare she’d had on a second ago, “What flavor can I get for you today?”

The kid stared before pushing one sweaty finger against the glass at the chocolate bin. They were out of chocolate.

Steve sighed because he knew he would be the one who would have to get it from the back freezer when the kid threw a fit and he knew he would be the one who had to clean the glass back to shining.

Robin was desperately trying to sell any other flavor to the kid, “It looks like we’re all out of chocolate, big guy. How about some banana extravaganza?”

The kid shook his head, “Chocolate!” He shouted, voice squeaking. Steve rubbed his temples.

“Hey, dingus, do we have chocolate in the back?”

Steve trudged over to the freezer, bracing himself for the chill, and threw open the door. Carefully arranging the leg of the break room chair to wedge between the door because it got stuck when it shut and the inside handle was frozen over.

Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. Exactly one tub of double chunk-o chip chocolate ice cream sat on the shelf. Frozen to the metal, because of course it was.

“Okay, you can do this, just go out there and…be ice cream.” Jesus Christ. Talking to ice cream, Steven, talking to yourself in a dingy freezer.

Steve shook his head, rubbing his eyes to dispel his father’s voice. Steve blew into his hands, rubbing them together so he didn’t get freezer burn for a week—because that was something that happened when the ice cream sat on the shelf for too long—and tugged the bucket down.

When he managed to pry the tub of ice cream off the shelf Robin had already convinced the kid to get another flavor. 

“Thank you so much, Steve,” He dropped the tub on the counter, rolling his eyes, “It means a lot that you go into the freezer with all your migraines and concussions for nothing.” Stop whining, Steven, Harrington’s aren’t babies.

Robin just stared at him, deadpan, and Steve scoffed, grabbing a scooper to replace the chocolate ice cream. It wasn’t like he didn’t like her or anything, she was just weird. That was mean, he wasn’t that guy anymore, he was better than some high school peaking idiot now. He should apologize. He should apologize for a lot lately and so far he can’t say any of it, maybe he’s not so different from the asshole who stood by while his friends—

Robin dropped her scooper and shrugged off her vest, tossing her hat onto the table in the back as she walked past it, heading for the door.

“Hey, wait, where are you going? You can’t just leave me here.” Steve called. 

“Lady problems, dingus.” She didn’t even have to look back for Steve to know she was smirking.

Can’t even take one shift alone, Harrington men are supposed to be independent, Steven. He could—he would be fine on his own, he could handle this, it was just a few kids in a line that got longer and longer and—he was fine.

“Hello and welcome to Scoops Ahoy, what can I get for you today?” He droned on, customer after customer. 

It was nearing the end of his shift when it happened. Steve was grumpy and the lithonia lighting really drills into your eyes, goosebumps dotted his arms and legs. 

He was seconds away from filling his hat with ice cream and throwing it over his eyes to combat the headache forming and to top it all off some kid had dumped their banana split down the front of his shirt because it was ‘too cold’. The scratchy material of this stupid sailor costume was sticking to his chest, sopping wet and catching on the scar on his shoulder as if he needed another reminder that it was there, as if it didn’t already throb every few days just to show him he’d never really be okay again and he wanted to cry—if he hadn’t been in public he would’ve been sobbing on the floor. Get yourself together, Steven, you’re a working man not a pathetic little girl.

The bell rang again and he gave himself a second to prepare before lifting his head and facing the customer.

“Hello and welcome to Scoops Ahoy, how may I help you on this fine—” Steve looked up, breath catching when he saw a familiar face, hazel—they were hazel, “—day.”

“Uh…” Brown Eyes’ eyes darted around, avoiding eye contact.

“Hey.” Steve said, sounding more breathless than he felt but that was stupid, stupid, stupid, fucking hey, “I…uh, I wasn’t expecting—” to ever see you again, to ever think about that night again but that’s lie because it’s all I can ever think about. Because Steve had told himself to forget about it, give up on whatever had happened and live a normal life but now—

“Look, man, I didn’t even know you worked here,” Brown Eyes was putting his wallet away, “if I had then I never would’ve come here, I swear.”

“You wouldn’t?” He hadn’t meant to sound so pathetic. Pull yourself together, Steven, have we taught you nothing. Pathetic pathetic pathetic.

Brown Eyes’ eyebrows crinkled, “No?” But he sounded confused which Steve couldn’t blame him for. 

He’d been confused a lot since that night. Confused about why he let the gap close, why he pushed forward—why he liked it because that’s not something that happens to him. He liked girls, just like every other guy in this godforsaken town who liked girls, he had to because he and Tommy kissed once in fifth grade on a Saturday night after baseball practice just to see if it would feel different and Tommy had pushed him away gagging. Tommy had told him that his dad was right and boys shouldn’t kiss boys because it was gross so Steve didn’t think about why it didn’t feel different and they never talked about it again. Hadn’t thought about it again, until he was ducking under arms and following strangers to get away from Tommy years later at a party he wished would end and maybe it wasn’t as gross as he told himself it was. Maybe—maybe he—

Steve heard the back door open and slam closed and took his chance, “I’m taking my break, Robin!” He yelled as he grabbed Brown Eyes’ wrist over the counter and pulled him around it, walking them both to the freezer and passing an exasperated Robin.

“You already took a break, Dingus, you can’t just decide to take another!”

But he didn’t stop and she just rolled her eyes.

Brown Eyes was glancing around frantically, “Listen I’m sorry! I’ll leave you alone, dude, I get it! You didn’t mean to kiss me, I stupidly thought that was what was happening. It won’t happen again, I swear, man!”

The freezer lights were blinding and the faint buzz was more grating than usual. If Steve were thinking about it he would’ve known he was dizzier than he should have been. If he had been thinking about it he would have picked up on the beginnings of a migraine worming its way in. 

He wasn’t thinking about it, unfortunately, because Brown Eyes was still rambling and he was really cute when he was nervous but Steve wished he wouldn’t. Because Steve’s been doing some thinking since that night, thinking about why it didn’t feel so gross when Tommy kissed him, thinking about why he felt like he’d been strung up and gutted when Brown Eyes took off. He’s been doing some thinking and he’s pretty damn glad he did it before he had to face Brown Eyes again.

The second time they kissed was no more coordinated than the first—probably less so because Brown Eyes was mid apology and Steve flinched when the freezer door slammed shut—

Shit.

Brown Eyes hadn’t moved. He just stood there, mouth hanging open—well opening and closing and then opening again like he didn’t know what to do with it—eyes wide and confused. Because—because Steve kissed him, what the fuck was he thinking? Harringtons aren’t fucking queer Steven. And they weren’t, they weren’t. 

What would your father say? And for the first time since he’s ever really thought about it it was his mother’s voice.

“I’m sorry.” Steve whispered, backing against the cold metal shelf, “I’m sorry.” He muttered again because he didn’t know what else there was to say.

Maybe it was the plummeting feeling in his stomach that did it. The swooping and the dull thud of his heart against his ribs—he didn’t know. But he was doubling over so fast his already throbbing head spun, falling on shaking knees, not fast enough to swallow the bile before he was emptying whatever was left of his stomach into an empty tub of ice cream.

There was a panicked squeak behind him, “Uh, are you—should I—“ and then he was crouching down beside him, “I didn’t realize I was that bad of a kisser, Jesus, Harrington.”

 And Steve couldn’t help the snort that fell out of him even though it made his nose burn and his eyes water.

Brown Eyes hadn’t stopped fidgeting, “Sorry, sorry, that was stupid—I don’t know why I said that, just nobody’s ever thrown up around me and I don’t really know what to do. I guess rambling’s not the most comforting thing in the world and I can’t stop talking. Do you—should I get—I should go get napkins, probably, right? I’ll do that, yeah, just…wait here—”

But Steve reached out, stopping him with a hand on his wrist because he’d been so caught up in his own head that he forgot to stop the door and maybe he should have felt embarrassed for wiping his mouth on that stupid hat but, “Can’t go anywhere, man. Door’s stuck.” He breathed.

“Shit.” Brown Eyes swore.

“Yeah.” Steve sat up, wincing at the bucket and pushing it away, “‘’Sides, I can handle myself.”

“Right, no, obviously—“ Brown Eyes kept spinning a ring around his finger, tapping a pattern on his knuckles, “Has that—does that happen a lot?”

Steve huffed, leaning his head back against the metal shelf and closing his eyes as the sharp pain spiked behind his eyes, “Migraines. Happens if I ignore them.”

Brown Eyes slid down the shelf, he had a chain link hanging from his belt and it clacked steadily down. He opened his mouth again, barely took a breath before he was closing it and then seemed to shake off whatever nervous energy clung to him.

“Why’d—uh, why’d you ignore it?” He asked, and then, “Oh. Shit, man, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“Dude,” Steve let his head tip, ear stinging where it pressed into the cold metal of the storage shelf, to look at Brown Eyes, “It’s not your fault, not like you knew about it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right— obviously. No way I could’ve known, I mean it’s not like we know each other.” He was still moving. An almost jumpy motion to the way he spun his rings, pulled his hair in front of his face, tapped his foot against the tile floor over and over, “I mean we do—or I do. Figure you’ve heard rumors but never put a face to the name, huh, Harrington?”

And Steve caught the almost hopeful way Brown Eyes said his name, the hopeful but shame-filled and god if he didn’t know about shame. The longing that curled bittersweet in his stomach every time he was reminded of a life he could never be brave enough to take for his own. The overwhelmingly dreadful certainty that he would only ever live to settle down, to buy a house and start a family and die a peaceful death beside some woman he liked well enough because technically it wasn’t out of the picture for him. 

Because maybe all this thinking he’s been doing has opened his eyes to the parts of him he was suppressing but it didn’t make the other parts, the parts that wanted a family and small little porch that overlooked a garden that won best in show at the neighborhood fair, just disappear. And he knew the path his life would take him down and he accepted it because he was scared, a fucking coward. Fought fucking demons and you’re still afraid, Steven, always afraid. So he ignored it, the hope. For now.

“’S not like you ever told me yours.” Steve hadn’t meant to sound so pissy about it, he wasn’t owed the guy’s name just because they kissed. Never be anything better than a high school bully, Steven, we raised you better than this—

But then Brown Eyes grinned, snorting a little in surprise. Leaned in fast, close enough Steve could feel their breath mix between them and just looked at him like maybe he was going to finally tell him. Or kiss him again. And honestly Steve would welcome either option.

“Maybe I like the mystery.” Brown Eyes was enjoying this entirely too much.

Steve was about to respond, shoot back some snarky reply because that was okay to do now, it would be reciprocated, when he heard the yelling.

“Hey, dingus! Your children are here!” Robin. She pounded on the door, “Jesus, d’you seriously get stuck again?”

Steve sucked in a breath, ignored the sharp pain that speared through his head as he scrambled off the floor. He caught Brown Eyes’ eye, the resignation in them, and only had a second to feel guilty about what must’ve looked like the embarrassment of being caught together. Only had a second to reach out, thought maybe he could grab his hands—it’s not you, it’s not you, it’s the fear, it’s always the fear and I can’t do a damn thing about it. But that sounded far too much like a break up to say to somebody you’ve only kissed twice. Somebody whose name you don’t even know. It’s not you, it’s me, because I don’t even know you but if I did it’d still be me.

The door swung open, Robin keeping it from closing on them with her foot, “What the hell are you doing in here, dude?” She asked, “We’ve got customers. Your tiny friends.” 

“Right. I’ll—uh,” Steve glanced back at Brown Eyes, helpless to say anything as he pushed himself up and made for the door.

“Thanks for the tour, man but I should really get going.” No, no, wait, not now please wait, Brown Eyes tipped his head at Robin in a little curtsy as he read her name tag and it would’ve been endearing if Steve’s heart wasn’t pounding in his ears, crawling up his lungs and choking him, “All the gratitude for freeing us, lady Robin. See you around, Harrington.” 

Except you won’t, Steve wanted to call out, I graduated, I don’t know your name, stay stay stay—

“Steve.” Robin clapped her hands, “Small children. Waiting for you at the counter.”

When Steve looked back at the door Brown Eyes was gone.

“I got that, thanks.” He muttered.

If he gave Mike a little less ice cream in his free sample when the kid told him he was ‘watching the door wistfully’ he didn’t notice. And if he blamed his sour mood on his headache then it wasn’t technically a lie.

And if anyone noticed anything about it, they didn’t comment.

When Steve got home he hung his jacket up in his closet, bumped the door with his hip by accident and sucked in a breath when he saw the shoes. The ones Brown Eyes left at the party. The ones he’d kept, stupidly telling himself he would return them if he ever got the chance only he’d had the chance and he hadn’t said anything about them. 

Now he never would have the chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 3?

Fun Fact: I got so much second hand embarrassment from writing Steve throwing up that I had to stop writing for 2 days

PERMANENT tag list (open):

@yesdangerpls, @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse, @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin, @tinyplanet95, @gatorguy777, @grtwdsmwhr

[midniqhtt]

remus lupin

masterlist • the marauders • 03/27/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs two

remus lupin one

𑣲 when friends help you get the girl I @papercorgiworld

Remus struggles to ask you out and James tries to help. When Remus doesn't want to tell you he's a werewolf Sirius takes the blame. And Peter makes sure you spend some extra time together.

𑣲 hungry like the wolf I @ddejavvu

Remus is gifted an alternative potion to Wolfsbane near the full moon, meant to convert the magic of his transformation into energy. But the run you expect him to go on to burn some of the energy off isn't as much of a jog as it is a chase, and you're the one he's after.

𑣲 mistletoe I @cassielovesnewt

after the death of your brother, you take in your nephew as your own, shutting everyone else out in your grief. However, once you’re reunited with an old friend in Harry’s third year, old feelings start to come to the surface as you help each other through your grief.

𑣲 love in the foyer I @dwindlinghaze

remus lupin loves you, but his best friend 'likes' you too. so you both ended up fake dating.

𑣲 it’s nice to have a friend I @jamespottersdaisy

𑣲 markings I @myfictionaldreams

Remus accidentally bites your neck too hard and leaves indents of his teeth, and now it's woken something within him, needing everyone to see the mark he's left on you.

𑣲 the art of eye contact I @goldencherriess

The three times they made eye contact and the one time he did something about it.

𑣲 doctor!remus I @moonstruckme

𑣲 a friendly proposition I @/moonstruckme

Remus lupin with best friend reader who hasn’t cum before, and he is outraged when he hears this? And he’s like, why don’t I show you

𑣲 doctor!remus I @/moonstruckme

𑣲 doctor!remus I @/moonstruckme

𑣲 shy!remus I @/moonstruckme

𑣲 a horseshoe for luck I @ellecdc

𑣲 black!sister reader I @/ellecdc

𑣲 black!sister reader I @/ellecdc

𑣲 the ruined apothecary I @/ellecdc

who reconnect after Hogwarts

𑣲 potter!reader I @/ellecdc

𑣲 black!sister reader I @/ellecdc

𑣲 pt!remus I @/ellecdc

𑣲 legs for days lupin I @/ellecdc

𑣲 surprise! we’re making love part 2 I @/ellecdc

𑣲 roommate!reader I @/ellecdc

𑣲 animagus!reader I @/ellecdc

𑣲 bfb!remus I @inkdrinkerworld

𑣲 hangout? I @/moonpascal

𑣲 prank gone right I @mischievousmoony

when james and sirius prank you guys after your third date, you just have to prank them back

𑣲 still here -tw! I @sun-kissy

𑣲 heaven I @/sun-kissy

𑣲 yours I @pretentious-blonde

after inviting remus's oldest friends to dinner to introduce his new girlfriend, a secret slips that could alter their entire relationship

𑣲 after the storm I @/pretentious-blonde

the full moon is looming and remus takes it out on the one person he promised not to.

𑣲 draw stars around my scars I @chxrryhxrt

Many weeks had passed since the most recent full moon, yet James and Sirius still will not let you see Remus. What could they be hiding?

𑣲 simple loving I @kquil

𑣲 temper I @/kquil

remus is usually a grump, as dismal as a cloudy day and you're his sunshine, whether he accepts it or not -- he denies it vehemently until his sensitive nerves make him lash out the day of a full moon

𑣲 letter I @iamgonnagetyouback

where the boys mess with the letter he wrote for you

𑣲 because it’s dangerous I @lovemenotts

𑣲 occupied dorm I @rainydayathogwarts

When Lily gets sick of the commotion in the common room, she is locked out of her dorm because you are occupying it.

𑣲 mind blowing kisser I @/rainydayathogwarts

(platonic!marauders) your friend group finds out something shocking about you, Hogwarts's biggest heartthrob.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐧 || 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐬 ||

A/n: Smutty part 2 of this fic

The door barely closed behind you before his mouth was on yours.

Telemachus kissed you like a starving man—desperate, heady, sure. Gone was the hesitant touch of the boy who left. In his place was a man whose hands knew how to hold, whose mouth devoured with hunger and heat.

You gasped when he backed you against the wall, his hands sliding down your waist, fingers digging into your hips possessively. His lips moved to your neck, hot and wet as he whispered, “I dreamed of this. Of you.”

You clung to him, overwhelmed, stunned by how solid he’d become. Muscles rippled beneath your hands, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you as your fingers explored the hard planes of his back, his chest—gods, he was all grown now. A warrior. A man.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his ear.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, chest rising fast. “Then let me show you how much.”

He lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to your shared bed. The moment your back hit the sheets, he was on top of you—kissing you deeply, his weight grounding you, thrilling you.

Your hands trembled as they tugged at his cloak, pulling it off his shoulders to reveal sun-kissed skin, marred by new scars and sculpted with earned strength. Your mouth parted in awe, but he caught your gasp with a kiss, deep and hungry.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. God's you missed him, missed him being by your side.

“So are you,” he rasped, his hands slipping beneath your robes. “Gods, you’re perfect.”

Clothing was shed in frantic, reverent touches. When at last you lay bare before each other, Telemachus slowed. His gaze roamed over your body as if memorizing every curve, every freckle, every place he ached to kiss.

“Let me worship you,” he said softly, voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, heart fluttering—and he did.

His mouth found your collarbone, trailing kisses lower. You gasped as his lips closed over a nipple, warm and wet, and your back arched with a needy moan. He lavished your breasts with devotion, then moved lower, dragging his tongue down your stomach, nipping at your hips until your thighs trembled.

When his mouth finally met your heat, you cried out—hand fisting in the sheets as he licked slow, purposeful strokes that made your entire body burn. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“T-Telemachus—” you gasped. “I need you. Please.”

He kissed back up your body, his skin hot against yours, his length pressed heavy between your thighs. He braced himself above you, his gaze locked on yours as he guided himself to your entrance.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, voice hoarse. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You pulled him closer. “I want all of you...I need you.”

He pushed in, inch by inch, stretching you around him. You moaned—half pleasure, half disbelief. He felt so big, thicker than before, filling you completely. He buried his face in your neck as he bottomed out with a shaky groan.

“Gods,” he whispered. “You feel like home.”

When he began to move, slow and deep, your hands clung to his shoulders. Every thrust was purposeful, every roll of his hips sending sparks through your spine. He kissed you between moans—messy, open-mouthed, murmuring your name like a prayer.

Your climax built slowly, sweetly, each thrust sending you closer. His pace quickened, his breath ragged, as this was something he was waiting for.

“I’m close,” he groaned, voice rough against your ear.

You cupped his face, pulling him down for a kiss. “Together.”

And when you came—gods, you shattered. Your body clenched tight around him, legs locked at his waist, back arched off the bed, as he followed with a deep, gasping cry, spilling inside you in pulsing warmth.

He collapsed gently over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your temple, your lips. Arms still wrapped gently around your body as he held you close.

“I love you,” he breathed.

You smiled, fingers brushing the damp hair from his brow. “Welcome home, my warrior. My husband, my love."

He chuckled softly, breath hitching when you kissed his jaw and whispered with a sheepish smile on your face.“I really like the new muscles.”

And just like that, his hunger returned.

And that night, the prince proved just how much he’d grown.

[soggyriceee]

girl, let’s be so fr—your readers are feral for König begging. Like, we want that man on his knees, sweating, whimpering, looking up like we’re his last damn meal. We EAT that shit up, no crumbs left.

WE NEED PART 2 CHOCOLATE AFRODISIAC, STAT!

same plot as the first one, except he’s giving you the chocolate. side note i went back and re read the first part and realized i wrote it the opposite way the reader wanted it in so sorry literally blow my house up it’s ok

konig learned very quickly where you got that chocolate from. and he wasted no time getting himself some. he enjoyed that time, and wanted to recreate it again.

tonight was you guys’ 4 year anniversary. long time to be just boyfriend and girlfriend sure, but Konig wanted to be the husband who was around. he was gone too much, to even give you a proper wedding and honeymoon. he promised he’d settle down and find a job that didn’t require him to be away for up to a year.

but anyways, the day was perfect. you woke up to the tall man between your legs, fucking his tongue into you like he’d never get to again. not that this was much different than how you woke up usually, but this time it was filled with more. love.

lunch was at home, homemade chicken sandwiches and fries. the first meal you both made together when you moved in with him. a nap was defiently had and then it was time for dinner.

he took you to a very fancy, seaside reasturant. it was beautiful, one of the reasturants you’d sent him in fact.

you were oblivious to the chocolate covered strawberries konig made while cleaning up lunch, even more oblivious to what was IN the chocolate. konig was excited, already feeling himself pulse in his pants as he drove you both home.

you were already tipsy, the two cups of wine already getting you in a mood. konig looked so handsome driving, his muscles outlines against his shirt. his eyes, so glossy and big. he was hard to look away from, in a good way. but that of course made him nervous.

when you both got home, konig insisted on eating some chocolate before showering. “come on.. by the time you get out you’ll be too tired. i worked hard on them.” he pouted, hoping out the tray. they did look nice, the white chocolate drizzled on. you couldn’t say no.

you ate about 5, caught up in the convo. the wine didn’t help either. by the time you both had reached the last two, you began to feel a bit off. but, a good off. you quickly picked up on what was potentially happening, but you chose to play dumb.

the dumb act didn’t play long tho. by the time you both got to the showers konig was bulging out his pants. he was rubbing all on you, punching your nipples through your silk dress.

you’d lean into his touch, biting your lip as your habds ran up and down under his shirt. you felt every scar, ever burn. what he was once saw as an imperfection, you made a perfection.

“you.. drugged me, huh” you slurred, looking up at him. his hands made their way under your dress, biting his lip as he slid your panties down your legs. “maybe.. what would you do if i did?” he asked, cupping your ass.

you smiled up at him, tapping your chin with your finger. “might have to call the cops..” you answered, giggling. “oh really?”

he kicked your legs apart, your hands gripping the counter behind you. he dropped to his knees, a deep sigh coming from him as he pushed the skirt of your dress up to your hip. you instinctively put your foot on his shoulder, leaning back.

he disappeared under your dress, kissing your pussy gently while holding the back of your thighs. he hummed as his tongue trailed up and through your folds, eyes shut closed. “so wet already.. i don’t even have to do much maus..” hed say from under your dress, a pathetic whine coming from you.

your head pressed against the mirror, eyes closed as you pulled your bottom lip through your teeth. your fingers worked on nipples, squeezing and pulling the sensitive nubs.

“need.. need more Koni please~” you’d whine, pushing his head away. he was doing great of course, but the chocolates and wine were working quick and you wanted to feel him stretch you out more than anything right now.

“come on libe i wanna taste you some more.. make sure your really ready for me..” his finger would slide through your folds, chuckling at how your hips jerked back.

his fingers would slide into your hole, hissing at the filthy squelch that came from you. he bit his bottom lip, watching as his finger got coated in your juices. “gosh you’re so easy mause..”

youd huff at his comment, pulling his fingers away from you before pushing him back so he rested against the wall. he watched as you sat in his lap, taking his belt and undoing his pants. his cock would spring right up, tip bright red and oozing pre cum.

his hands found their way to your hips, licking his lips in anticipation. as much as you wanted to tease him, make him look like the easy one, you were desperate and didn’t have too much of a care. you needed him stretching you out, and you didn’t plan on waitinf much longer.

your hips would rise, his tip sliding through your sticky folds. “mm.. come on libe push it in for me..” hed say softly, one hand sliding up and down your spine.

your hands would grip onto his shoulders, holding eye contact as his tip first made its way in. your eyes would unfortunately squeeze shut, breaking eye contact, and halting your hips. “oh come on you know you can take it libe.”

he’d grip onto your hips, pushing himself up into you. of course you could take it, but it would take a minuet. he forgets the girth and length of himself sometimes, but he never does it on purpose!

your nails would dig into his shoulders, a painful cry escaping your plump lips. “konig please- y-you know it.. hurts for a bit.”

he’d roll his eyes tho, pulling you into his chest before guiding your hips up and down with ease. he’d press his head to the wall behind him, feeling how your cunt pulsed around him. it was so sexy how he moved you how he wanted, like you weighed nothing. you were his own personal fleshlight every time you both had sex, except he always made sure you creamed on him first before he got his release.

“just like that baby.. you got it..” hed pant, watching you with hooded eyes. he’d take one hand, cupping your boob and playing with your sensitive nubs. your hips moved on their own, the pain slowly fading into pleasure. “i.. i’m already so close.” you’d gasp, opening your eyes to look at his dark ones.

“yea?… go ahead baby.” hed nod, pinching your nipple. his other hand made its way to your clit, rubbing gentle circles against that bundle of nerves.

his tip would push right up against your cervix, making your toes curl. the eye contact between the both of you was intense, his dilated pupils never leaving your equally dilated ones.

your lips pressed against his roughly, bouncing slower on him as you felt your orgasm begin to take control over your body. “that’s it baby that’s it.. keep going im so close.” hed coo, watching as you came undone above him.

but your hips couldn’t keep up, your body was going numb. he’d grunt before holding you against his chest, and laying you on the cold bathroom floor. his hands would find their place on your hips before thrusting himself in and out of you.

boy how he loved what those chocolate strawberries and wine was doing to you. he loved how eager you were to fuck him, how wet and slimy your pussy was right now. he didn’t want it to stop at all. “k-konig it hurts.” you cried from below, habds pressing on his chest.

but konig didn’t care. he’d look down at you, at your pussy. his cock was covered in your cum, a mess all over the floor and his pelvis. he’d mutter curses in german, squeezing his eyes closed as he tried to make this feeling last. “i’m hurting you? this pussy hurts huh?” he asked, getting off on the idea that his cock was hurting you.

you’d nod frantically, trying to push his body away. “p-please it’s too much!” you’d cry, your pussy pulsating violently arouns him.

a deep growl would come from the man, his hand finding its way to your throat. “fuck i love hurting you libe.. makes me wanna.. wanna cum so.. fuck-“

he couldn’t even hold it anymore, shooting his ropes deep into your cunt. it took him by surprise, a pathetic whine leaving his lips.

his arms would tense besides you, as his legs shook besides your legs. you pretended not to notice, for the sake of his own embarrassment. his eyes remained shut, panting above you as he pulsed inside you.

maybe, you just needed a few seconds of rest, because the sight of such a burly man above you, physically weak because of you made your pussy pulsate all over.

“koni..” you’d say so innocently. “let’s get in the shower now.. i need more.”

he quickly began to rethink your sex drive, and just how much those chocolates may have increased it

bae i’m so sorry this took so long, i refused to post another work until my master list was up to date

[aegonstradwife]

closer pt. 2 | aegon targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested; a sequel to closer, where aegon is further healed and reader rides him.

warnings: mention of various injuries / scars, established relationship, smut. (riding.)

a. note: link to the original request.

In the span of only 2 months, your husband's extensive injuries have healed to be quite less so; the burns along the left half of his body have left behind rough, blotchy scars that he is still self-conscious of. But you're just glad that he's alive.

His knee is still something of an issue, causing him immense pain whenever he tries to move it. But at least he can flex his toes now without screaming in agony, and the lower half of his leg can also be manipulated with little to no torture to him.

And that's why you feel so comfortable planning what you've planned; something wicked that is going to satisfy desires - both yours and the king's - that have gone neglected for months while Aegon has been bedridden.

At this stage, Aegon always, always, makes sure to instruct the maesters to keep the door unlocked, leaving you free to slip inside whenever you desire.

When you do so this morning, Aegon is of course still abed, covered only in a thin sheet, sun laying itself across his chest, setting his fine hair alight. He looks celestial, something too holy to be touched.

But that's exactly what you've come to do.

Your husband lights up upon spying that familiar head of hair poking through the doorway. He sits up with what is apparently minimal pain, though he's gotten very good at hiding it when he wants to.

"Finally come to liberate me from this forsaken chamber, my love?" Comes his sleep-thick voice - you hope you haven't woken him prematurely. He does still need all the rest he can get.

"Not quite yet," you mutter apologetically, closing the door softly behind you. Even though you're quite sure your coming here is no longer a secret, you'll gladly keep up the charade in order to keep a sense of normalcy during this time.

Aegon may still be mostly incapacitated, but his burns have healed nicely and he has much better range of movement now, at least with his upper half.

His poor knee, however, is still shattered. The maesters have done their best to splint it, but he is still well on his way to healing fully, and will probably walk with a limp even after.

You settle lightly on the bed beside him, running a hand down his scarred arm. "I have come to do something else, though. Can you guess what?"

Aegon licks his lips, which are dry and chapped from sleep. There are empty goblets on the bedside table that you could easily take and refill for him, but he's grabbing suddenly for your hand, keeping you beside him. "Care to give me a hint?"

You gladly twine your fingers with his, thumb roving over the mottled skin of his hand. Finally, you can touch him without him screaming in pain. "You've healed perfectly, my love. I think it's time, to do what we've wanted for so long.... What do you think?"

Your love's face goes blank as he realizes what you mean. After so long, you'll be able to have each other the way you deserve. Those chapped lips part, and Aegon releases a short, forceful sigh that you've come to know as his wife to mean that he's thinking very dirty thoughts.

It's a wonder he's not already trying to rip your clothes off.

He swallows hard against a lump in his throat and breathes, "I think you're finally going to let me have you the way I've been dreaming of having you."

"Mm," you agree with a hum. Aegon saying it aloud lights a spark between your thighs.... "I just want to touch you everywhere, Aegon. Now that I can."

Turning more to face him, you traipse your fingers lightly up over his burnt elbow, scar tissue bumping beneath your hands. "Does it feel different?" You whisper reverently, that same hand skimming up over his bicep and curling around his shoulder. The other is moving its way up his stomach, half over his healed burns and half on the smooth, unburnt skin beside it.

His breathing is already picking up as you touch him, and when your palm meets his sternum, a sharp, unexpected tremor rolls through him. His violet eyes roll back, and for a moment you're afraid you've hurt him.

"It does feel different." Aegon's voice is a grizzled moan, one hand clenching itself hard in the bedsheets, the other palming over your thigh just beside him. "It feels.... more sensitive than before. I d-don't know why."

You don't need to know why to know that this revelation makes you want to touch him even more, to make him feel so good, to take away all the remaining hurts from his battle.

"That's good." You're trying to keep your voice even, but the feeling of all of Aegon's gorgeous skin underneath your hands is making you shake with desire for him.

Your hands meet at the scarred skin of his left collarbone before both start a slow track over his chest. The scarring here is the worst, his armor having melted to the skin, peeling away as the maesters removed it.

But Aegon merely shudders in pleasure, reaching out desperately for you. He cries your name. "Please.... Please, I need you, my love. It's been too long."

All you can do is watch as your hands continue to palm over Aegon's torso. Your husband is shivering, making the most delectable sounds, and you can see his cock starting to tent the sheets below. You're sure he would be writhing under you if it wouldn't hurt his leg too much to do so.

All of a sudden, however, Aegon yelps in pain, head tossed back against the pillows. He has, in fact, tried to arch a little too hard into your touch.

"Aegon," you scold him, pinning him by the hips. "You can't, my love. Don't move so much, your leg...."

You know it must be throbbing, and you do your best to soothe your hand over his calf, just below the break.

He curses through clenched teeth. "I can't help it.... I want to touch you, and I need you to touch me, but. It hurts, and I can't believe how much it still hurts."

The grunting pain in his voice sends a wave of sympathy washing over you.

You purse your lips.

"I can believe it," you sigh, still caressing his lower leg, down to his ankle now. "You really did a number on yourself. It's honestly a miracle you've healed this much this quickly, you know."

With a groan and a huff of frustration, Aegon throws an arm over his face. "I know, the maesters are all impressed with how quickly I'm healing, but they don't understand just how badly I want you, and just how badly this damned leg is getting in our way."

Now, you think. He can't see you, with his arm flung dramatically over his eyes - you'll surprise him.

Quickly, but careful of his leg, you sweep a leg over him and settle yourself just over his hips. You picked out a thin night shift to wear just for this....

Not quite putting your full weight on him, you run your fingers back up his torso, fingers flirting with this collarbones again. "I, for one, owe my sanity to the maesters, Aegon. Can you imagine if you had died? I can't.... It doesn't bear thinking about."

Aegon jerks against the bed, arm coming down so he can grab for your leg as he looks up at you, surprised. The first thing he must see are your bare thighs, spread around him. Gods, he's missed this view.

The second thing he notices is the look on your face - the utter devotion, the love, the lust. "Darling...."

His hands, insistent against your thighs, push their way up under the loose material of your nightgown, coming to rest on your hips, thumbs pressing into your soft, supple flesh.

You moan, loudly, at the feeling. One of his hands is smooth, just as before, the other rough with burn scars. And you love them both.

"Gods, I missed that, Aegon. Your hands on me.... Touch more, my love. Touch whatever you want. I'm yours."

Those hands tighten their grip, and Aegon's purple eyes flash tiredly up at you. "As you wish, my queen."

His hands start a slow motion back and forth, up and down your thighs, over your hips and waist. His fingers trail over the warm, yielding flesh of your sides and stomach, before pushing higher, palming over the curves of your breasts.

Still just hovering over him, not daring to sit all the way down, you revel in his touch. Nothing in this world compares to your love's hands running over you, worshipping your skin, your hips, your breasts!

That wrenches a particularly deafening groan from your lips, as you arch your chest into his palms. "More.... Please, Aegon. I missed this so much."

He continues to grab and pull greedily at your flesh, wanting to worship you - to worship every single inch of you.

"Gods, I've missed this too, darling. So much. I've been dreaming of getting my hands on you, of feeling these gorgeous curves. I won't ever let you go again, that's a promise."

To take some of the pressure off your legs, you list forward, bracing yourself with your hands on either side of Aegon's head. "More," you demand, pressing your lips to the corner of Aegon's mouth. "Touch me everywhere."

Aegon should know what you mean by that.

Your demanding tone makes Aegon smirk; he did always like when you took control.

"Yes, your majesty," he purrs, hands slipping back to tug the hem of your shift out of the way so he can palm over your ass, then pull hard at the gauzy material. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?"

Wasting no time, you reach down, ripping the flimsy cotton off over your head. "How's that?"

Grabbing for Aegon's hands, you place them again on your breasts, squeezing. At the same time, you dare to sink an inch or so lower, and the sticky head of Aegon's hard cock brushes against the inside of your thigh. "You're still such a beautiful boy, you know that?"

The sound that falls next from his pretty lips is a strangled whimper. "Don't call me that," he sighs, and you can barely hear him. "You know what it does to me."

As if in corroboration, his cock twitches stiffly against your inner thigh.

"Oh, but that's what I want," you hiss, still braced over him, mouth hot and wet now on the burns at his hairline. "Do you even know how long it's been since you've been inside me? Of course you do - I'm sure you've thought about it just as much as I have. Maybe even more, confined to this damnable bed as you've been."

"You don't even know," he replies quietly, voice soft and small. His head is tilted back, baring his throat. "I've thought about it every single day. I've thought about it every night. Every time I've closed my eyes, it's driven me nearly mad."

There are tears at the corners of his reddened eyes, and you kiss them delicately away. There's not much to say, other than that you're sorry you're in this situation.

With his neck bared to you like that, you take the opportunity to attack the scarred skin at the base of his throat, loving how sensitive it makes him, how his body responds to you now. "Is this okay?" You ask, nosing at his jaw. "Not too sensitive?"

"Perfect," comes Aegon's reply, still barely more than a whisper, thumbs circling over your hips.

When he tries to grind up against you, you still him with a hand hard on his hip. "Aegon. I'm going to ride you. And if you need me to go faster or slower, raise higher or sink down more, just tell me. No trying to take control yourself, alright? I don't need your recovery set back any further."

He whines in despair, and his fingers claw miserably at your back. "I understand," he says obediently. "I'll be still, I promise. And I'll tell you. Just.... please, darling. I need you so badly I can taste it."

Gentle fingers cradling his jaw, you force him to look at you. He truly is beautiful, though he might not feel so with the scars scorching down his face. But to you, he is immaculate.

"You're going to be so good for me, aren't you, my little prince?" You lower yourself further, reaching down to position his thick head at your wet entrance.

The raw desire radiating off of him as he gazes adoringly up at you sends a lick of heat down the base of your spine. Your cunt is throbbing, aching to take him in, and his cock is twitching in your palm, equally as keen to be inside.

"Yes, my lady," is Aegon's eventual reply, and you're pleasantly surprised at how good he's being. His hands are petting themselves soothingly down your back, but his hips are completely still aside from the occasional tiny pump as he aches to be inside of you.

"Good boy." Unwilling to wait any longer, you tilt your hips back and bear down, opening up for him, sinking down onto his hardness after so many months being unable to do so.

It is a stretch after so long with only your fingers to do the job, but any discomfort is mitigated by the intense, overbearing love you have for your husband and the way his cock twitches inside of you. "A-Aegon...."

His name is a sob, you can't help it.

Aegon's hands are at your face, cupping, thumbs fluttering over your cheekbones. "My love.... I said I'd tell you what I needed. And.... I need you to move. Please. For me."

You nod, taking a long, rattling breath as you lean up and then slide back down, Aegon's cock dragging at your tight walls, the head nudging all the way back on every thrust down.

As you start to build at least some sort of rhythm, Aegon gasps and groans, body starting to squirm beneath you.

You still, fixing him with a critical look.

"I know," he gasps. "I know, I'm sorry.... You don't understand how hard it is, not to move. Not to show you how badly I want you, when you're sitting on me looking like that...."

"Looking like what?" You dare to ask, hips hitching back and forth over him.

"Like the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he laments, hands coming around to cup and knead at your breasts again. He tweaks one hard nipple and you cry out, feeling your cunt starting to cream on him.

This used to happen all the time - Aegon would get you so worked up that when you both looked down to where his cock was opening you up, there'd be a thick, frothy cream making itself known along his shaft. And he'd be quick to fuck it back up into you, both of you messy and sweaty and absolutely blind to anything else in the world but each other.

"That's it," Aegon grunts, nails scraping lightly over your nipples. The sun is shining just right for Aegon to be able to look between the two of you and see your cream coating his cock. "That's.... oh, gods. I might - I'm close -"

His breath is choppy, the smooth skin of his unburnt cheek gone very pink. Physically unable to stop himself, his hips are working gently to drive himself up to you.

"Aegon...." You place a hand on his chest again, just over his pounding heart. Both of you still, and you assure him, "I'm going to bounce on you. Hard. Until we both cum. If you're in any sort of pain -"

But he cuts you off with a hard nod and a whine. "Yes, yes, I'll tell you. I promise."

Making sure you're leaning forward, as far away from his leg as you can while still keeping him inside, you start with a couple hard pushes down, the sound of skin slapping starting to fill the room.

Aegon's eyes close in pleasure, and there's no hint of pain anywhere on his face, so you tuck your legs under, now balanced on your toes as you start to fuck him in earnest.

You're fucking bouncing on him, as hard as you dare with a hand on his shoulder to keep you from listing backward.

Almost as though he can't decide which part of you to touch, his hands keep flitting from your breasts to your stomach to your thighs and back. There's absolutely no need for him to move at all right now - you're taking care of any need or want he could possibly have.

"Oh -" Aegon's eyes fly open, staring down between you, listening to the sweet wet sounds your cunt is making as you use him, watching the reddened, swollen length of his cock disappearing in and out of you. "I'm almost -"

You nod, wanting him to, needing him to. It's been so long since you've felt his cum flood your womb, since you whispered in his ear for your king to get you pregnant. "You can, Aegon. Whenever you're ready. You deserve to, after so long...."

His entire body goes taut, a long line against the sheets as he tries his damnedest not to move his broken leg. The other, however, has dug its heel into the bed and is doing its best to keep his back arched as he sprays inside of you.

Almost as an afterthought, long after his cock has stopped spurting, he gasps, grabbing for you, holding you close, petting your hair. "Was I - was I good?"

"Perfect," is your whispered reply as you shudder through your own orgasm above him, Aegon's hands on your hips helping you along.

Once you're both spent, you move to lay beside him, but Aegon is quick to grab you and pull you down on him instead, resting your head on his chest.

You can hear his heart still beating hard, his fingers comforting and gentle on your back and shoulders.

"I love you." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I love you so much. Thank you.... for still wanting me."

Slowly looking up at him, Aegon tosses you a cheeky smirk. "Even though as your king, I could have you commanded to be mine for all eternity anyway."

"Oh, shut up," you sigh, teeth digging playfully into his chest. "I love you too, you absolute imbecile."

[pseudowho]

Post-ShibuyaAU! Grey Nanami Kento Headcanons, Part 2

(help me find the Nanami artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

As an accompaniment to my story, Grey (link here); an AU where Nanami survives Shibuya exploration because I'm never going to be over his loss.

Part 1 of Greynami Headcanons, link here

Christmas Greynami Headcanons, link here

Warnings: Severe injury (burns, eye loss), PTSD, alcohol use, depression, light smut, angst, AU headcanons

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Before he met you:

AU!Nanami Kento who takes up smoking again, a habit he had while working as a salaryman. His voice becomes rougher, more gravelly, irritated by the tobacco.

AU!Nanami Kento whose parents weep and stroke his healed burned face the first time they see him post-Shibuya, devastated by the suffering their little boy has experienced.

AU!Nanami Kento who sees that pain in his mothers' eyes every time he visits her. She can't help it. She's just heartbroken she couldn't keep her baby safe.

AU!Nanami Kento who begins to screen his parents' calls, not visit for dinner like he used to, and sends birthday gifts in the post instead of in person. Causing them distress by exposing them to his brutal injuries is a stress he's too fragile to cope with.

AU!Nanami Kento who listens to his fathers' long voicemails every night after a few drinks.

AU!Nanami Kento who often doesn't go home between missions, sleeping against walls in old buildings instead, a cold uncomfortable sleep preferable to a deep sleep with nightmares.

AU!Nanami Kento who alters his wardrobe after his tie, which he was unusually fond of, was destroyed by Jogo's flames. He can't find the tie for sale anymore. His beige suits just don't feel the same without it.

AU!Nanami Kento gives the last vestiges of his emotional energy to Yuuji, knowing he needs support, not wanting Yuuji to know he's struggling, not wanting to add more to Yuuji's already full plate.

AU!Nanami Kento who used to daydream about being a father one day, but now, being loved and giving love in return feels so remote and unlikely

After he meets you:

AU!Nanami Kento who tries to hide his trauma at first, afraid it will be too much baggage for you.

AU!Nanami Kento who is grateful to the very depths of his soul when you make it clear that he could never be too traumatised to be loved; you are each others' therapist, confidant, and sexy best friend.

AU!Nanami Kento, who struggles through reducing his alcohol and cigarette intake, with your steadfast support.

AU!Nanami Kento whose home screen photo is one of you asleep, snuggled into his chest, drooling; you hate it, he absolutely refuses to change it.

AU!Nanami Kento who confesses to you on one snowy evening walk; he tells you the moon looks beautiful tonight and you're on tiptoes kissing him before he can even finish his sentence.

AU!Nanami Kento who takes up baking bread overnight if he can't sleep, the process cathartic and soothing. You know he's had a bad night when you wake up to warm bakery smells.

AU!Nanami Kento and you, whose home becomes a refuge for all the kids who know where the spare key is hidden.

AU!Nanami Kento who has made up the spare room for Yuuta, Inumaki and Nobara at separate points in just one week.

AU!Nanami Kento, who makes sure you buy extra bottles of burn ointment, and delivers them to Maki when he gets the chance.

AU!Nanami Kento, stood at the bathroom counter which you sit on, facing him, your legs wrapped around his hips, as you gently shave around his scars. Kento rests his hands on your waist, slipping his fingers under your shirt, just to feel your skin.

AU!Nanami Kento, whose towel comes loose and drops to the floor, staring into your eyes in challenge. You last a few seconds before your eyes flick down, drinking in the beautiful nudity of him.

AU!Nanami Kento who immediately throws you over his shoulder, and carries you to your bedroom while you squeal and laugh, being promptly de-clothed by him.

AU!Nanami Kento who behaves the second time you sit on the counter, to finish the job you started; he looks at you with a naughty glint in his eye.

AU!Nanami Kento who, with your support and continuous company on his missions, finds his power grows rapidly; he manages five black flashes in a row, and feels he may be nearing domain establishment.

AU!Nanami Kento who, after a rocky start with Higuruma Hiromi, becomes his firm friend, forming an intensely unstoppable duo. Ino is only a little bit jealous.

AU!Nanami Kento who finally calls his parents with your encouragement. He can't help but tell them about you immediately. They're thrilled, and want you round for dinner as soon as possible.

AU!Nanami Kento who is mortified as you and his mother coo over his baby photos.

AU!Nanami Kento who is stunned into silence when, in the car on the way home, you wonder out loud if your babies will look more like you or him.

AU!Nanami Kento who throws you into bed the moment you get home, face between your legs and drunk on the taste and sounds of you, until you're begging him to come closer; he graciously complies, his mind full of your future home, tiny footsteps and laughter as you cling to him in bliss.

AU!Nanami Kento who goes looking for rings on his days off; it's a huge decision, and one he ponders over for months, so in the meantime, he buys you a watch which perfectly matches his own.

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More love for Greynami. I'll do some bigger stories at some point too.

Part 1 of Greynami Headcanons link here

Thanks as always to @silkspunweb for being my muse and fellow unhinged friend.

[rhyrhy]

Venom in the veins 🕸️

Spider!Ellie x Fem Villain reader

✦ Synopsis: When trust is broken, and alliances shift. Your local friendly neighborhood spiderwoman! is forced to choose between her love and loyalty!

✦ Warnings: enemies to lovers to enemies..? Angst, violence, death/grief , language, romantic tension, familial issues. 5k words.

A/n: thank you to @s0phi3w4lt3n , because their lovely brain is helping make this possible. This is chapters 1-2. (3-7 will be separate posts!) + Ellie’s suit desc is based off this beautiful art!

October 5th

I guess I finally understand what it means to wear the weight of something bigger than yourself.

Nobody tells you how lonely this gets. They say it’s a responsibility. A privilege. But nobody warns you about the nights when your body’s so sore you can’t move, or when you have to smile at people who would hate you if they knew the whole truth.

And the worst part? I should’ve seen it coming.

I should’ve known the second I woke up with a spider bite the size of a penny and a bad feeling in my gut.

But I was just a dumb kid clinging to Joel’s leg in the ER, sure I was about to drop dead…

Being a hero wasn’t as simple as they made it look in the comics she read. It wasn’t just about the mask—it was about juggling the power, the responsibility, and the weight of knowing that, at any moment, everything could come crashing down.

And in the end? It was always a game of masks. Who’s hiding behind them, and who’s fooling who?

Ellie wasn’t the best at keeping secrets.

Especially not when she had a spider bite the , wrapped in white gauze and held together with SpongeBob bandages that did little to ease her nerves. Her pain tolerance wasn’t exactly low, but weren’t black widows deadly? She could still feel the long-gone venom burning in her bloodstream—or maybe she just thought she did.

“Joel, I’m too young to die!” A younger Ellie whined, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clung to his leg.

“You aren’t dying. They said you’ll be sore at most.” He sighed, patting her head.

“Dramatic” wasn’t the word he’d use to describe the distraught figure clinging to him like she truly believed her life depended on it. Eleanor “Ellie” Anna Williams, at the ripe age of twelve, gave her adoptive father more wrinkles than he could count.

This time, it wasn’t a scraped knee from wobbly attempts at skateboarding, or a burn on her forearm from trying to make him breakfast. It was a spider bite. She didn’t get a good look when she flung her head after the sting set in, but she was almost certain what that eight-legged creature was that had crept onto her hand while she doodled on her notebook in science class.

She rambled about it the whole way from the school’s nursing office to the emergency room. Not even the radio could drown out the frantic girl, who loved all things nature—as long as it wasn’t trying to kill her. She’d just learned to use a training bra. She couldn’t die now.

“I’m not?” she said, her green watery eyes looking up at him.

“No. Weren’t you listening to what the nice lady said? The one in blue scrubs?”

To be honest, she wasn’t. However, she did remember the woman he was referring to—and the way she made her heart race. Even now, as a young adult, Ellie would bring her up when questioned about her gay awakening.

“You’re goin’ to be fine kiddo” He bent down to her level, his Texan accent dragging out his “n”s.

Comforting her had become something Joel mastered over the years. Trying to navigate Ellie’s spectrum between smart mouth and nervous breakdowns wasn’t easy for a man in his early thirties. But he’d found a way to wedge himself somewhere right in the middle—right where she needed him.

If there was one thing Ellie learned quickly, it was that Joel knew best. With legs full of scars and scrapes and a pair of worn-out Converse that Joel begged her to throw away, Eleanor—who preferred just ‘Ellie’—skated into her high school years.

Going from Little Orphan Annie, which she hated when assholes at school called her that, to your average teenager in the big city of Seattle, everything was completely normal.

Except it wasn’t. At all.

In fact, nothing about Ellie was normal. But the unusual started small—extremely small—and Ellie didn’t know any better. At first, she thought it was just the weed she smoked with Jesse still messing with her system.

Because ever since that fateful day in seventh grade, weird, borderline supernatural things had started happening.

She couldn’t tell you exactly how it all started—at least, not without cringing through the many, many journals she kept as a teenager—but somewhere in the mess of scribbled notes and half-finished sketches, there was an entry about a joke gone wrong.

One night, on a dare to see how long she could hold a handstand, Ellie found herself upside down—only she wasn’t just balancing. She was walking. On her ceiling.

The next morning, she convinced herself it was just some weird, half-awake dream. But when she tried it again—yeah, no. She wasn’t dreaming.

“Holy shit!” she blurted out, stumbling back to the ground.

“Language!” Joel’s voice rang out from the living room, blissfully unaware of the very sticky situation unfolding just a few feet away.

Ellie swallowed, staring at her feet. “Holy shit…” she whispered again, this time to herself.

For a while, she tried to ignore it. Between figuring out her sexuality and preparing for an upcoming science fair, she had enough on her plate. So when weird things happened—like catching something mid-fall way too fast or feeling vibrations through the walls—she brushed it off.

But the signs were getting harder to ignore. Especially when she asked Riley if she could hear that sound—

—and Riley just stared at her.

“Hear what?” Riley asked, setting up their volcano project.

“That—” Ellie waved her hand vaguely. “You seriously don’t hear it?”

Riley squinted. “Williams, I love you, but you have absolutely lost it.”

Ellie would’ve argued back, but the sound was coming from three tables down.

“Booger-eater James?” Riley snorted, nodding toward the kid hunched over a glass box of spiders. Not sure how that was science experiment. “He’s just standing there. With his creepy crawlers. I pray for him once we hit eleventh grade—he’s never getting a girlfriend.”

Panic set in—sudden and overwhelming—as her mind spiraled. Was this some weird side effect of the bite? Or was it something worse? She thought about her biological family, about the things she didn’t know, about the one thing she did worry about when it came to her health.

These were crazy person signs, right? Or worse—crazy person genes running through her blood. Torn between telling a school counselor or just locking herself in the bathroom to cry, Ellie excused herself from Riley and approached the table. But the closer she got, the louder the sound became. A crawling, chittering hum that made her stomach flip.

There was no way she was communicating with something that had more than two eyes and eight legs. An arachnid, for crying out loud.

Don’t get her wrong, Ellie loved science. But people who claimed this kind of stuff? They got laughed out of programs. Stripped of titles, accreditations. Blacklisted. Snow White talking to animals was one thing. A teenage girl talking to spiders? That was an entirely different planet.

But the more she thought about it… the more it made sense.

The heightened senses. The weird reflexes. And that bite mark—the one she was so sure would scar? It was completely gone the next morning when her bandage fell off in the shower.

What started as a sneaking suspicion was quickly turning into a daunting realization.

Ellie tried to ignore it. She really, really did.

For the next few weeks, she chalked it up to stress, exhaustion, anything that made more sense than the alternative. But the signs weren’t stopping. If anything, they were getting worse.

The way her body moved before she even had time to think. The way she could feel things that weren’t there—like the vibrations of footsteps before someone entered a room. The way her grip had changed—how she accidentally shattered a glass one night at dinner, how the basketball stuck to her hand a second too long in gym class.

She stopped journaling about it. She stopped mentioning it to Riley. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it. this was so , so much worse than the time she wasn’t allowed to leave the dinner table until she finished her brussels sprouts.

And that was how she found herself standing in front of her bedroom window one night, hoodie zipped up, black Converse laced tight.

Sneaking out wasn’t new to her. She’d done it before. Skating out to meet Jesse, tagging walls in alleyways. But this?

This wasn’t just sneaking out.

That night, she got her first real taste of herself without the skintight suit she now wears like a badge.

Little did she know at the time, how important that near miss would be.

“Glad nobody saw that.” An embarrassed Ellie giggled to herself, standing to her feet after stumbling for the hundredth time.

Parkour always seemed a little odd to her—she preferred her guitar or a late-night reading session, but those seemed to lay still on her bookshelf nowadays. I mean, who wanted to potentially hurt themselves running along buildings, jumping from concrete to concrete, brick to brick? Short answer: she did.

Long answer: the stairwell right behind her apartment building, leading to the city’s rooftops. Mariano’s, her favorite pizza joint that always closed way too early in her opinion, the old library that closed down only to be replaced a few doors down, and the laundromat. Dusting off her jeans, she’d do this for what felt like hours.

The back and forth would make normal civilians sick—feet swollen to hell. But for Ellie, after a fight with Joel about curfew or an unnecessarily long school day, as soon as the sun set, this was her heaven.

She wasn’t normal. She’d established that a long time ago. But it’s not like she could exactly tell people she could do these kinds of things. They’d look at her the way Riley did. A FYI, she was so right about James—after graduation, he still never got a girlfriend.

Ellie, on the other hand, had quite a few up until graduation.

A shared kiss with Riley, a faded stick-and-poke cat the girl in her art class gave her, and her unforgettable first time with the first girl she could truly say she loved: Dina.

To say “fair share” was a bit of an understatement. It was more about quality than quantity. Her building real connections, some still lingering around. Some took the high road, choosing to stay the bitter ex. But Ellie didn’t see it like that. She appreciated the good and the bad, even if she did have to get a real tattoo over that stick-and-poke cat.

But times like these, where she let her feet carry her across the city, were when she was allowed to forget about all that, leave it in the past where it belonged, and focus on the future. But even with her tassel turned, she always found herself in that alleyway, climbing up that same fire escape to get to the roof.

The city lights below flickered like distant stars. So many people, but none of them knew her name. Maybe that was for the best. In this city, the only person Ellie needed to be was herself.

The wind against her skin felt sharper tonight, like she could almost taste the city’s pulse. A distant car honked, but she didn’t hear it the same way anymore. It was all part of the rhythm, the energy that seemed to flow through her, the way the rooftops called her to them.

For now, the rooftops were hers. But she knew, deep down, that wouldn’t last forever. Heroes, villains—one day, someone would come looking for her. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe.

Freshly graduated, Ellie was hanging out with friends at her favorite pizza joint, the smell of pepperoni filling the air, and the sound of laughter ringing in her ears. It was one of those normal, relaxed nights. nothing out of the ordinary. Or at least, it didn’t seem that way at first.

But when a hooded figure paced back and forth in front of their table for the fourth time, Ellie couldn’t help but feel a cold chill run down her spine. Her green eyes snapped to the sound, hands slowly lowering the slice of pizza she’d been about to take a bite of.

“That young man stole my purse!” A woman’s voice broke through the hum of the restaurant, her trembling hands pointing toward the culprit.

Ellie’s green gaze snapped to the man now hurrying down the sidewalk, his steps quick, his movements too frantic. The adrenaline surged through her as she pushed her chair back and stood, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door. She didn’t wear her mask yet, but the sensation of needing to act was unmistakable.

She couldn’t just let it go.

The man was fast, but he wasn’t fast enough. Ellie darted into the street, weaving between pedestrians like a blur, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the city’s noise. When she reached him, she tackled him with everything she had, the force knocking the purse out of his hand and sending him stumbling backward.

He didn’t stick around to fight back. In a flash, he bolted, disappearing into the shadows before Ellie could react.

She stood there, chest heaving as she clutched the purse in her hands. The woman, now catching up to her, approached with wide eyes.

“You got it back!” The woman gasped, her voice thick with relief.

Ellie smiled awkwardly, handing the purse back to her. “I… I guess I did.” Heart still racing.

Before she could say more, the woman pulled her into a tight hug. Ellie froze, not knowing what to do. She had no idea this small act of kindness would cause a strange warmth to spread through her chest.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered. “I don’t know what I would’ve done…”

Ellie gently pulled back, her heart still racing. She was pretty sure she was just a regular girl, with no superpowers or any big secret to her name. But in that moment, the feeling of doing the right thing—of helping someone in need—felt bigger than anything she’d ever experienced. Maybe she was crazy. But a little bit of crazy could do good.

And Ellie? She loved justice.

“Bullshit. No way you tackled him like that.” Abby’s voice rang out, interrupting Ellie’s storytelling.

“Alright, maybe I exaggerated a little bit, but I’m telling you, I kicked ass.” Ellie laughed, holding the door open for the tall blonde.

“Uh huh. Sure, Williams.” Abby huffed, walking past her into the bookstore. The familiar chime of the doorbell rang out above them, a small sound that felt like a second home.

Ellie inhaled deeply, taking in the comforting smell of ink and crisp pages being turned. She loved it here, more than the silly pictures of cats online, which, in the Williams world, meant a lot.

Abby, tall and always a step ahead in the teasing department, fell into step beside her. One of the few friends Ellie could confide in. Even if that came with endless ribbing. Ellie could admit that she’d told the “first save” story a million times, but it was one of the few she could tell without giving herself away—without breaking her promise. The promise she made to herself when she officially earned her title as ‘hero.’

But here, in the bookstore, she could nerd out all she wanted. No secrets to hide, no need to pretend. She could throw in the subtle bragging without fear of it getting back to the wrong people.

Ellie wasn’t a huge talker. She preferred humming to herself or getting lost in her own thoughts. As she scrolled past the comic book section, her fingers brushing against the glossy covers of vibrant colors and bubble letters, she was suddenly back in time. A place of nostalgia. Staying up way past her bedtime, reading comics under the covers with a trusty red flashlight.

When the small tv in the corner of the store caught her attention. A new report, crime in the city’s streets. detailing the latest wave of crime sweeping through the city. From petty purse snatching to stolen identities—and sometimes, even lives. It was all too familiar.

“This just in: Another robbery in the city’s streets. Police are still on the lookout for the suspect,” the newscaster announced.

She hated it, the fear in people’s eyes. The feeling of a warm blanket being ripped off all because a few people probably weren’t hugged enough as kids. If anybody knew a rough childhood, it was Ellie, and what she didn’t do was use that and take it out on the world. The last thing she expected years from this moment is trying to be understanding with the one who did.

If anyone knew a rough childhood, it was Ellie. But she didn’t use that as an excuse to lash out at the world.

In fact, the last thing she ever expected, years from this moment, was to try and understand the person behind the violence.

“Jesus, this city’s falling apart,” Abby muttered, her eyes still glued to the screen. “Where are the cops when you need them?”

It made her sick. The injustice. The feeling of helplessness.

“Sometimes, people just need to learn the world doesn’t owe them anything,”

Abby looked over at her, but Ellie kept her eyes on the chaos. The sirens were already wailing in the distance, but they’d never get there in time—not when the damage had already been done. And when the cops finally showed up. Just yellow police, tape and tears.

“Scary, huh?” Abby said, standing beside her, arms crossed. She shot a glance at the scene before turning back to Ellie. “Where are the cops when you need them?”

Ellie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, they always show up too late. After the damage’s already done. It’s like they just don’t care enough to stop it before it gets out of hand. Makes you wonder if anyone’s actually doing anything about it.”

Abby sighed in agreement. “Someone should.”

Ellie’s mind wandered then, as it often did in moments like this. She’d seen it all too many times—the heroes who talked big but never seemed to get things done. But the ones who really caught her attention were the ones who operated in the shadows. The ones who didn’t care about fame or recognition.

Her thoughts drifted to The Phantom—a mysterious figure who’d been cleaning up the streets for years. Nobody knew their true identity, and that was the way they liked it. No flashy costumes, no headlines, just quiet, effective justice. They worked in the shadows, out of sight, but the results spoke for themselves.

“Maybe someone like that could show up,” Ellie murmured. “Someone who teaches people the lesson that their actions have consequences. Not just words, but real, lasting consequences.”

Abby raised an eyebrow, casting her a sideways glance. “Wait, are you seriously saying you’d want to be like them? A shadowy figure, handing out justice however you see fit?”

“Maybe. I mean, someone has to.”

And someone did. She did, she had to. things quickly escalated from saving purses to kittens out of trees you name it Ellie was there.

So what about the fabric hung deep in her closet. The one she mentions hundreds of times in her journals throughout the years.

Well, It wasn’t like she had a fancy suit. No, Ellie had to make do. Her costume came from a combination of chance and necessity. Absolutely one of those “it just happened” moments that ended up being so much more.

It started with a hand-me-down.

After one night where she barely managed to escape with a bruised arm and a scraped knee, Ellie found herself on the edge of the city. In a forgotten corner of a local alley, tucked behind an old, unused storage unit, Ellie found a discarded suit. It was a mix of gray, black, and green fabric—more rugged than sleek, a little worn out, but something about it screamed potential. Her hand reached out for it, like she could feel the joy she’d bring with it on her skin.

fit like a second skin. It didn’t stand out too much, which was good; Ellie didn’t want to draw attention, not yet. The colors worked too—gray for blending in, black for stealth, and green because… well, why not? It matched her eyes.

One afternoon, Ellie had found herself standing outside a local store, looking out over the city, when a voice caught her attention. It was a soft voice, one that belonged to a little girl.

“How’d you get up there? You move like a spider.”

Ellie smiled beneath her mask, thinking about the first time she made the jump to scale a building. She was very clumsy, but she’d learned quickly. It was funny, she hadn’t really thought much about it until now. A spider… That’s what had started this whole thing.

The bite she thought would kill her.

“What’s your name, hero?” the little girl asked, her wide eyes.

Ellie hesitated. A name?… A spider? This was a loaded question. But That’s what they called her, wasn’t it? She was just some kid trying to do right by the world.

“Spider… uh… girl… woman!” She blurted out, almost embarrassed. Hoping it sounded cool, so in the moment, she went with it.

“Spider Woman. Yeah, that’s it.”

She didn’t mind the title. It was fitting, simple.

Spider-woman. Silly, right? It sounded like something out of the DC Comics stacked in her room. And she loved it.

The name was sung like gospel on the news, printed in bold ink for those who still bothered with newspapers.

On one channel, a reporter stood in front of a cityscape, microphone in hand.

“The masked vigilante, called ‘Spider-Woman’ by the public, continues to stir-up debate. Some call her a hero, while others question if she’s just another masked threat. We hit the streets of Seattle to hear what the people really have to say.”

Cop, off duty: “Look, I don’t make the rules, but I do enforce them. Vigilante or not, she’s got a record, and that means trouble.”

Masked kid in a homemade costume: “She’s like, a ninja or something! I think she’s cool!”

Teen girl with dyed hair: “She’s kind of badass, not gonna lie.” She shrugged.

younger woman with a toddler: “Are you kidding? She’s the only one out here actually doing something! You ever had a gun in your face? ‘Cause I have. If she’s around, I know I’m making it home.”

The tv Cuts back to the news anchor at the desk, straightening their papers.

“You heard it here folks! Love her or hate her, one thing’s for sure. she’s out there. And she’s just getting started.” The news reporter finished.

But every hero had their villain.

And Ellie? She was crushing on hers.

With Brown hair tied back, wheels skimming smoothly across the pavement. No suit today, just a hoodie and jeans, her usual off-duty attire. As a creature of habit, she skated her way to the bookstore like clockwork, the same route.

Had she finished the last two comics she bought? Absolutely. A little faster than intended. But a five-minute ride was nothing for a girl who spent most of her nights swinging across the city, trying to do right by the world. In her own way.

The streets of downtown Seattle buzzed with life, familiar shop signs blurring past her periphery—the record store with the neon “Vinyl Lives” sign, the café that always smelled like burnt coffee, and the corner thrift shop with racks of clothes spilling onto the sidewalk.

Then—“Shit—!”

Ellie barely had time to swerve, nearly colliding with someone standing dead center in her path.

“Sorry!” she called over her shoulder, skidding to a halt a few feet away.

The person barely reacted. Headphones on, phone in hand, just a slight jerk of the shoulder to let her pass. like they’d done it a thousand times.

Ellie shot them one last glance, catching just a flicker of their face. The shape of their eyes, the calm in their posture despite the near collision. No sense of surprise, Weird. Most people flinched.

Shaking it off, she kicked forward again, hitting the sidewalk with a small exhale. Board tucked under her arm, she pulled open the door to the bookstore, the familiar jingle of the bell bringing an easy grin to her face.

“Like clockwork. You are so predictable, Williams,” Josh, the store clerk, greeted from behind the counter.

“What can I say?” Ellie shrugged, stepping inside. “When you’re a comic book connoisseur—”

“—It becomes a lifestyle,” Josh finished, smirking. “Indeed you are.”

Ellie chuckled, already making her way toward the shelves, completely unaware that the person she nearly crashed into was about to become a permanent part of her life.

She just didn’t know it yet. And neither did you.

Just few moments before …

“What an idiot,” a deep voice muttered, entering the back alley. Away from prying eyes.

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed as you leaned against the brick wall beside him. “She was skating. God, do you ever lighten—”

His hand landed on your shoulder, fingers pressing just enough to remind you. Not a threat. Not yet.

Your mouth shut. Swallowing your retort.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. Thinking. Shit. Your gut told you to argue, to roll your shoulders back and step away. But you didn’t.

She wasn’t. You knew that. But your world didn’t allow second guesses.

Unlike Ellie, there were no scraped knees followed by fatherly reassurances. No kissing boo-boos, no gentle words. Hell, in your world, mistakes didn’t just hurt. They burned.

And the man towering over you now, eyes sharp as a blade’s, wasn’t the type to let things slide. The city dubbed him Red Hand, a name spoken in hushed whispers.

But you just settled for—

“Will you relax, old man? I get it.” You scoffed, swatting his hand away.

Old man. Boss. Everything but Dad. He didn’t deserve that title. Maybe once, when you were too young to know better. But now? Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you saw anything close to affection in his eyes. Sure, you’d hear a gruff, “You did good, kid,” now and then—but only after running his errands. Only when you were useful.

That’s how this started. You don’t grow a hatred for the world overnight. It’s molded into you when you’re most likely to sponge it all up. Seeing people for what they really are, learning early that it’s survival, not love.

Your real parents? Nothing but a shadow of the past. A blanket. A half-hearted note. A promise that you’d be “taken care of.” Not loved. Not held. Just… handled.

And he did. In his way. He didn’t mark your growth on a doorframe. He didn’t pack lunches with little notes that said, “Have a great day, love you.”

No, that was too soft. The Red Hand was feared. With just a snap of his fingers, his problems were taken care of—no questions asked.

At first, you weren’t sure who they were—the ones who carried out his orders, the ones who came and went like shadows. Or why he always denied your late-night tea parties with Mr. Bear.

One eye missing. Fur worn and faded from too many hugs. The first toy he’d ever bought you. Well, stolen. But it was a gift nonetheless.

You used to crack your bedroom door open at night, small fingers barely making a sound as you peeked through the gap. Trying to make out the hushed conversations happening just a few feet away.

Never catching much. But it was whispered for a reason. And even as a kid, you knew better than to ask.

Then came second grade. You walked through the door with puffy eyes and a fresh bruise on your cheek. He barely looked up from his paper as he slid an ice pack across the table.

“And did you hit them back?”

Your small legs dangled off the couch as you shook your head. “No…”

The paper rustled as he set it down, finally looking at you. “C’mere, kid. Let me show you something.”

And he did. With careful, practiced movements, he taught you where to aim. How to make it count. Jabs, punches.

“Those little shits won’t bug you too much after this.”

You learned quickly. Not just how to hit, but when. Where. How to read a room. How to never show weakness.

Because in his world? Weakness was a death sentence.

So no, there were no bedtime stories. No reassurances whispered into your hair. Just lessons. And you learned them all. After all, it paid to be useful. Even if that meant the occasional run to the principal’s office

The city doesn’t care. People don’t care. They’re too busy fighting to stay on top. So why bother trying to be something else? Why bother saving anyone when they’ll just let you down? He’d shown you what the world truly was. A place where you had to take what you wanted.

A place where you had to survive, no matter the cost.

You’d stopped asking questions a long time ago. Why did they leave? Why did he allow you to stay? What was that gnawing feeling deep in your gut? You’d stopped wondering about what could be, what should be. This was it. This was all there was.

And as Ellie’s world spun with hope, with the promise of doing right, yours had long since given up. Because in your world, saving lives wasn’t enough. The world didn’t reward you for being a hero. No. It rewarded you for knowing when to stop asking, when to take what you were given.

Dressed in black, learning what was most important: to keep moving.

To be continued …..

Line dividers | 2 | 3

Ellie m.list

Taglist @0h-basic

[mediumgayitalian]

do you have favorite appearance headcanons for will and nico? always super fun to see how other people imagine them

i do a lot of imagining everything @cometjuice and @skysmadness draw. however im going to start typing and see what my subconscious says:

WILL SOLACE

he's tall. altho he grew up short as shit so he's humble. except when bothering cecil but that is unrelated. short jokes made at cecil don't count.

forearms and neck are Covered in burn scars as a result of his harnessing the power of the sun to heal. they are unfixable and obvious (consequences of divine power in a mortal body). they expand and thicken every time he heals. he wraps them with bandages as often as he can. he is ashamed of them.

(none of his other siblings were so weak as to be burned by the gifts their father gave them.)

blue eyes that are the exact color of the sky at all times.

big hands.

freckles on freckles.

doesn't resemble his mother much which bothers him. but he has her hair exactly -- NOT apollo's. it is curly as fuck and frizzy and a little bit sentient?? once he was forced into a haircut bc he wouldnt brush his hair (hates it) and no matter how much silena cut off it just didn't get shorter. he has not been forced into a haircut since lol.

likes to wear his hair in pigtail braids when possible. it's very cute. he uses those little charm elastics to tie them back. his favorites are skull charm elastics nico bought him as a joke.

he is his mother's mirror tho. copies her mannerisms EXACTLY and has no fucking clue. (everyone else is well aware)

he is red green colorblind and it does indeed impact his ability to dress. (well theoretically. seeing color might not help with that battle LOL)

long long LONG and strong legs.

front teeth are just a littttttttttle bit endearingly big.

can't wink. (THINKS he can wink. cannot.)

athletic and hot.

it is news to him that he's hot. because his experience has been 1) cecil (dumb & ridiculous) 2) drew (disaster & for the ritual) and 3) nico (burning the torch since age 10 & no one agrees with him)

strong arms. perfect hug pressure

air hands but massive.

always smells like sunshine, even if it's been raining for a week. he's one of those people who always smells like they've just been outside. he also smells like lavender, which is intentional, because he uses lavender soap knowing it can have calming qualities. he smells like peppermint, sometimes, but if he smells strongly of peppermint it means he's in the throes of a nasty nasty migraine and hurting.

(his totally plain skin smells like strawberries on the wrong side of overripe. he is aware of this. he despises this. he spends a lot of time making sure he smells like anything else instead, including antiseptic.)

(nico likes the smell.)

NICO DI ANGELO

short. unfortunately. and NOT humble

fine hair but a lot of it. kind of a wave to it also.

hairy generally kind of u should See his eyebrows.

greek nose.

three distinct scars across his face and also in many other places. he doodles on them. badly. like little stick figures use the scars as spears or swords or whatever lol

committed to the punk loser aesthetic. never brushes his hair band shirts exclusively disgusting combat boots aviator jacket swaggers everywhere etc etc

fire hands

very strong but not a lot of muscle definition. will kind of limp into the ampitheater to get the ares kids snickering then BAM hell's fury. he kicks their ass. and the pathetic wet dog look works for him every time. it doesn't matter how many times he destroys his enemies. he walks into a fight looking like he was just drowned in a bucket of milk and he is underestimated. and then he does insane unprecedented things. it's great.

(it scares normal people. luckily for him his freakazoid boyfriend thinks it's hot. lol)

calluses on calluses on calluses. from cooking from his sword for his general vibes. rough ass hands fighter hands.

just The brownest eyes you'll ever see. dark dark dark dark. almost black. STUNNING in sunlight. they go golden brown when will looks at him, too.

wears his hair in a stubby ponytail whenever possible. (for 'fighting'. and not at all bc will gets swoony or anything. obviously. nico would never do that to his boyfriend of course not)

slightly crooked inscisors.

weird weird accent when you listen closely. because there's a little tinge of stretched vowels from his childhood but he almost has like. a transatlantic drawl?? from the casino?? and of course he spent so long on the streets and in the underworld that his vocabulary is unhinged and insane.

got bullied by hazel into actually taking care of his hair. it's really nice now. shiny and everything. he tries to now bully will but that is useless will is a 3-in-1 shampoo truther until he dies ("It's efficient! Hair is mostly dead cells! I am not wasting money on dead cells!" "William I am going to shear the fuckin dead cells off your scalp how about that.")

since he is a menace he frequently smells like sword polishing grease and dirt from the amount of time he spends Dragging percy and jason and any other person who challenges him across the amphitheater floor. but when he cleans up he smells like woodsmoke, a little bit, and leather from his jacket.

(his plain skin smells like dirt. grave dirt, if he's feeling sullen, but will insists it's more like the soil right when you're weeding your garden. like the soil right before plants grow, when it is most full of life and water and waiting. nico shoves him and calls him a sap. but it's nice to hear.)

[beansprean]

My Familiar’s Ghost part 81

Masterpost Masterpost 2

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(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Wide shot, knees up, of vampire Guillermo and Nandor sitting on the couch in the library in front of the papered-over bay window. Nandor is wearing one of his usual outfits and Guillermo is wearing something new: a dark blue shirt with a pink floral pattern, a dark red sweater vest, brown cuords, and a string of pearls. Both are looking at the viewer and have clipboards in their hands, Guillermo's pen poised and ready on the paper and Nandor gesturing his in the air as he asks, 'So...what makes you the best candidate for our new familiar?'

2. Reverse shot of a single green armchair on a vague brown background. Sitting on it, legs crossed, is a southeast Asian woman in her 30s with shoulder length black hair and countless slash-like scars running up her arms, neck, and face. She is wearing a purple sweater with 3/4 sleeves, black leggings, and combat boots. She grimaces, looking upward, left arm waving vaguely as her right nervously fingers the arm of the chair, and says, 'Well, I survived three years with Gorgo the Murderer...'

3. Repeat, new candidate in the chair: a fat white man in his 30s with close cropped sandy blond hair and unsettling blue eyes, wearing a blue polo and brown chinos. His arms are covered in gorey tattoos depicting blood, buzzsaws, skulls, and fangs, plus one art nouveau portrait and black fang shapes above and below his mouth. He stares directly forward with a fixed grin, hands laced together over his chest, and declares, 'My former mistress always said I had a knack for dismemberment.'

4. Repeat, new candidate in the chair: a fat brown hispanic person in their 20s with hazel eyes, big glasses, and half bleach blonde half dark brown hair in a bowl cut. She is wearing a red flannel open over a TrueBlood tee shirt and jeans, nails painted teal, a silver hoop in each ear. They are leaning forward eagerly, fists clenched and eyes wide, babbling, 'You're the only familiar I've ever heard of who got turned! What's the turnaround for your familiars? Which one of you will turn me?!'

5. Repeat, new candidate in the chair: a small white woman in her 60s with gray-streaked auburn hair wearing a low-cut dark pink top tucked into a plaid knee-length skirt. Her long nails are painted a dark reddish brown to match her lipstick, and she also has on pantyhose and, inexplicably, a diamond ring on her left ring finger. She leans casually against the side of the chair, brown eyes roaming the ceiling, and announces, 'I've had so many masters by now... I'm really just looking for something more long-term...'

6a. Reverse shot back to Guillermo and Nandor on the couch. Nandor leans forward with a suggestive smirk, touching the butt of his pen coyly to his chin, and replies, 'That is good to hear... I trust your age will not prevent you from your duties?' Guillermo glares at him from the corner of his eye, grip shaking on his pen. 6b. Knees up in profile of Nandor and the milf candidate sitting across from each other, leaning forward with suggestive grins. One of her legs stretches forward to rub against his and she touches her chest demurely, replying, 'Honey, I can handle whatever you have for me-' Guillermo leans around Nandor to get between them and interrupts her, loudly shouting 'Next!!' 6c. Zoom in to shoulders up of Nandor, turned toward the viewer to curl his fingers in a wave as the milf leaves offscreen, muttering, 'Uh, well, thank you for your time.' Nandor glances over his shoulder with the smuggest of grins at Guillermo, who is absolutely seething behind him. Guillermo is surrounded by a ragged black aura, frowning as deeply as his boyish face allows, glowing orange eyes burning holes into the back of Nandor's head. /end ID

[azrielstaylorsversion]

Scars to match mine

Azriel x reader

Warnings: torture, burns

Part 2

When Y/N is captured by the Autumn Court they try to torture information out of her. But what better way to torture someone than with fire?

I wake up with a pounding headache. The world around me was dark. I try to gather my thoughts, remembering where I was.

The last thing I remembered was being outside in the Autumn Court, gathering information on their movements. Then I was attacked. It all came back to me now.

I groan, trying to sit up. My arms and legs hurt, like I had been thrown in here. I manage to get to my feet, in need of finding a way out.

I try reaching out to my mate, but like I expected, there was no sign of the bond.

That was a good thing, I remind myself. This would mean Azriel would know something was wrong. He knew about my whereabouts. He would come looking for me. I just had to be patient.

I slump back against the cold wet wall of the cell I was currently in. It wasn't big, there was nothing but stone in here, along with a strong steel door leading to god knows where.

A sigh escapes my lips, trying to ignore the pain in my body.

I couldn't wait to get home to Azriel, to just get this over with. Rhys would probably give me a lecture about being stupid, even though he never meant it in a bad way. This time it had really been my fault. I knew I was getting too close, the possibility of being attacked very high.

The door to my cell unlocks and gets thrown open, revealing one of the sons of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

I don't move an inch, keeping my eyes on him and the two guards behind him at all times.

"Good. You're awake." he says rather happily.

I don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I just keep staring ahead.

He moves his head to the guards. "Haul her up." he orders them. They do as they are told to.

A small flash of panic flashes through my body, but I push it down.

Their hands are harsh against my body, certainly trying their best to leave bruises. I stand out of free will, but they still keep their strong hold on my body.

"So, you care to explain your plans?" the Autumn son asks.

I stare at him, keeping my mouth shut. He was a fool if he really thought I was going to answer his question. I've been through worse things than torture. This was nothing compared to that.

"Well, if you aren't going to talk I unfortunately have to hurt you." he says with a smile. "But I will try it without that one more time."

He opens his hand, a small ball of fire forming inside of it. I do my best to hide the flicker of fear flashing through me.

Knives, whips, beatings. I could take all of that. But fire.. Fire was one of the worst kinds of torture. Especially with what happened to my mate.

"Tell me why Rhysand send you. What are you doing here?" he tries again.

I let out a small laugh which sounded more like a huff. "You really are dumb." I say to him. He looks offended.

Good.

"I would rather die or be tortured for years then tell you anything about the Night Court." I tell him.

His smile disappears at that. "I kind of wished you would've just answered the question right away. Now I need to ruin your pretty body." he says, his lips tilting upward again.

The ball of fire in his hands grows. A sickening feeling fills my body.

"I think you would like some matching scars with your mate, won't you?" he tells me happily.

This time I don't hide my fear. I thrash against the hands that hold my body, but they were to strong. I couldn't move.

I try to move my hands away, but one of the guards holds them up. There was no way in moving them.

In panic I try to reach for the bond, only to remember it wasn't there.

Yet I keep screaming Azriel's name in my head, hoping for a small way through the blockage.

He now hold the fire dangerously close to my hands. The warmth was terrible.

"One last chance."

"No." I say firmly, preparing myself for the pain to come.

He moves my hands into the ball of fire. Excruciating pain fills my body. Worse than ever.

I cry out, not even trying to hide my pain.

The male was laughing as I keep screaming, begging him to stop.

Everything after happened so fast. I couldn't remember if it had been a few seconds or minutes.

Flashes of blue crossed my vision along with the red of blood.

I fell to the ground, curling up to myself, trying to somehow push my hands away. To get rid of the terrible pain that lingers.

Everything was blurred. But one thing I knew, was that the hands that picked me up were familiar. The voice talking me through my pain was familiair. It was nice.

I could vaguely remember flying. The next vague memory I had was of entering a house, voices yelling and people gathering around me.

I remember telling someone I felt so much pain. I also remember that someone telling me I was going to be okay. That he loved me so much and he wouldn't leave my side.

It was only when someone started touching my hands that I lost consciousness.

The thing I do remember is waking up. My eyes flicker open slowly to find the sun setting outside.

I look around in confusion. I was in my room. In my bed. Mine and Azriel's.

A warm hand places on my arm. I turn my head to find my mate smiling at me. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks gently.

I nod, a bit unsure, still having to process most of it.

His hands cup my face. "I'm so sorry about what happened. And I'm so glad you're okay."

I smile at him, lifting a hand to touch his face... only to find it wrapped in a thick bandage. Both my hands.

Realization shoots through me, along with panic and a bit of pain.

Azriel immediately reaches for me. "Hey, don't panic. It's okay. I'm here." he tells me, staying perfectly calm.

"I-.." I couldn't find my words. "I can't feel anything." I say.

Azriel gives me a sad smile. "Madja gave you something strong against the pain. That's the reason you don't feel your hands." he says. "Hopefully.." he adds quietly. He doesn't need to explain what he means by that.

Azriel's warm smile has disappeared from his face, sadness having taken over.

"Is it bad?" I question quietly.

"Yes. It will hopefully heal with time, but the scarring will stay. It will probably look something like my hands." he explains to me softly.

I always thought Azriel's scars were beautiful. But I never thought I would have to live with them myself. This felt different.

"I will not love you differently because of your scars." he tells me, his hand on my cheek. He must've felt my negative thoughts.

"He told me we would have matching scars." I tell him, not even sure why I was telling him this.

Azriel's body stiffens. He shifts a few seconds later, the bed dipping slightly from his weight. He wraps his strong arms around me carefully, tugging me against his chest. I gladly let him as I keep staring at the wall in front of me.

"Do not think differently about yourself. I know how hard it is, I've been there. I will help you through it, like you have helped me through it."

I snap my attention back to Azriel, my eyes locking with his. I nod, knowing and feeling he meant every word.

I bury my face against his chest, trying not to cry.

He holds me tightly, his hands moving up and down my back while whispering sweet words in to my ears which eventually lulled me back to sleep again.