#child development without screens

[newsepick]

Teaching Our Children in Digital Age — Commanding Minds Before Machines Do Young Students Really Need AI, Robotics, and Coding in Early Schooling? Let’s Pause and Reflect! What should we teach our children? Making education suitable for the current age.

[p0orbaby]

Hi ,

May i request a cute short blurb of alexia putellas x reader where the reader is pregnant but she doesn't like anyone to hover and alexia is trying to hover quietly so that the reader doesnt notice or else the reader will bite her head off

-

“You’re breathing on me.”

You don’t look up. Your hand stays suspended an inch above the polished quartz island you had imported from Valencia last spring, poised carefully over the final, meticulous flick of buttercream on the Victoria sponge you didn’t even want to bake but decided on after a week-long craving that you blamed squarely on homesickness, the hormonal kind. Somewhere between your third and fourth trip to El Corte Inglés in one afternoon, you realised nostalgia tastes faintly of strawberry jam and bitter disappointment.

“I’m not,” Alexia says. She is, obviously. You can feel it—the faintest mist of her breath, close enough that if you turned, your reading glasses would fig up with a single exhale.

You straighten slowly, with the exact measured indifference of a Michelin inspector dissecting an amuse-bouche. You catch her reflection in the brushed steel of the Miele coffee machine she insisted on buying after a two-hour row in a Sant Cugat appliance showroom. She’s standing exactly 1.3 metres away—you’ve measured it with your eyes because you’re the sort of person who knows the circumference of a football (68–70cm), the exact sugar content of a Mercadona tarta de queso (approximately 32%), and the London to Barcelona flight time down to the minute (2 hours 5 minutes).

Alexia is pretending to check her phone.

It’s upside down.

The screen is blank.

The effort is almost insulting.

“You’re hovering,” you inform her, conversationally, like announcing the weather.

“No I’m not,” she replies, voice high, too fast, guilty.

You glance at her sideways. “You’re hovering like a fucking Guardia Urbana drone.”

She flushes.

You return to the cake, smoothing the top with the flat of your palette knife—a heavy Sabatier you brought over from England because Spanish knives, in your experience, are either dangerously blunt or designed exclusively for stabbing jamón. You’ve developed a twitch lately: an overwhelming need for everything to be perfectly symmetrical. The chaos of pregnancy—skin stretching, organs rearranging, blood pumping like a dodgy plumbing system��has made you obsessed with control over the insignificant.

Matching mugs. Alphabetised spice rack. Towels folded exactly to hotel standards: tri-fold, not half.

Alexia’s presence thrums in the background like tinnitus.

You can feel her trying not to fuss. Trying and failing.

“I’m blending,” she says, without conviction.

“You’re about as subtle as Sagrada Família,” you mutter.

She shifts awkwardly, the rubber soles of her Nike P-6000’s squeaking faintly on the hand-tiled floor you both spent a month arguing over—Catalan mosaic or modern minimalism. Modern minimalism won. You told yourself it was because of practicality but secretly it was because you could imagine this child, this squalling hypothetical mass, vomiting spectacularly over terrazzo.

Alexia folds her arms, a little too tightly. She’s wearing the navy Barça hoodie she stole from the kit room last season, the one with the crest embroidered so neatly you sometimes stare at it just to feel calmer.

“I just…” she starts, then trails off.

You wipe the knife clean on a damp tea towel—Liberty print, an import because Spanish ones are too short, too thin, too prone to shrivelling like old men in the sun.

“You just… what?” you prompt, tone sharp enough to draw blood.

She shrugs, helpless. “I’m being nearby.”

“Congratulations,” you deadpan. “Shall I fetch you a medal?”

Alexia pouts, an expression that would probably have got her punched if she weren’t spectacularly, unfairly beautiful.

There’s a bottle of Solán de Cabras water on the island, the blue one you’ve been craving like it’s holy water, and you take a slow, careful sip, just for something to do. You can see Alexia itching to offer you something—toast, fruit, the moon on a plate—and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you hungry?” she blurts, like a sneeze.

You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence unfurl between you like a long, slow exhale. Barcelona silence: interrupted only by the distant yapping of a terrier somewhere on Carrer d’Aragó, the low hum of a Vespa struggling uphill.

“I’m fine,” you say eventually, with the kind of icy politeness that would make Buckingham Palace staff nod in approval.

Alexia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, chewing her bottom lip like it’s rationed. You notice she’s wearing her fitness tracker again—a WHOOP with a Tundra Superknit bisep band—obsessively monitoring her sleep, her steps, her heart rate. You imagine it buzzing quietly under her hoodie, flashing an alert: STRESS DETECTED. BREATHE, IDIOT.

You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Do you want to feel it kick?” you offer, with all the grace of a trapdoor opening.

Her face lights up like Plaça de Catalunya at Christmas.

She’s across the room in two strides, hands out, reverent, like you’re a relic.

She places her palm gently over the slight swell of your stomach—warm, steady, the faint scent of her vanilla hand cream ghosting up to you. You remember buying it with her in a cramped Gràcia pharmacy two months ago. She spent fifteen minutes comparing brands while you sat on a plastic stool and calculated, clinically, whether divorce paperwork could be filed in Catalan.

You both wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The baby remains stubbornly, impressively still.

“I swear,” Alexia says, whispering like the baby might overhear and feel insulted, “it moved earlier.”

You nod slowly, gravely. “Maybe it’s allergic to hovering.”

[dolche-tejada]

You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he has Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best our MC could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

[chrissssssmut]

yandere yeji yooyeon chaehyun yuna minju (illit) haneul yeseo x male reader

PLEASE can you reserve your story for me

Shuttered Devotion

Yandere Yeji, Yooyeon, Chaehyun, Minju, Yuna, Haneul & Yeseo x Male Reader

AN: Hope you like this dude! Also, THIS WEEK WAS TIRING BUT HEY NEW STORY!

You don’t know why you bought the camera.

It was an impulse purchase—an old Polaroid 600 from a dusty antique shop, sitting on the shelf as if it had been waiting for you. The store owner gave you a strange look when you picked it up, but the moment your fingers brushed against it, you felt a weird pull.

Like something wanted you to take it home.

And you did.

Now, it sits on your desk, next to your laptop, its presence almost unnatural in the dim light of your apartment. You tell yourself it’s just an old camera. Just a piece of history.

Until you take your first picture.

It happens late at night. You’re bored, half-asleep, and decide to test the camera. You aim it at your living room and press the shutter. The familiar whirr of the Polaroid fills the air as the film slides out.

You shake it out of habit. Watch as the image slowly develops.

And that’s when you see it.

Seven shadowy figures standing in your living room.

Your heart stops. The room is empty—you’re the only one here. But in the picture, there are figures. Tall. Feminine. Watching.

A chill creeps down your spine.

No. That’s not possible.

You rub your eyes, look again—they’re still there.

You swallow hard. It has to be a defect. Right?

Right?

You don’t want to think about it.

Your hands feel clammy as you set the picture facedown on your desk, avoiding its existence entirely. Maybe you’re just too tired. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.

Without another word, you crawl into bed, pulling the blanket over your head like a child. You can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you, but you tell yourself it’s just paranoia.

Just sleep.

Just sleep.

Eventually, you drift off.

But in the silence of the room, the Polaroid slowly flips itself over.

The figures in the picture seem closer now.

You wake up feeling like you barely slept. Your chest is heavy, and your body feels sluggish, like you’ve been running in your dreams all night.

Maybe you shouldn’t have ignored the picture.

But you don’t want to look at it.

Instead, you grab the camera again, needing to prove to yourself that nothing is wrong. That it was just a one-time glitch.

You take another picture—this time, of your bedroom window.

When the film develops, a woman is standing outside, looking in.

Your blood runs cold.

Because you live on the sixth floor.

There’s no balcony. No fire escape. No way for anyone to be standing there.

You whip your head around, heart pounding—but the window is empty.

Then your phone vibrates.

A message from an unknown number:

"You’re finally seeing us, aren’t you?"

Your breath catches in your throat. Your hands tremble as you stare at the screen. You don’t respond. You can’t.

The next message comes seconds later.

"We’ve always been here. Don’t be scared, love."

Your stomach turns. A chill creeps up your spine.

You glance back at the Polaroid in your hands.

In the picture…

The woman’s head has tilted slightly.

She’s staring right at you.

You don’t know what to do.

You feel watched, like unseen eyes are locked onto you no matter where you go.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. You’ve been working too much, maybe you’re hallucinating from exhaustion.

Yes. That’s it.

You bury yourself under the blankets again, forcing your eyes shut.

You won’t take another picture.

You won’t look at the messages.

You won’t—

A soft giggle echoes in your ears.

Your breath catches.

That was inside your room.

Your fingers clutch the blanket. Your body freezes.

Then, a soft voice—low, sweet, too close.

"Are you scared, baby?"

Your entire body tenses.

That was a real voice. Not in your head.

But no one’s here.

Right?

The warmth of a hand presses against your chest—but there’s nothing there.

"You're so cute when you're trembling," another voice whispers, this time near your ear.

You rip the blanket off, sitting up so fast that your vision spins.

But the room is empty.

Nothing.

No one.

You breathe heavily, sweat clinging to your skin.

The phone buzzes again.

Unknown Number: We’ll let you rest for now. Sleep well, sweetheart.

You don’t sleep at all.

You leave your apartment first thing in the morning.

You need to be somewhere normal—somewhere with people. Somewhere they can’t be.

You end up at a small coffee shop. It’s crowded, the smell of fresh espresso filling the air. The warmth should be comforting, but your hands are still cold.

You sit in the corner, gripping your cup of coffee like a lifeline.

Then—

"You look exhausted."

A voice.

Feminine. Familiar.

You look up.

A girl stands in front of you—long, wavy hair, a concerned look in her eyes. She’s beautiful.

She tilts her head. Smiles.

Too familiar.

Your breath catches.

You know her.

You’ve seen her before.

In the pictures.

Your stomach drops.

Before you can react, she sits across from you, crossing her legs as if she’s known you forever.

"You finally noticed us," she murmurs. "Took you long enough, babe."

Your hands tremble. "Who… are you?"

Another voice behind you.

"Isn’t it obvious?"

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Six more girls surround you.

They smile.

Your stomach churns.

Because you recognize all of them.

Yeji. Yooyeon. Chaehyun. Yuna. Minju. Haneul. Yeseo.

The girls from the pictures.

From your apartment.

From your mirror.

You run.

Or, at least, you try.

But the moment you step outside, your vision blurs. The world distorts—the streets become a dark void, stretching infinitely in all directions.

You aren’t in the city anymore.

You’re… somewhere else.

When you turn, the girls are already there.

Watching.

Waiting.

"You should stop running," Minju murmurs, brushing a hand along your jaw. "We’re not going to hurt you."

"You belong with us," Yeseo whispers.

"You always have," Yeji adds.

Your head spins. Your heart pounds.

"What do you want from me?" you whisper.

Yooyeon kneels in front of you, cupping your face in her hands. Her smile is soft. Sweet.

"Everything, darling. We want everything."

Then, as if controlled by an unseen force, your hands move—lifting the camera, pressing the shutter.

The final picture develops.

It shows you.

With them.

Smiling.

Happy.

Like you’ve always been theirs.

And then—

Your mind goes blank.

For a moment, there is nothing—just a deep, endless void, swallowing every thought, every fear, every piece of your identity.

And then—

You wake up.

Soft sheets. The scent of lavender and something faintly sweet. A dimly lit room, bathed in warm candlelight.

This isn’t your apartment.

Your pulse quickens.

You try to move—your hands twitch against the soft fabric beneath you, but when you try to lift them, you can’t.

Something’s holding you down.

Your wrists. Your ankles.

Tied.

Panic surges through your veins.

That’s when you feel it—something moving on the bed beside you.

"You’re awake," a voice coos, warm breath tickling your ear.

You flinch, twisting your head to the side.

Yeji.

She’s right there, inches from your face, her eyes practically glowing in the dim light. A lazy smirk plays on her lips as she props herself up on her elbow, looking at you like you’re something precious.

"You slept for so long," she murmurs, fingers brushing over your cheek. "We were worried."

Your heart slams against your ribs.

"We?"

There’s movement around you. The bed dips, the air thickens, and suddenly, they’re all there.

Seven girls.

All of them.

You turn your head—Yooyeon sits near your feet, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your ankle, right where the restraints are. She hums softly, eyes half-lidded, as if simply being near you is enough to make her daze off.

Chaehyun rests her chin on your chest, staring up at you with lovesick adoration, her fingers playing with the fabric of your shirt. "It was lonely without you, you know?" she pouts.

Yuna shifts behind you, pressing her body close to your back, arms wrapping tightly around you. "You’re so warm…" she murmurs, voice dripping with possessiveness. "I don’t want to let go."

Haneul, sitting near your head, twirls a lock of your hair around her finger, watching as it slips between her fingertips. "You look so much better like this," she whispers. "Helpless. Ours."

Minju leans over you, her gaze dark. "You scared us," she says softly, but there’s a sharp edge beneath her tone. Her fingers press into your jaw, forcing you to look at her. "You shouldn’t run from us like that."

Yeseo, sitting on your lap, tilts her head. She smiles, but there’s a cruel gleam in her eyes. "It’s okay, though. We forgive you." Her fingers trail down your chest, her nails just barely scratching through the fabric. "As long as you don’t do it again."

You shudder.

Your mind is racing, trying to process everything.

Where are you? How did you get here?

The last thing you remember is the camera—the final picture.

You glance to the side.

There.

The Polaroid sits on the bedside table, propped up neatly like a framed photo.

You. With them.

Smiling.

Like this was always meant to happen.

Like you’ve been here forever.

Your stomach twists.

"I—" You try to speak, but your throat is dry. Your body feels heavy, like something is keeping you here, making it impossible to even think about escaping.

Yooyeon sighs, watching you carefully. "You’re panicking again…"

Yeji hums in agreement, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. "You always do this at first."

At first?

What does that mean?

"You shouldn’t fight it," Yuna whispers against the back of your neck, tightening her arms around you. "You belong to us."

"You always have," Chaehyun chimes in, her nails dragging lightly against your chest. "You just didn’t realize it before."

Your breathing is shaky.

"This isn’t—this isn’t right." Your voice is hoarse. "You can’t just… take me."

Minju smiles, but there’s something dangerous in her expression. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear. "We didn’t take you."

"You came to us."

Her fingers gently tilt your chin, forcing you to look at the Polaroid.

"You saw us," Haneul murmurs, her breath warm against your skin. "You acknowledged us. You brought us to life."

Yooyeon leans in closer, her lips ghosting just barely over yours.

"And now?" she whispers. "You’re never leaving again."

Your pulse spikes—you thrash, or at least try to, but their hands are everywhere. Holding you down. Stroking your skin. Soft whispers, gentle touches—suffocating.

Yeseo hums. "Still struggling?" She sighs, shaking her head. "You’ll break soon."

Haneul giggles. "They always do."

You try to scream, but Yeji’s hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the sound.

"Shh," she soothes, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. "Just accept it already."

Chaehyun grins. "We’ll take such good care of you, love."

Yuna nuzzles against your back. "You’ll see how much we love you."

Minju’s nails drag slowly down your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a very clear message.

"You belong to us now."

Yooyeon’s smile is syrupy sweet, her fingers tracing along your jaw.

"And we’re never letting you go."

The candlelight flickers.

The picture on the table changes—

Your expression in the Polaroid is no longer a frozen, forced smile.

It’s genuine.

Like you want to be here.

Like you’ve finally given in.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

You have.

[inbarfink]

Any analysis of how Undertale deals with Pacifism and how it tries to guide the Player towards it has to take a deep look at Papyrus. Because Papyrus is the one character in the game who will never kill, the one actual ‘True Pacifist’ in the game’s main cast. 

I mean, the Player can be an even bigger Pacifist. Papyrus does still FIGHT, and the Player can get through an entire run without draining a single sliver of HP. But… they can also be the world’s biggest murderbastard and literally stab reality to death. 

Toriel would very much like to not kill, but she is also fully capable of doing so.

Same with Asgore, but he has a lot more actual blood on his hands. Undyne and Mettaton are both fully 100% willing to kill to accomplish their goals. Sans is non-violent in most runs because he’s too lazy and depressed to do anything, and when he is motivated into actions - it is in the form of a FIGHT to the death. Alphys… the timeline is a bit fuzzy cause both she and Mettaton love lying so much, but it seems like she did sincerely add deadly weapons to Mettaton cause killing humans would make him more 'useful' and then had second thoughts once she developed a parasocial relationship with the Human Child and THEN she and Mettaton started hatching their little play-acting plan. I think??

With Papyrus there is NONE of this ambiguity, we know for sure - no matter what timeline or what may come - The Great Papyrus will always choose MERCY.

And the interesting thing about that is on a Meta-Sense, Papyrus is a very rare example of the game giving MERCY towards the Player. 

Because the game starts out being really obtuse with the Sparing mechanic and how it works. If you want to be a Pacifist in Undertale from the get-go, you’re gonna have to work for it. You're gonna have to figure it out on your own and commit to it and believe that it's possible. It's basically a test of your own belief in non-violence and your moral integrity. Then, the RUINS end with the Toriel boss battle - in a way, that’s probably the hardest Sparing puzzle in the whole game. And it’s very very easy to accidentally kill her. (I’d almost say that’s the intention of the battle, to try to goad the Player into Resetting so they can see how the game remembers across RESETs)

And then we have Papyrus, and it’s not just that his ‘Sparing Puzzle’ is something as simple as outlasting him and letting him run out of dialogue - and it’s not just that he’s the only boss that will just give up and let you continue if you lose to him enough times. it’s also that, just as Papyrus is the only boss incapable of accidentally killing the Player - he’s also the only boss that the player is incapable of accidentally killing.

(Okay, fine, to be pedantic, there’s also Asgore)

I mean, the Player can certainly kill him if they want to - but draining Papyrus’s HP just makes him skip through his battle dialogue right to the end of it. It’s designed in such a way that, no matter what Route you're on and no matter what approach you take with Papyrus - you will always end up on this screen.

Unlike basically any other Monster in this game, including the major boss battle just before him - you can’t kill Papyrus accidently. You can't kill him without also having Sparing him as an option. The game kinda treats killing Papyrus as one of the Worst Things You Can Do because killing Papyrus will always be a deliberate, considered action done to a person who will not kill you and who has stopped wanting to FIGHT and has extended a hand of Mercy. With the game clearly communicating what you need to do to Spare him at that moment.

And that means that - even if you killed before, even if you don’t have the patience of a True Pacifist, even if you spent all this time in the game without even trying to engage with the Sparing mechanic… as long as you don’t want to be a Huge Rat Bastard, the game is basically gifting you with the very very easy option to not be. Being a Pacifist in Undertale is usually a challenge - a puzzle to be solved, a test to pass. But as long as you aren’t intentionally trying to be the Worst Person - the game is basically giving you Papyrus. 

If you accept his Mercy, you are accepting the game’s Mercy. That sort of benefit-of-the-doubt assumption that maybe all of the LOVE you might have accumulated so far was all due to honest mistakes or panic or an attempt in self-defense. That you still deserve this one chance to prove that you are not intentionally, maliciously cruel - or at least not like the Worst Person in the World. Even if you did kill before, you still deserve at least one friend.

And Sparing Papyrus leads you to his wonderful Hangout/Dating Sequence and to his Phone Calls and they all add so much wholesome charm to the Undertale experience and no matter what happens Papyrus will always think the best of the Player and he will always trust them and it also makes Sans also kinda your buddy by default. And more than just adding a little bit of wholesome charm into even the more LOVE-filled Playthroughs, I think this is meant to try and incentivize these players into trying out the Mercy mechanic a bit more.

Whatever it’s, like, for future playthroughs or Resetting the game right there to try a True Pacifist Run right there and then or just trying to be a little kinder for the rest of this current playthrough - especially since there’s an emphasis about the close friendship Papyrus has with the upcoming boss Undyne, and to a lesser extent with his idol and next-next boss battle Mettaton. It’s like “well, if you didn’t figure out how to spare before, this is how you do it? And isn’t it nice to have a friend? Isn’t it nice to not have to kill this lovable skeleton man? You should do this more often wink wink nudge nudge!”

And it’s like… all of Papyrus’ loved ones care about him so much but they also look down on his pacifism. They see his inability to kill and desire to make friends as simple naivete and that’s why all tend to hide the truth from him all the time. About what will happen to the Human he will capture, about what his new Human friend might’ve done, about the fact that they view him as so naïve. 

They admire it on some level, that’s why they want to protect it, but they also see it as a weakness which is why they want to protect it by lying to him all the time. But, you know, Undyne says that if Papyrus goes into battle he’ll be ‘ripped into little smiling shreds’ and that is certainly what happens every time a Player chooses to refuse Papyrus’ Mercy and the game’s Mercy and press that FIGHT button…

But have you thought about all the times that doesn’t happen? All the careless or violent players who were offered that skeletal hand of friendship, accepted it and then carried that offered kindness forward for the rest of the game? All the players motivated to do good for the sake of their buddy Papyrus? All the Murder Routes stopped because the player just didn’t have it in them to kill someone who believes in them so earnestly?

Like, no, it’s not a surefire thing - especially since Papyrus has so much less narrative power than the Actual Unkillable Time God that is the Player. But it happened, and it happened many many times to many players. Papyrus offered Mercy, the game offered Mercy. And much like Frisk’s Pacifism, it comes from a place of seeing the honest goodness in your ‘enemy’ and can inspire them to become a better person - this little sparkle of goodness being passed forwards. 

And I think that’s beautiful, even if it didn’t happen in every timeline. Any potential future where Papyrus’ kindness can have such an effect on the Player and thus the entire trajectory of the Underground validates his kindness and pacifism on some level - even if there are also always the potential worlds that it backfires completely. 

And there’s also one other way in which the Great Papyrus Proves Pacifism Pays. One that is a bit more practical, perhaps. And one that Papyrus himself is not even aware of. 

Papyrus’ boss battle can be a surprisingly challenging one specifically because he is the only one who doesn’t kill the Player.

Like there is a reason why Papyrus will just offer you to skip his Fight after you lose to him three times, because if he didn’t do that - there’s an honest risk that the Player can get stuck in a much stuckier way than anywhere else in the game. 

Because, like, for basically any other character in the game, being killed is the Worst Thing that could ever happen to them. For everyone except the actual Player Character because we are an Actual Unkillable Time God and dying is nothing more than a minor annoyance that sets you back to your last SAVE Point. So, leaving aside Papyrus’ admirably kind intentions - there is not much material difference from the Player’s perspective between getting Captured and getting a more traditional GAME OVER. Except…

Except getting Captured does not undo everything that happened in your inventory during the battle. In every other Undertale battle, if you use all of your items but still lose - the GAME OVER at least means you get your stuff back. But because Papyrus doesn’t kill you, any healing item you’ve used during the battle is still used. I have watched so many Undertale Let’s Players waste all of their valuable items on their first Papyrus battle and then have to face him again without them and thus do even worse in their second go… and then their third go... and thankfully then Papyrus offers them to skip the fight.

And while that technically can be circumvented by just manually closing the game and opening it back again on their pre-battle SAVE Point, a lot of players are gonna reflexively Save over it if they pop over to the Shop or the Snowed Inn before their second attempt at the battle. If Papyrus didn’t offer that chance to skip his battle, it could’ve easily become a softlock situation for a huge chunk of players - because he doesn’t kill the Player.

Most of Undertale deals with the value of non-violence from a standpoint of morality and kindness and personal connections. Since most people do die when they get killed. But when dealing with an Unkillable Time God like the Player, Papyrus proves that not-killing might actually be the most practical solution.

Of course, it doesn’t seem like Papyrus is aware of any of this. From his perspective, he is just offering genuine mercy to a being just as ephemeral as he is. But it accidentally turned into one of the most effective methods of blocking the Player’s way… at least he didn’t offer us an opt out so soon after that. 

And it’s interesting when comparing him to how his brother Sans - one of the few people actually aware of the existence of SAVEs and RESETs - deals with the Player. Because the Sans boss battle at the end of the Murder Route is entirely based on the concept that death is nothing but an annoyance to the Player. Sans is less trying to kill the Player (the way Undyne the Undying did), he is simply trying to annoy the Player into a ragequit. But he is still killing the Player.

Now imagine a Sans battle where he has all of his usual annoying tricks, but also instead of killing you - he captures you just like his brother would’ve in a happier timeline. And while it’s not a fool-proof plan to stop the Player in their tracks - he could very easily stick them in that sort of softlock situation where they have to battle him again and again without any Healing Items. Forcing them to either abandon the game or RESET the whole world back the way it was - just like Sans wants them too. 

But instead, by killing the Player, he is just allowing that perfect second-third-fourth-fifth-sixth-try where they get all of their Stuff back. And he does actually knows that. And why doesn’t he do that? (Speaking here from an in-universe character study perspective. Obviously the Doylist answer is that the game doesn’t want to Softlock you even in the most deliberately-frustrating part of the game).

Maybe, even though he intellectually knows that killing the Player will be of no help - he still does it because he wants to. Because he just wants to get back at the evil murderous monster that took his brother from him and destroyed his entire world even if he knows it’s actually ineffective. And this thirst for bloodshed is, ironically, blinding him from a new exciting way to actually practically stop that murderous bastard who is themself motivated entirely by bloodshed. 

Maybe he just can’t do something like that. Reducing an enemy to exactly one HP and then stopping is not a feat anyone else in the game is capable of pulling off - even the ones who would obviously use such a thing (like Toriel or a Player with a Pacifist intentions). Maybe it’s something that requires a lot of hard practice and discipline and carefulness, that Sans never thought to put in because he didn’t see it as a useful skill the way Papyrus did. 

Maybe that wouldn’t have worked anyways. After all, and that’s something I kinda touched on in a previous Overly Long Rambly Hot Take - Sans’ War of Attrition against the Player is greatly helped by the fact he can’t remember every single previous try and so he can’t get exhausted the way the Player can get. Obviously, without a GAME OVER induced RESET that will not apply. Which is especially notable because… Sans’ laziness is literally what brings him down at the end of that Boss Battle. 

So maybe, while Papyrus, as long as you decline his offer to skip the battle, is capable of offering just the same Battle as before over and over and over again.... It’s possible that Sans just won’t be able to pull off two or three or more battles of the same intensity and difficulty in a row without a RESET to undo his own exhaustion. 

But I think it’s at least worth considering the option, y’know? That after all this time of viewing Papyrus’ kindness as sweet-and-yet-kinda-foolish-naïveté - that exact viewpoint made Sans overlook the perfect solution to dealing with his little Murderous Time God problem. Cause he just never considered that while killing might be fully morally justifiable in this situation and very very satisfying, that does not necessarily mean it is actually the most practical solution. And that maybe, in a weirdly twisted way, Pacifism WAS the answer.  

[estellan0vella]

Better Than Winning: L.F & H.J Lee Felix x fem!reader x Han Jisung (College AU)

WC: 17.7K

CW: Pre-Established relationship between reader & Felix, Sexual Themes, Jisung is a panicked Bi, Emotional Abuse (Past abusive behaviour by an ex-partner), Minho is unhinged, Public Urination, Discussions of Freud, everyone is slightly insane, Big Dick Han Jisung, threat of suicide (in a joking manner)

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The living room of the Alpha Phi frat house is unusually quiet for a Saturday night. There’s no beer pong in the kitchen, no Hyunjin doing shirtless TikTok dances, no Jeongin and Seungmin bickering in the hall. Just the muted flicker of the TV, the low murmur of Easy A playing in the background, and the gentle rustling of textbook pages being turned and annotated. 

You’re curled up sideways on the loveseat, legs draped over Felix’s lap, with your child psychology textbook open across your thighs, and your black-framed glasses slip down the bridge of your nose as you try to highlight a section on Freud with a pink glitter gel pen.

Felix is shirtless beside you, a mess of ink and silver, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and fluffy Hufflepuff socks half-hidden under a blanket the two of you have been sharing. He’s scribbling notes onto a yellow legal pad, eyes flicking from the glowing screen of his iPad to the paper. His dark hair falls into his face, the strands curtaining over his piercings as he furrows his brow. 

You glance up at him, watching the way his lips twitch while he reads, the curve of his snakebites glinting slightly in the dim light from the lamp near the bookshelf. He looks focused, and devastatingly pretty in that Felix way, sharp metal and tattoos on soft skin.

“I have to do fusion cuisine,” he says suddenly, eyes still trained on his notes. “Something European mixed with something Asian. Chef’s specific about it too. Can’t just do like fucking sushi spaghetti or some shit, y’know?”

You pause mid-highlight and glance up. “Why don’t you make a pastry? Like... a croissant, maybe? But make it savoury. You could put bulgogi jjigae inside. Flaky outside, warm stew inside.”

Felix stops mid-scribble, mouth slowly curling into a grin. “Oh my fucking god, Angel,” he says, twisting toward you. “You’re a goddamn genius.” He scribbles furiously on his pad, murmuring, “Bulgogi... croissant... fusion pastry... flaky and savoury... fuck yeah,” then tosses the notepad onto the floor and leans over to kiss you. His lips are warm and soft, tasting like the strawberry gum he’s been chewing all afternoon, and he presses the kiss to your mouth like a punctuation mark. You giggle against his lips and rest your forehead against his.

“You’re welcome, chef,” 

Felix grins wider, giving you one more peck before leaning back against the cushion, tossing an arm lazily across the back of the loveseat. “What are you reading, Angel?” he asks, squinting at your textbook. “You’ve been making this really confused face for like twenty minutes.”

You grimace and hold up the book so he can see the chapter title: Freud’s Stages of Psychosexual Development. He makes a noise like a dying animal.

“That shit looks gross.”

“It is gross,” you say, exhaling. “He’s on the mandatory reading list for this module even though he’s been discredited by basically everyone with a brain.”

Felix snorts. “So why the fuck do you have to read him?”

“Because academia is sometimes stupid,” you say matter-of-factly, flipping a page with a sigh. “It’s historical context or whatever. Can’t talk about child psychology without talking about how Freud basically hijacked it with his weird ass theories. Like, okay, get this, he believed that boys go through this thing called the Oedipus complex.”

"What the fuck is that?”

“It’s this theory that boys want to fuck their moms and kill their dads,” you say with a wince. “And girls go through something similar called the Electra complex, where they want to fuck their dads and resent their moms.”

Felix recoils in absolute horror, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Dead serious,” you say, turning your textbook toward him. “It’s all here. He even thought girls had penis envy.”

Felix looks like he’s about to gag. “So this dude thinks girls are mad they don’t have a dick, and everyone wants to bang their parents?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. “That sounds like something Juwon would’ve agreed with.”

You snort, your laugh bubbling out before you can stop it. “Right? He probably read this shit and thought it was deep.”

“Fucking hell. Why would you want a dick? They’re ugly. Like, genuinely. As a bisexual dick haver, I can say, dicks are fucking horrendous.”

You dissolve into laughter, shaking your head.

“I’m serious, Angel,” he says, eyes wide and sincere, gesturing with one tattooed hand. “They look like sad flesh swords. That’s why we stick them in our mouths, less time to look at them.”

You’re giggling so hard your glasses slip again. “You’re awful.”

Felix nods solemnly. “Pussies? Pretty. Dare I say gorgeous? Dicks? Fucking disaster. I say this as someone who genuinely likes both. I am the true authority on this. I could stare at a pussy all day. Dicks? Either in my mouth or I’ve got the guy in doggy so I don’t have to see it.”

You wheeze with laughter, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. Felix grins, triumphant.

“I’m being so serious, Angel,” he continues. “I love dick. But it’s ugly. You’re pansexual. You get it. You’d rather look at a pussy than a fucking skin flute, right?”

You nod, barely able to get the words out between giggles. “I mean... yeah, you’re not wrong.”

Felix grins and reaches for you, tugging you gently into his lap. “Come here, smartass.”

You go willingly, folding into his lap as his arms wrap around your waist. Your book ends up somewhere on the floor, forgotten as he kisses you again, deeper this time. His tongue ring clinks softly against yours as his hands slide up your thighs, fingers dragging over the hem of your tartan sleep shorts, just beneath your ass. You whimper softly into the kiss, your fingers curling into his hair. He groans low against your mouth and pulls you closer, hips shifting beneath you.

Chan saunters into the living room, a massive bowl of popcorn tucked under one arm and a pair of neon green slippers on his feet and he’s shirtless too because apparently, Alpha Phi doesn’t believe in clothes on weekends. He drops onto the couch with a sigh, his legs sprawling out in front of him as he grabs the remote and turns up the movie slightly.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Chan says around a mouthful of popcorn, not even looking at you. “I’m just here for Emma Stone.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “You have no boundaries.”

Chan shrugs. “You knew that when you moved in.”

Felix huffs, still holding you in his lap, his lips grazing your shoulder. “Chan, you’re bisexual, right?”

“Yeah?” Chan says, grabbing a handful of popcorn and tossing it in his mouth.

“Back me up on this,” Felix says, pointing dramatically. “Pussies are nicer to look at than dicks.”

Chan considers this for a moment. “Yeah.”

You blink. “I agreed with you already!”

“Yeah, but you’d look at a dick that had been through a fucking blender and be like, ‘Nooo, it’s beautiful, I swear,’ just to spare the guy’s ego,” Felix says, poking your side.

Chan nods. “True. I was hooking up with this guy once, his dick was nasty. Like, full-on fucking swamp creature. Dirty as shit. I told him and he cried.”

Your mouth drops open in horror. “Chan! That’s so mean!”

“Mean is the throat infection I would’ve gotten from that dirty dick,” Chan says calmly.

Felix groans and slumps back against the cushions. “Mood gone. Thanks, Chan. Gimme the popcorn. You killed my fucking semi.”

Chan passes over the bowl, still watching the movie. “You’re welcome.”

You giggle into Felix’s neck, snuggling closer as the boys bicker over popcorn distribution.

Chan starts telling more of the story, completely unfazed. “No, listen, like, it wasn’t even just the dirt. I mean yeah, it was visibly dirty, like he hadn’t washed it since middle school PE class or something, but also it smelled. I got one whiff and I was like nope. Absolutely not. I told him to go shower and he said, ‘I did yesterday.’ Yesterday! I was like, what part of your daily hygiene routine lets you walk around with a dick that smells like expired cheese?!”

Felix shudders, tossing popcorn at Chan’s head. “Dude, stop. I’m begging.”

Chan laughs, catching a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “I’m just saying. You’ve got this idea that being honest is mean? Fuck that. If your genitals smell like a biohazard, you need someone to tell you.”

You shake your head, still laughing as you hide your face in Felix’s shoulder. “You guys are awful.”

Felix kisses your temple, sighing dramatically. “We were gonna have a nice makeout, Angel. Maybe even some heavy petting. Now all I can think about is swamp dick.”

Chan hums. “Happy to help.”

Jisung is pacing. The carpet in his bedroom is worn thin in a neat little path from his desk to the closet like the anxiety is slowly gnawing through the fibres just from the weight of his stress. His deep blue hair is wild, his shirt is rumpled, and his voice is bouncing off the walls like he’s been shot up with espresso and caffeine pills. It’s not even noon and he’s already sweating.

Minho lies sprawled on Jisung’s bed like he’s completely immune to the chaos erupting around him. One leg bent, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded in that permanently unimpressed way that only Minho seems to have perfected. He doesn’t say anything yet. Just waits. Because he knows Jisung. Knows the rant is coming.

Jisung throws his arms up like he’s preaching to the ceiling. “I swear to fuck, I’m gonna explode, hyung. I’m gonna combust. I’m gonna fucking die, right here in this room with a boner and a broken heart and no one’s even gonna care.” He pauses dramatically, spinning on his heel. “Or they will care. But too late. ‘Oh no, our precious Jisung is dead from sheer unbridled horniness and unrequited love, whatever will we do?’”

Minho yawns. “You done?”

“No! Minho, I want to fuck them. Both of them. I wanna fucking top them into the mattress until none of us can walk straight. Y/N and Felix. At the same time. I want to ruin them.”

Minho raises a brow, still not moving from his comfy position. “You? Top both of them?”

“Yes.” Jisung’s pacing again, hands flailing wildly as he speaks. “Felix with that dumb little smirk and those nipple piercings and Y/N with her fuckin’ angel voice and her dumb soft giggles and her Ravenclaw socks and why the fuck are they so perfect?! I’d top both of them, no questions asked. Felix moaning my name while I finger Y/N, that's the goal, that's the dream. I want it. I crave it. I’m suffering.”

Minho snorts. “Felix would top you in two seconds, and you know it.”

Jisung whips around, affronted. “No way! No, absolutely not. I would top Felix.”

“You could top Y/N,” Minho says casually, picking at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “Sure. She's a sub. We all know she’s a sub. The whole fucking house hears it when they go at it. But Felix  would top you and make you his bitch.”

Jisung stops dead in the middle of the room, staring at the wall like he’s having an existential crisis. Then he nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’d thank him for it. While I’m domming Y/N, Felix could just take me apart. And I’d be so fucking grateful.”

Minho smirks. “Knew it. Knew you were switchy.”

“Like a light switch, man,” Jisung says, pacing again, words tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall of chaotic, horny thoughts. “I’d dom Y/N so fucking hard, Minho. Like, make her cry from pleasure. I wanna say shit that makes her thighs shake. I wanna eat her out for hours, man. And then I wanna be on my knees for Felix, just completely ruined while he praises me and uses me.”

Minho blinks slowly. “You’re loud today.”

“I’m desperate!” Jisung practically yells. “Do you know how hard I get when I hear Felix talking filth to her through the wall? How much I want to be there, not just listening like some fucked-up voyeur ghost in the hallway? I cried while jerking off, Minho. Cried. Do you know how fucking tragic that is? You know what that does to a man’s pride?”

Minho looks vaguely amused. “No. You’ll have to tell me.”

“I was in the shower,” Jisung starts dramatically, eyes wide with memory, “trying not to wake up the entire house at 2 am, and I’m jerking it to the mental image of Y/N’s thighs shaking while Felix whispers in my ear about how good I make her feel. And I’m sobbing. Just one hand on my dick and the other covering my mouth so no one hears me crying over not being in a threesome relationship. That’s not even porn levels of pathetic, that’s Oscar-bait sad.”

Minho bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking mess.”

“I’m a panicked bisexual!” Jisung declares, pointing at his chest like he’s testifying in court. “What do I do, Minho?”

“Tell them you like both of them,” Minho says like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Jisung blinks. “That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Are you on crack? Be honest. I won’t judge you if you’re a crack addict. I’d just like the option to try it with you.”

Minho sighs loudly, flopping back down. “Dramatic. Extra. So fucking loud.”

Jisung is already pacing again, tugging at his hair. “I’m gonna die, I swear. I am so firmly planted in the friend zone it makes my balls ache. My dick is sending out distress signals, Minho. Like, real Morse code. Beep-beep, I want to be the meat in a Felix and Y/N sandwich, beep-beep, help me.”

“Just jerk off,” Minho says, eyes closed.

“I have!” Jisung shouts. “Four times this afternoon! Because Y/N and Felix decided to give the whole fucking house a loud-ass audio porn show! My dick is sore, bro! I can’t bust without the image of being balls-deep in Y/N while Felix is rimming me like a goddamn devoted king!”

Minho chokes on a laugh. “You’re insane.”

“I’m in love, Minho! And lust!” Jisung says dramatically, grabbing a pillow and squeezing it to his chest. “I want to date both of them. I wanna hold Y/N’s hand while Felix rests his head in my lap. I wanna take them on cute fucking dates and then rail them both in the same night. I jerk off every time I hear them having sex like some sad, horny ghost who just wants a boyfriend and a girlfriend to cuddle and destroy emotionally and physically.”

Minho just stares at him.

“And every time they smile at me, this guy-” Jisung gestures to his crotch, dead serious. “-salutes. Like he’s a fucking soldier. And my brain goes, ‘lick Felix’s nipple piercings. Find out if Y/N has a matching set. Do it now.’”

“Go to therapy,” Minho says flatly.

“Tried it!” Jisung yells. “Paid a whole ass woman to hear my issues, and you know what she said? ‘You should tell Y/N and Felix how you feel about them.’ So obviously I stopped paying her because that’s a terrible idea. I’m not telling my friends that I wanna be in a polyamorous relationship with both of them! Do I look like I have the confidence of someone who can say that and not immediately burst into flames?”

Minho shrugs. “You could literally just say it. Hey, I have a big crush on both of you and want to try polyamory. You down? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Jisung spins toward him, eyes wild. “Oh? Oh?! Well, let me tell you what the worst-case scenario is, Minho! Worst case, I confess. They both laugh in my face. Then they sit me down, very gently, and say, ‘Oh Jisung, we thought you were joking, because obviously, we’d never fuck someone so mentally unstable.’ Then I have to live in this house forever, knowing I was rejected by the two people I adore more than anything, and every time I pass their room I have to hear the sounds of Felix pounding Y/N into next week while my broken heart beats in my chest like a lonely kazoo.”

Minho snorts again. “Jesus. Anything else?”

“YES,” Jisung says without hesitation. “What if Juwon put them off polyamory forever? What if that small-dicked loser is the reason I never know happiness? What if I missed my chance because he was a possessive douchebag who ruined their ability to trust anyone else? I’ll have to kill him. Not like really kill him. But like, I don’t know, emotionally assassinate him. Seduce his dad. Ruin his taxes. Whatever it takes to erase any lingering doubt they have about being open to polyamory again.”

Minho’s eyes are wide now, blinking slowly. “You are so unwell.”

Jisung groans, flopping to the floor like he’s physically weighed down by his bisexual panic. “I know. I know. But I see them. I see Y/N with her soft eyes and her stupid cute outfits and the way she’s so kind to everyone. She’s like a fuckin’ Disney princess who knows how to take dick. And Felix with his piercings and his tattoos and his voice all low and growly when he talks about food. What the fuck am I supposed to do?!”

Minho sits up slightly. “You could just ask if they’d be open to something more.”

Jisung glares. “And what if they say no?”

“Then you move on, jerk off like a normal person, and stop crying in the shower,” Minho deadpans.

Jisung lies back on the floor, covering his face with his arm. “I’m gonna die a virgin. A virgin to threesome polyamorous bliss. I’m gonna have to marry someone boring and straight and emotionally unavailable because my one true fantasy is taken and probably thinks I’m a weirdo.”

“You are a weirdo,” Minho says.

“And yet you love me.”

Minho hums. “Unfortunately.”

Jisung sighs again, deep and dramatic. “Maybe I’ll just seduce them slowly. Like, ease my way into their lives. Bring Felix coffee when he’s cooking. Help Y/N with her notes. Plant the seeds. And then bam! One day we’re all naked in bed crying from how much we love each other.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “You are so dramatic.”

“And yet... you listen to every word,” Jisung says with a smug little smile, even from the floor.

“Because no one else will put up with you,” Minho replies, but he’s smiling too.

And Jisung, for all his panic and theatrics, feels just a little bit better. Only a little. But enough. For now.

The front door of the Alpha Phi frat house bangs open as you and Felix stumble in, arms full of grocery bags, laughing breathlessly as a gust of cool spring air follows you into the warmth of the house. Your shoulder bag slides down your arm, and Felix, with his black and red sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor, kicks the door shut behind him with the back of his heel. His hair is half tied back, the loose strands brushing his cheekbones, and his piercings catch the light as he turns to you with a wide grin.

“Holy fuck,” he huffs, shifting a bag higher on his arm. “I swear the little ones at the home today were on fucking rocket fuel. Did you see the one who tried to ride me like a goddamn pony while screaming yeehaw? That kid’s gonna be a menace.”

 “He’s six and he has dreams, Felix. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a cowboy.”

“I’m just saying,” Felix says, trailing after you. “If he ends up in prison one day, it started today.”

You shoot him a soft smile over your shoulder, and he pretends to melt, staggering like he’s been shot. “Don’t look at me like that, Angel,” he groans. “My heart can’t take it. You’re too fucking cute. I’ll burn the croissants because I’m thinking about kissing you instead of timing the bake.”

“You’ll burn them if you don’t stop talking and help me unpack these groceries,” you tease, nudging him with your hip as you reach the counter.

Felix grins, setting down the bags, the red lettering on his long-sleeved black shirt bold against the fitted fabric. His cargo pants swish softly with each movement, pockets stuffed full of random cooking notes and god knows what else. He begins unloading ingredients quickly, gochujang, beef stock, Korean pear, butter, puff pastry, sesame oil. 

You’re in your pastel yellow cardigan and matching plaid mini skirt, your curls bouncing as you move, your delicate gold necklaces catching the light. Felix keeps sneaking glances at you like he can’t help himself, and when he pulls out the croissant dough with a dramatic flourish, you clap your hands and beam at him like he just performed magic. He looks smug and a little bit in love.

You're just about to start measuring the ingredients for the stew base when you hear it. Moaning. High-pitched and breathy, and distinctly pornographic.

You and Felix both freeze. His head tilts. Your brows knit together.

“What the actual fuck is that?” he asks slowly.

The sound gets louder. Moaning. Wet, obscene noises. The slap of skin on skin. You walk toward the living room together like you’re entering a crime scene. Felix rounds the corner first and you peek over his shoulder.

There, on the couch, is Jisung. Hair messy, hoodie bunched up around his ribs, legs thrown over the armrest. A woman is splayed across the TV screen, cheeks flushed, legs shaking, and a man is between them, thrusting in slow, graphic detail while the background music plays like some kind of fucked-up love ballad.

Jisung, to his credit, is not actively watching it. He’s half-asleep, eyes barely open, head lolling back against the cushion like he passed out in the middle of a binge. His mouth is slightly open, breathing steady, and he only seems to realize what’s happening when Felix lets out a strangled, “Ji?”

Jisung bolts upright like someone shot him with a taser. “WHAT THE FUCK-!”

He scrambles, hands flailing for the remote. His knee knocks over a cushion. He presses the wrong button and the moaning gets louder. Much louder. Now it’s full-volume audio porn. The woman on screen is screaming in Japanese, the man groaning like he’s in pain or ecstasy or both.

“Oh my fucking god!” Jisung shrieks, smashing the remote with both hands. “STOP! FUCKING STOP!”

The volume goes up again.

“CHANGBIN TOLD ME IT WAS A GOOD ANIME!” Jisung howls, fully panicked now as he gives up and lunges toward the TV, yanking the power cord straight out of the wall.

You press your fingers to your lips, shoulders shaking, trying so hard not to laugh. Felix just stands there, eyes wide, looking like he’s been spiritually attacked.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Felix finally asks.

Jisung straightens, running both hands through his hair, face flushed redder than a cherry tomato. “It’s called Amai Choubatsu, and Changbin said it was, I don’t know, steamy or whatever, but I wasn’t even watching, I swear! I was just- I dozed off, and it was on autoplay, and now I look like a fucking pervert-”

“You are a pervert,” Felix says, still staring at the blank screen.

“I was asleep!” Jisung yells. “Why the fuck was the volume button next to the power button, who designed this shitty ass remote?!”

You’re snorting now, laughing through your hand as Jisung paces in front of the TV, still rambling. “I’m gonna sue whoever made that remote. I’m gonna sue Changbin. That man fucking set me up. He knew exactly what he was doing, he’s been trying to get me into fucked up shit for months. This is a targeted attack. A full-on assassination of my dignity.”

Felix shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh too. “You couldn’t have turned it off faster? You made it louder.”

“I PANICKED!” Jisung cries, flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to wake up to surround sound sex moans with an audience?! My soul left my body!”

You take pity on him, finally lowering your hand from your face, still giggling. “Do you want to come help us in the kitchen? Felix is doing a test run of his fusion dish. You can be the official taste-tester.”

Jisung perks up instantly, straightening his hoodie. “Yeah. Yes. Fuck yeah, let’s do that. Cooking. Taste-testing. Definitely better than whatever that was.” He shoots the TV a dirty look and bounds after you and Felix like a golden retriever who just got invited on a walk.

He’s still red in the face, but he bounces back fast, his embarrassment melting off him as he rolls up his sleeves and starts helping Felix unpack the rest of the ingredients. You direct him toward the mixing bowls, pointing out where the cutting boards are with a sweet smile that makes Jisung’s heart try to crawl up his throat.

Felix lets Jisung handle the puff pastry while he starts the bulgogi stew base on the stove. You’re measuring out sesame oil and rice wine, eyes focused and careful as you tilt the measuring spoon just so, completely unaware that Jisung is watching you and Felix like you’re the sun and he’s a half-frozen planet trying to warm himself.

“Smells fucking amazing,” Jisung says, leaning over Felix’s shoulder. “Holy shit, Lix, you gonna feed this to your professor and instantly get a fuckin’ Michelin star?”

Felix chuckles, stirring the pot. “Hopefully I’ll at least get a passing grade. But yeah, I submitted the bulgogi croissant idea, and I’ve got two months to perfect the recipe. Figured I’d start now and experiment.”

You smile, setting down the oil. “You’re gonna kill it. You’re already amazing, Felix. This dish is just the cherry on top.”

Felix leans over to kiss your cheek, warm and soft, and Jisung swallows hard, gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re too good to me, Angel,” Felix murmurs. “I don’t deserve you.”

You giggle, reaching up to brush your fingers through his hair. “Yes, you do. Always.”

Jisung clears his throat loudly, trying to not feel like a third wheel while standing three feet from a public cuddling session. “So,” he says, voice just slightly higher than normal. “How do you put stew in a croissant without it turning into a fucking disaster?”

Felix grins, pulling away from you but still brushing his hand down your arm as he grabs the dough. “You make it thicker. Like a paste, almost. I’ll reduce it down and then cool it. Makes it easier to stuff.”

Jisung nods like he knows what that means. “Right. Thick stew. Got it. No leaky meat pockets.”

You laugh softly, and Jisung basks in the sound like he’s soaking up sunlight.

Jisung rolls out the dough while you brush the tops with egg wash. Felix tastes the stew and hums thoughtfully, adding a dash more gochugaru. You lean against Jisung’s side for a moment as you wait for the oven to preheat, and he practically vibrates under your touch. Felix reaches over to ruffle Jisung’s hair playfully, muttering something about him doing surprisingly decent for someone who can barely boil water, and Jisung is pretty sure he could die right then and be happy.

This. This is all he wants. Cooking with you and Felix, surrounded by laughter and warmth, the occasional teasing, the soft brushes of contact. You smile at him like he matters. Felix calls him a dumbass, but fondly. He feels like he belongs, and he wants more than anything to make this permanent.

So he throws himself into it, cracking jokes, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb with exaggerated flair that makes you giggle. He teases Felix about his meticulous plating and gets lightly smacked with a spatula. You compliment his croissant folding technique and he nearly blushes out of his skin.

He keeps thinking about what Minho said. About how he could just tell you both how he feels. How it might not be the end of the world. But for now, he keeps it to himself, because this soft, chaotic little kitchen moment is too good to risk ruining.

And if he falls a little deeper in love with both of you every time you laugh, well. That’s nobody’s problem but his.

Minho’s room smells like laundry detergent, citrus air freshener, and just a little bit like weed even though he swears he hasn’t smoked in two weeks. The overhead light is off, casting the room in the soft glow of the floor lamp in the corner and the television screen across from the bed, which currently plays a documentary on lion mating in the savannah with full, dramatic narration and too many close-ups of lion asses. Minho lounges shirtless in grey sweatpants, feet propped up on the edge of his mattress, arms folded behind his head like a relaxed but slightly amused deity.

Jisung, however, is not relaxed.

He’s pacing the length of the floor in Minho’s room, his wild blue hair tousled from nervous hand-tugging and his outfit consisting of nothing but black boxers covered in a proud, cartoonish dick-and-vagina print and bright yellow SpongeBob slippers that squeak slightly with every step.

“I think I’m ready,” Jisung says. “No more cowardice. No more hiding. Operation Make-Y/N-and-Felix-Fall-in-Love-With-Me is fucking go.”

“What changed? Last I heard, you were crying in the shower and claiming you were a cursed bisexual ghost.”

Jisung stops pacing, turning on his heel, shoulders squared. “They didn’t scream at me, Minho.”

Minho finally looks over at him, one brow raised. “Huh?”

“Yesterday,” Jisung says, pointing dramatically toward the door as if you and Felix are standing just outside. “I was half asleep, with porn anime playing, like full-onn big-titty anime chick getting railed, moaning echoing through the fucking house, and they walked in and didn’t scream ‘Burn the pervert!’ They didn’t even call me a creep. Y/N looked like she was gonna laugh and Felix just stared at the screen like he’d witnessed a murder, but they didn’t judge me. They pitied me. That’s affection-adjacent!”

Minho snorts. “So the bar is in the fucking Mariana Trench.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m being vulnerable,” Jisung says, hand pressed to his chest like he’s about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “I think I have a real chance. But I need a plan. And you, my emotionally repressed but freakishly strategic best friend, are going to help me.”

Minho groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Fine. I’m in. But first of all, what porn anime was it? Just for, you know, research purposes.”

Jisung throws himself onto the bed like he’s been shot. “Some prison thing. Not even hot. My dick didn’t twitch. Like, the animation was weirdly glossy and the guy had these creepy dead eyes. And the woman kept saying weird shit about being someone’s property. I was like, girl, get some therapy. Changbin needs therapy too. He recommended that shit.”

Minho nods solemnly. “I always knew he was fucked.”

Jisung sits up suddenly, eyes bright. “Okay. First idea. I need to be shirtless at some point. My tits are my selling points. Big tits, tiny waist. That’s my brand. That’s the bait.”

Minho glances at Jisung’s chest, and yeah, okay, he’ll admit it, not out loud, but Jisung’s pecs are ridiculous. Stupidly perky. Almost offensively hot. They move when he talks. They bounce when he laughs. They’ve got more presence than half the people Minho’s dated.

Minho gets up, grabs the whiteboard from the corner of the room and slaps it down on his desk. “Fine. Let’s make a plan. You want to win over a poly couple, one of whom is a soft, submissive angel and the other is a pierced, tatted dom with a resting sex face. This is advanced shit.”

Jisung paces again, fingers snapping as ideas flow. “I need to come off hot but safe. Like, sexually competent but not a threat to their relationship. Flirty but respectful. Horny with boundaries. Like a bisexual golden retriever who also knows how to rail someone into the fucking floor.”

Minho uncaps a marker and writes Golden Retriever Whore Energy on the board.

“Perfect,” Jisung nods. “Okay. Cooking. I did good in the kitchen. I helped Felix, I was flirty but not obnoxious, and Y/N called me sweet. That’s like prime real estate. So I keep helping in the kitchen. Domesticity kink activated.”

Minho writes Domestic Sexy Helper = Green Flag.

“Also,” Jisung continues, “I accidentally flexed my forearms when I was folding the dough and I caught Felix looking. Like, just for a second. But it counts.”

“Could’ve been judging your technique,” Minho mutters.

“Let me have this,” Jisung says, pointing a threatening finger.

Minho shrugs and adds Forearm Porn to the board.

“Now,” Jisung says, clapping his hands, “what about timing? Should I start hanging out more casually when it’s just the two of them? Or should I wait until there’s a group thing and naturally drift closer?”

“Too many people and you’ll get drowned out. One-on-one is where you shine. You’re weird, but it’s endearing in small doses. Like those tiny spicy peppers that burn your whole mouth but you kinda like it.”

“Aw. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Minho deadpans.

“Liar,” Jisung says, bouncing a little on his heels. “Okay, next step, physical touch. I already know they’re both affectionate. Y/N hugs everyone like she’s the goddamn sun incarnate. Felix touches people constantly. If I mirror that, then maybe they’ll associate me with comfort. And hotness.”

Minho scribbles Touch Starved Bisexual on the board.

Jisung nods solemnly. “Now we get to the advanced part.”

“Oh boy.”

“Sexual dynamics. We have to factor in bedroom logistics, because if this plan works, eventually we’re fucking. And I need to make sure it’s compatible.”

Minho exhales and flops back on the bed. “Alright, hit me with it.”

“Okay,” Jisung begins, pacing again like a professor presenting his thesis. “Y/N’s a sub. That’s not even up for debate. She gets flustered when Felix tells her she’s pretty in that voice. You know the one. Felix? Full dom. That man commands. His presence is like sexy gravity.”

Minho doesn’t disagree.

“Now me?” Jisung thumps his chest. “Switch. Certified. I can dom like a champ and beg like a pro. I contain multitudes. Which means I’m the perfect addition.”

“Let me see if I’m following. Y/N gets two doms. Felix gets two subs. You get both a sub and a dom.”

“Exactly!” Jisung exclaims. “It’s perfectly balanced, like a horny little triangle. Everyone’s needs are met. It’s like the sexual fucking Avengers.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

“I’m a genius,” Jisung counters. “Minho. Imagine it. I’m making Y/N fall apart under me while Felix is behind me calling me a good boy and pulling my hair"

Minho stares at him for a second too long, then looks back at the whiteboard. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“I’m emotionally invested,” Jisung says. “I want the relationship, not just the sex. I wanna wake up tangled between them. I wanna make them breakfast and kiss them both goodbye when they leave for class. I wanna hold their hands at the same time like a corny bitch.”

“You’re already a corny bitch.”

“Exactly! So I just need them to see it. To want it.”

“This plan is completely unhinged. But also weirdly coherent.”

Jisung grins. “That’s my brand.”

Minho nods, leaning back again. “Alright. Let’s make those bitches fall in love with you.”

“Fuck yeah,” Jisung says, eyes gleaming. “Operation Polyamorous Threesome Love Story is officially in motion.”

The note sits on the coffee table like it’s a live grenade with the pin barely hanging on. You’re curled up in Felix’s lap, your legs tucked to one side across the cushions of the frat house's overused living room couch, the soft weight of his arms around your waist grounding you. The light from the late afternoon sun spills through the big window, illuminating the little note like it’s daring you to touch it. Neither of you does.

You’ve been staring at it for five minutes now. Just sitting there, your back pressed against Felix’s chest, his heartbeat steady under your hand. The two of you haven’t said a word since you came in and found it sitting right there with your names written in neat, painfully familiar handwriting. Y/N & Felix in black ink. 

You can feel Felix tense behind you every time he blinks at it. His hand is clenched against your hip, knuckles whitening just slightly beneath the denim sleeve of his oversized jacket. You’re in a soft pastel green outfit today, your mini skirt perfectly pleated, your cardigan buttoned just enough to be modest but cropped enough to be cute, and your little white headband pushing your curls away from your face. You look like spring incarnate. But there’s a twist of anxiety in your stomach, a tightening that refuses to go away. A silence that says too much.

Felix sighs through his nose. “We could burn it.”

“We don’t even know what it says yet.”

“That’s what makes it worse.”

You both flinch when the living room door creaks open and Jisung strolls in, hair messy, hoodie halfway zipped, and a half-eaten rice ball in his hand. His eyes immediately zero in on the note like a heat-seeking missile. “Oh,” he says, mouth still full. “That’s addressed to both of you. You gonna open it or just keep doing the human statue thing?”

Felix doesn’t move and you stay quiet, lips pressed together.

Jisung blinks, then shrugs. “Shall I open it then?” he offers, already moving closer.

You nod before you can stop yourself. A small, unsure thing. Jisung snatches the note, tears the top open with his teeth like a raccoon in a vending machine, and pulls out the single folded sheet inside. He unfolds it with dramatic flair, eyes scanning rapidly.

“Oh,” he says, tone immediately dropping. “It’s from... uh. He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but you don’t interrupt.

Jisung keeps reading. “He says he’s been to therapy. Says he’s been working on himself. Wants to reconcile. Apologize. Claims he’s gotten better.”

Felix’s arms tighten around your waist like a vice.

You glance back at him, your eyes meeting his. He looks... tired. Not angry. Not upset. Just that bone-deep weariness that only comes from someone reopening a wound they swore had already healed.

Felix takes a deep breath. “If he’s changed, we should hear him out.”

You hesitate. Then nod once.

Jisung makes a noise that can only be described as a cross between a dying cat and a smoke alarm. “No. No. No no no, fuck this. Intervention time.”

Felix sighs, already regretting everything.

“CHAN! MINHO! GET IN HERE! ACTUALLY, ALL OF YOU GET IN HERE!” 

Chan is the first to stumble in, a protein bar in one hand. “What the fuck, Jisung?”

Minho follows, t-shirt wrinkled, glasses slightly crooked like he’d been asleep five minutes ago. “If someone isn’t bleeding, I swear to god-”

Changbin barrels in shirtless and sweating, headphones hanging off his neck. “I was in the middle of a set! Who’s dead?!”

Hyunjin floats in like a storm cloud, dramatic and intense in an oversized silk robe. “If this is about Jeongin using my toner again, I will literally-”

Jeongin stomps in after him. “It was one time!”

Seungmin arrives last, holding a lighter. “I was gonna make nachos. If you pulled me away for nothing, I’m burning the house down with this lighter.”

Jisung turns to face the crowd like he’s a defence attorney delivering the final speech of his career. “We are on the verge of catastrophe.”

Minho groans. “What now?”

“It’s from Juwon,” Jisung says dramatically. “He’s been to therapy. He wants to reconcile. He’s trying to come back.”

“ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT,” 

“I WILL BREAK HIS LEGS,” 

“I WILL SLIT MY WRISTS IN PROTEST. I WILL PAINT THE WALLS IN MY BLOOD.”

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose. “You two aren’t seriously considering seeing him again, right?” he says, looking between you and Felix like you’ve both lost your minds.

You sit up a little, feeling your throat tighten. “He said he’s been to therapy... he might’ve changed.”

“He won’t have,” Seungmin says flatly. “People like him don’t change. They pretend. Then they do it again.”

“Are we forgetting the time he made both of you cry in public just because he was feeling insecure?!”

“I hit that fucker with a frying pan!” Changbin adds. “A cast iron frying pan!”

“And I poured vodka all over him,” Hyunjin mutters with a dreamy look in his eyes. “Like holy water for assholes.”

“Seungmin tried to light him on fire!” Jeongin cackles.

“I fucking would’ve. If Chan hadn’t stopped me.”

“I WAS DOING DAMAGE CONTROL!”

“And Minho was holding you both like you were baby ducks,” Jisung says, gesturing at you and Felix. “He was trying to keep you safe while the rest of us were ready to commit crimes.”

Minho’s expression is stony. “I remember how you were sobbing. Both of you. Curled up in that corner while he yelled at you in front of everyone. And then had the nerve to act like it was your fault.”

“He made you stop hugging us,” Hyunjin snaps. “You both flinched when we touched you.”

“He made you cry, and he liked it,” Chan says, jaw clenched. “That’s not someone who gets a second chance.”

You glance at Felix again, your fingers laced with his, both of your grips tight.

Then Felix takes a shaky breath and nods. “Okay. We won’t see him.”

“THANK FUCK,” 

“I WILL NOT PAINT THE WALLS,” Hyunjin declares.

Chan sighs in relief, flopping onto the couch. “Thank god. I really didn’t wanna pretend to like him again.”

“Same,” Jeongin mutters. “I nearly dislocated my jaw fake smiling at him for three months.”

“Come with me,” Minho says suddenly. Everyone freezes as he steps forward, expression unreadable, shoulders squared with the kind of energy that usually precedes something unhinged. 

Minho grabs the note from the table without waiting for permission, holding it between two fingers like it’s covered in disease, and marches toward the back of the frat house. The rest of you follow like ducklings.

The air outside is cool and crisp, the back garden bathed in gold from the late afternoon sun and Minho stops in the middle of the yard, turns to face everyone, holding the note aloft like he’s about to cast a fucking spell.

“Now, I piss on this piece of emotional terrorism.”

“What-” Hyunjin starts, but it’s too late.

Minho tosses the note dramatically onto the grass like it insulted his ancestors, and then, without an ounce of shame or hesitation, hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and drops them straight to his ankles.

“NO FUCKING WAY,” 

“MINHO!” 

“Oh my god,” you gasp, choking on your laughter.

Minho doesn’t care. Minho is already pissing. He aims directly at the note, hips swaying side to side as a powerful stream arcs through the air and soaks the paper completely.

“Oh my fucking god, he’s actually doing it!"

Jisung makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a bark, doubling over as he laughs so hard he’s crying. “THIS IS ART! THIS IS MODERN FUCKING ART!”

You drop to your knees in the grass, face buried in your hands as you shake with silent laughter, tears streaming down your cheeks. Your skirt rides up slightly but you don’t care, you’re too far gone. You feel like your lungs might collapse, like you’ll never stop laughing. Minho’s straight-faced concentration as he pisses on the note is the most unhinged shit you’ve ever seen in your life.

Hyunjin has collapsed half onto Changbin, using his shoulder as a support while wheezing so hard it sounds like he’s been stabbed. “He’s moving his hips,” he gasps. “He’s doing a little fucking piss dance.”

“I can’t fucking breathe,” Jeongin says, clinging to Seungmin’s arm for dear life.

“I hate all of you,” Seungmin says, eyes wide but laughing anyway.

“You’re all lucky I have human decency and didn’t shit on it in front of you.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Felix gasps, half-laughing, half-shrieking as he clutches his stomach.

“I swear to go, if I see Juwon,” Minho continues, deadpan as his stream finally starts to slow, “I will piss on him too.”

“HE'S STILL GOING,” Changbin wheezes, holding onto Hyunjin for balance.

“I’ve had a lot of coffee today. Like, two iced americanos and a latte. This is not a short piss.”

You fall forward from your crouch, laughter tearing through you so hard you nearly faceplant into the grass. Felix falls next to you, pulling you into his arms as you both laugh, practically vibrating with the force of it. 

Minho finally finishes and gives himself a shake like a fucking golden retriever, pulling up his boxers and sweatpants like this was the most casual act of his life.

He looks around at the group of grown-ass human beings all collapsed in various piles of hysterical laughter and nods once. “Let that be a message to all emotionally manipulative exes.”

“You’re a fucking hero,” 

“I’d name my firstborn after you if I didn’t think you’d corrupt the kid,” 

“Minho pisses on the patriarchy,"

Felix leans in to whisper against your ear, voice rough with laughter. “We made the right call.”

“We really fucking did.”

Over the next week, Jisung starts showing up wherever you and Felix happen to be, like a friendly little parasite that’s decided the best way to preserve your happiness is to latch on and never let go. At least, that’s the narrative he’s sold you and Felix, and honestly, you both believe it. After all, he’s Jisung. He talks fast, he talks loud, and his devotion to his friends is so intense and sincere that no one ever really questions it.

He claims he’s there to prevent psychological sabotage from the emotional terrorist known as Juwon, and the first time he says it, Felix actually laughs so hard he drops the whisk he’s using into the mixing bowl. You giggle, perched on the counter with your legs swinging while Felix preps a fresh batch of his bulgogi jjigae croissants, and Jisung’s heart does a fucking somersault in his chest.

“Listen,” Jisung says, “I’m just saying, both of you are emotionally vulnerable right now. I need to be your emotional chastity belt.”

Felix snorts. “You’re so full of shit.”

You tilt your head at Jisung, amused. “So you’re, like, guarding our brains?”

“And hearts. Mostly hearts. But also your vibe, which is very soft and cute and must be protected at all costs.”

You press your hand to your chest and flutter your lashes. “You’re so sweet.”

Jisung’s face goes a little pink, but he masks it with a gulp of soda and a muttered, “Yeah, well, I’m amazing.”

Minho told him to play it cool. "Just be there," he’d said. "You’re already halfway in the door, idiot. Just don’t kick it down by being insane."

But Jisung is not cool. Not when Felix calls you Angel and brushes a kiss to your temple without even thinking. Not when you lean over and poke at Felix’s arm tattoos while asking about the new filling ratio in the croissant dough. Not when the kitchen smells like love and trust and sex and baked goods and he’s standing on the edge of it all, trying to convince himself this is enough.

He keeps telling Minho it’s working. That he’s slowly infiltrating your heart. That your smile lingers longer on him now, that you laugh more freely, that maybe you’re seeing him as something more than the slightly chaotic best friend. He tells Minho that Felix is definitely noticing him. That Felix’s hands linger on his back when he passes behind him at the stove. That Felix teases him more. That the three of you are syncing like a fucking polyamorous power trio.

Minho doesn’t even try to hide his smirk when he says, “Or maybe you’re feeding your own delusions like a starving raccoon.”

Jisung throws a pillow at him and keeps dreaming.

He learns your class schedule under the guise of tactical protection, meets you at the student cafe with lattes he claims were on sale, and starts quizzing you casually about psych theories. You’re studying Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development for your childhood psych minor, and Jisung manages to tie it into criminal psychology like a nerdy magician.

“So basically,” he says one afternoon as the three of you sit on the front porch steps, “if a kid doesn’t get their basic trust developed in infancy, they’re gonna have way more issues later when it comes to intimacy, which is, like, textbook setup for criminal behaviour.”

You nod thoughtfully, eyes shining. “And it loops into autonomy versus shame too. Like, if they don’t build autonomy at the toddler stage, they’ll always rely on others to determine their sense of self, which ties into identity issues during adolescence.”

Felix looks up from his sketchpad, blinking. “Are you two having a sexy nerd moment right now?”

Jisung grins. “Maybe.”

You laugh, warm and genuine. “You can join if you want.”

Felix snorts. “Nah, I’ll leave you to your kink.”

Jisung pretends he’s not getting hard at the idea of a psychology-themed threesome.

The croissant testing continues almost every day. Felix has now adjusted the dough-to-filling ratio three times, added caramelized onions in one batch, and experimented with gochujang paste-glazed puff in another. You and Jisung are the designated guinea pigs, and you take the job seriously. You sit together at the counter with matching mugs, giving detailed feedback while Felix watches like he’s being graded.

“I like the sweetness of the onions here,” you say thoughtfully, licking your fingers. “But the stew’s a little too wet. It’s bleeding through.”

“Agreed,” Jisung says, mouth full. “But also, holy fuck. If I ever got railed after eating one of these, I think I’d ascend.”

Felix just laughs, brushing flour off his pants. “I’ll put that on my Yelp reviews.”

Jisung doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep it together when Felix says shit like that while looking like that, inked and pierced and covered in flour, all soft laughs and lethal eyes. And then there’s you, sweet and golden and smiling at them both like you’ve never known cruelty, like you’re built from spring and honey.

It’s fine. He’s fine. Until Tuesday.

The day starts like any other. Croissants in the oven, Jisung perched on the counter like a gremlin, you leaning against Felix as you whisper something in his ear and giggle. Felix makes some dumb joke and Jisung throws a spatula at him. Normal shit.

The croissants come out piping hot and steaming, and Jisung’s already grabbing one before it cools, blowing on it dramatically while mumbling something about risking third-degree burns for flaky food.

He bites in and groans. “Okay, okay, this is the best one yet. Holy fuck, Felix, this one hits. The beef is more savoury, and the texture’s perfect.”

There’s a smear of bulgogi sauce at the corner of his mouth, and he licks his lips, but he misses it. Felix steps forward, reaches out, and with the softest, most casual motion in the universe, wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. And then Felix fucking sucks his own thumb clean.

Jisung short circuits. He stands there, croissant in hand, eyes wide and jaw slack, as Felix turns away to grab something from the counter like he didn’t just casually fry Jisung’s brain.

You blink at Jisung. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

He makes it through fifteen more minutes. Fifteen excruciating minutes of pretending he’s normal, of acting like he didn’t just have a sexual awakening from one goddamn thumb.

The moment you and Felix leave to grab some more ingredients from the market, Jisung bolts upstairs like he’s been launched out of a cannon. He doesn’t knock when he storms into Minho’s room. He never knocks, which is a problem today. Because Minho is under his covers, shirt off, hand down his pants, clearly mid-stroke and looking very much in the zone.

“FUCK! Get out!” 

“NO TIME,” Jisung shouts, throwing himself onto Minho’s bed like a deranged gremlin. “MINHO. I NEED TO FUCK Y/N AND BE FUCKED BY FELIX RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”

“Can I just jerk off in peace once this month? Please?”

“NO. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.”

Minho sighs the sigh of a man who has known nothing but suffering and dramatic bisexuals. He flops onto his side, abandoning his hard-on, and pulls the blanket up to his chest. “Do I need to stroke your hair again?”

“Yes. Please.”

Minho rolls his eyes but reaches out anyway, threading his fingers through Jisung’s hair with long, slow strokes. “Alright. Let it out.”

“I need to dom Y/N until she cries while I suck on Felix’s fingers. Minho. He wiped sauce off my mouth and then licked his thumb. I almost came in my fucking pants. That’s not fair. That’s a war crime. You don’t just do that to a person!”

“Mmm.”

“Felix has got these hands, right? Like veiny, tattooed, perfect dom hands. I want them everywhere. I want them around my throat, I want them on my hips, I want them inside me. Y/N looked at me with those sweet eyes and I was like, I’d literally pay her tuition, I’d buy her a pony, I’d kill a man for her. I’d raise a baby with her and Felix and go to PTA meetings and bake fucking cookies.”

“You sound stable,” Minho says flatly.

“I’m not,”

Minho just keeps stroking his hair as Jisung melts into it like he’s a cat getting scratched behind the ears.

“I’m gonna die,” Jisung murmurs. “Die horny. Die in love. Die with un-sucked nipples and a heart full of yearning.”

“Poetic,” Minho mutters.

Jisung sighs deeply. “Tell my story.”

Minho just rolls his eyes. “You’re not dying. You’re in love with your friends, and it sucks, but you’re surviving. Just keep taste-testing the croissants and pretending you’re normal.”

Jisung groans. “Pretending is exhausting.”

“Yeah, well,” Minho says, shifting under the covers, “so is jerking off to the thought of a threesome that hasn’t happened. Welcome to the club.”

Jisung lifts his head. “Wait, you-”

Minho cuts him off with a glare. “Don’t. You’ll ruin the moment.”

Jisung drops his head again, comforted by the hand in his hair and the low hum of Minho’s voice. For now, it’s enough. Barely. But enough.

Jisung is flat on his back, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling like it’s going to bless him with divine intervention. His comforter is pulled halfway up to his chest, his knees are bent, and his fists are clenched at his sides like he’s bracing for an earthquake. Except the earthquake is coming from the other side of the fucking wall. Because Felix’s room is right next to his, and you and Felix are currently fucking with the enthusiasm of a couple auditioning for a porno with an emotional subplot.

He has his pillow over his head, earbuds shoved into his ears, and he’s muttering to himself like a man on the verge. “No, no, no, think of nasty shit, come on, think of... feet. Dirty feet. Athlete’s foot. Fungus. Come on, Jisung, be strong.”

But his dick does not care about foot fungus. His dick cares about the soft moans slipping through the wall like they’re aimed directly at him, about the low, guttural growl of Felix’s voice, about the sweet little whimpers he hears from you that sound like you’re being ruined and loving it. 

And then, through the fucked-up miracle of paper-thin frat house walls and bad insulation, he hears something that makes his whole body seize.

“Fuck,” Felix’s voice drips through the drywall, husky and slow, “can you imagine if Jisung was in here with us?”

“What-” you gasp, breathy and high, “-you think he’d like it?”

Felix laughs, low and dark. “He’d love it. He’d fuck you so good, Angel. He’d top you like he’s been dying to. And I’d take him from behind, slow and deep, make him moan.”

“You think he’d let you?”

“Bet he’d beg for it,” Felix murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Beg me to keep going while he wrecks you.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung whispers, eyes the size of dinner plates. His body goes stiff, and his dick stands to full fucking attention with the urgency of a fire drill.

He has to leave. He has to leave right now. 

Waddling shamefully out of his room like a penguin in heat, Jisung uses both hands to cup his crotch, like a cartoon character. He makes it to Minho’s room in record time, knocks once with his foot, and then just barges in because dignity is long dead.

Minho, already propped up in bed reading something on his iPad, doesn’t even flinch. “Come cuddle, sad baby,” he says flatly, lifting the edge of the duvet like this is just another Tuesday night where Jisung needs affection because his feelings are louder than his common sense.

But then his head turns and he sees the way Jisung is standing, legs awkward, hunched posture, hands cupping his crotch, and Minho blinks slowly.

“Wait! Hands in the air, you little goblin. Hands up right the fuck now.”

“What?!” 

“You heard me,” Minho barks. “Hands. The fuck. Up.”

Jisung, face bright red and eyes wide in panic, lifts his hands like he’s being arrested. His boxers tent comically, the front obscenely prominent. He stands in the centre of Minho’s room like a deer caught in headlights, half expecting to be shot or baptized.

Minho stares. Stares longer. His jaw drops. 

“Where the fuck have you been hiding that?!”

“Don’t make this a thing,” 

Minho is already pointing. “That’s why you’re short! Your height is in your cock!”

“MINHO-”

“Forget everything nice I ever said about your stupid hair or your pretty eyes,” Minho continues, sitting up now. “That third leg is your selling point. Jisung, what the fuck? Does it not get heavy?!”

“Can we not-”

“You have a monster cock and you never told me?! Me! Your best friend! Is this why you never get naked in the locker room?! Is that why you change behind a fucking towel?! You afraid of taking someone’s eye out or tripping someone over with that python?!”

“Please stop talking about my dick like it’s a registered weapon.”

“It should be!” Minho shouts. “You should have a license! There are elephants with less to deal with!”

“MINHO.”

“I feel betrayed.”

“I panicked!” Jisung cries. “Do you know what I just heard through the wall?! They—Felix and Y/N, they were fucking and talking about me!”

Minho pauses mid-rant. “What?”

Jisung starts pacing, hands still hovering near his crotch. “They said they wanted me to join. Felix said I’d top Y/N and he’d fuck me at the same time. And Y/N sounded like she was into it! I was just trying to sleep and suddenly I’m the fucking guest star in their nightly sexcapade!”

Minho’s expression flickers between confusion, intrigue, and thinly veiled amusement. “So what you’re telling me is your crush might not be as one-sided as you thought?”

“I don’t know,” Jisung says, collapsing into Minho’s chair, legs spread like he’s given up. “Maybe they were just dirty talking. Maybe they meant nothing by it. Maybe it was just some fantasy bullshit and I’m projecting. Or maybe it was about me and now I have a fucking boner that won’t go away and I want to cry and also cum and also crawl into a hole and die.”

“So basically business as usual.”

“Shut up.”

“Come here, penis monster,” Minho sighs, scooting over and patting the mattress. “Just don’t poke me with your fucking divining rod, alright?”

Jisung grumbles but crawls under the blanket, still hard and ashamed, curling into Minho’s side like the world’s most tragic cuddle bug. Minho wraps an arm around his shoulders and hums. 

“You smell like desperation and confusion.”

“I smell like love and sadness.”

Minho’s hand rubs soothing circles over his arm. “Same thing.”

And as Jisung lies there, painfully hard, emotionally overwhelmed, and clinging to the only person who knows all his fucked-up secrets, he wonders if maybe he’s not as alone in this as he thought.

The scent of kimchi and sizzling beef fills the frat house like a wake-up call from the gods, the windows are cracked open just enough to let in the early morning air, still cool from last night’s breeze. 

You sit at the counter on your usual stool, cradling a hot mug of coffee in your hands like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Your hair is piled on top of your head in a lazy updo, loose strands falling around your face as the steam from your drink curls around your cheeks.

Your crisp, blue pinstripe shirt clings to you just right, unbuttoned to that perfect spot where your cleavage draws attention without effort. Paired with a sleek, high-waisted white mini skirt and delicate white ankle socks, you’re a vision of calm elegance, totally at odds with the chaotic house around you. Your butterfly hairpin glints in the morning sun and your gold hoop earrings catch the light every time you shift your head slightly.

Felix is at the stove, humming to himself, half-dancing in place as he flips kimchi pancakes with the confidence of someone who’s mastered the art of multitasking. He’s wearing one of your favourite looks on him, an open red plaid flannel shirt over a tight black tank top that hugs his frame like a lover, light-wash jeans full of rips and frays that show off the smooth stretch of his thighs, a black belt with subtle metal detailing, and those absurdly fluffy black socks you bought for him in the winter that he now wears religiously.

His hair is half-up in a messy little bun that you helped tie earlier with one of your scrunchies, and the rest of his hair falls around his shoulders in inky waves. He looks entirely too good for someone making breakfast at 8:42 in the morning.

You sip your coffee, watching the pancake flip in slow motion and then Jisung shuffles in like the ghost of horny chaos past.

He pauses in the doorway, barefoot and bleary-eyed in a pair of mismatched sweats and a hoodie that’s falling off one shoulder. He stares at the two of you, Felix glowing golden over the stove, you sipping coffee in all your soft, pin-up sweetness and he nearly turns back around to go straight back to bed.

But he doesn’t. Because he’s an idiot. And he’s also whipped.

Felix smirks when he catches sight of him. “Morning, Ji.”

You glance over, smiling gently. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” Jisung croaks, voice rough. “I made some bad choices.”

Felix raises a brow but doesn’t push. He plates the last of the pancakes and nods toward the counter. “Come help me dish everything up. I made kimchi pancakes, jjigae, and eggs. Feeding the masses.”

Jisung pads in slowly, dragging his feet as he moves to stand beside Felix. “Feeding the masses or trying to seduce the entire house with food?”

Felix grins, sliding him a pair of tongs. “Can’t it be both?”

They start plating in silence, the comfortable kind. Jisung tries not to look at Felix’s hands but it’s impossible. They’re everywhere, moving over the counter, flipping pancakes onto plates, brushing against his own every time they reach for the same serving spoon. The touches are soft, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Jisung doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even breathe too loud, afraid to shatter the moment.

He’s halfway through arranging pancakes on a tray when Felix glances over at you. “Angel, can you go wake the guys up? If I try, they’ll throw something at me.”

You nod, setting your coffee down and stretching lazily, exposing just a hint more skin beneath your shirt. “They won’t yell at me. I’ll go be nice.”

Jisung watches you walk out of the kitchen, your skirt swaying, your steps light, and then turns back to the counter only to find Felix staring at him like a cat with a canary between its teeth.

“Didn’t hear you whining last night,” Felix says casually, stirring the jjigae. “Kinda missed it.”

Jisung freezes. “What?”

Felix’s smile widens. “Usually we can count on a backtrack. Little background vocals of you jerking off while we fuck. But not last night.”

Jisung’s heart tries to escape his chest. “I- I- Fuck, how do you-?”

Felix shrugs like it’s nothing. “Thought you were more obvious, honestly. We can hear you. And you’re not exactly quiet.”

Jisung gulps, throat dry. “Fuck, I-”

“What?” Felix asks innocently, dragging his spoon through the pot. “Thought we didn’t know about your big crush on us?”

Jisung stares at him, mouth slightly open, and Felix just tilts his head. “What changed?”

“I went to Minho’s room.”

Felix laughs softly, shaking his head. “Sad, really. We even started talking about you last night, hoping you’d start making noise. We were getting bored.”

Jisung blinks rapidly, blood rushing south like it’s got a mission, and Felix’s gaze dips down meaningfully.

“Careful,” Felix murmurs. “Might want to tuck that into your waistband. Or whip it out. I wouldn’t complain.”

Jisung makes a sound that can only be described as a strangled scream and immediately drops to the kitchen floor, face down like he’s trying to merge with the tile.

“I need to lie down,” 

Felix leans down, grinning. “Gonna ask Minho for advice later?”

Jisung nods silently, still face-planted against the floor.

Felix coos. “Poor baby.”

“I hate you,” Jisung mumbles, voice muffled.

“No you don’t,” Felix says sweetly. “You want to fuck me and Y/N.”

Jisung groans louder, kicking his feet against the tile like a toddler having a meltdown. “Fuck you, fuck this kitchen, fuck everything.”

The moment breakfast is over, the second the last kimchi pancake has been devoured and the kitchen cleared with everyone staggering off in various directions, Jisung grabs Minho by the wrist and practically drags him through the house like a man possessed. Minho doesn’t even have time to protest, just gets yanked up the stairs and shoved into his own room, the door slamming behind them.

Jisung is breathing heavily, eyes wide, hands flailing as he spins around to face his best friend like he’s about to deliver news of the apocalypse.

Minho stares at him flatly. “You’re being weird.”

“Oh my fucking god, Minho,” Jisung says, bouncing on his heels. “It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?”

“They- Felix- He knows. He fucking knows and he said something in the kitchen and I think I died, like, actually died and now I’m in queer horny purgatory and this is hell and heaven all at once.”

Minho blinks slowly. “You’re gonna have to use actual words.”

“Felix said he knew I’ve been jerking it to him and Y/N,” Jisung blurts. “He said he knows, and that they were talking about me last night on purpose, and that they wanted me to hear it, and he smirked, Minho. He smirked. Like he meant it.”

Minho stares, stunned into silence for a long beat. Then, slowly, incredulously, “So… let me get this straight. They wanted you to hear them talking about how much they want you. How much they want to fuck you and instead of joining in or walking in there or literally saying anything, you ran here? To me?!”

“Yes. I panicked. I came to you.”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“So fucking much!” Jisung wails, pacing again. “My brain short-circuited, Minho! My dick was out of commission. It was like being horny and terrified and in love all at once and also Felix was teasing me and I just- I melted! I melted into the floor!”

Minho groans. “Ji, they want you. They want you bad.”

“I know! What do I do?!”

Minho rolls his eyes like he’s in the presence of a complete dumbass. “What do you do? You fuck them, obviously!”

“I can’t just-”

“You can and you should,” Minho interrupts. “You’ve been crying about this for months, crawling into my bed, sobbing about how you want to top Y/N and be fucked by Felix. Now they’re literally asking for it. They’re handing it to you on a platter. You’re the only one cockblocking yourself!”

Jisung opens his mouth to argue, but the sound of the doorbell cuts him off. Then your voice floats up from downstairs, light and sweet.

“Minho? Can you look out your window, please?”

Then Felix. “Now, Min! Look now!”

Minho frowns, already striding across the room to his window. He throws it open and pokes his head out, the late morning sun streaming in and casting a golden glow across his face and then he goes completely still.

Jisung joins him, brow furrowed, and the moment he leans out the window beside Minho, his stomach lurches.

Juwon.

Standing right there on the front step, holding a massive bouquet of what looks like white roses and baby’s breath, speaking to you and Felix like he’s in the middle of a drama redemption arc. His hair is too perfect, his outfit meticulously put together, and the self-pity practically oozing from his voice makes Jisung recoil.

“I just... I never heard back from you,” Juwon is saying, holding the flowers out like an offering. “You didn’t reply to the letter, and it’s really affected my recovery. I’ve been working on myself, doing therapy, trying to change, but I needed closure. And I think maybe, if we could talk-”

Minho’s eye twitches. “Oh fuck no.”

Jisung’s mouth falls open. “Is he seriously-?”

“I said I’d piss on him.”

“What- Minho-”

Minho yanks his sweatpants and boxers straight to his ankles in one swift motion, strides right back to the window, and without a second’s hesitation, lets it rip. A golden arc of vengeance rains down from the second-story window, and Juwon yelps, stumbling back as the stream splashes across his shoulders and chest.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

Felix claps a hand over his mouth, shaking with silent laughter. You bite your knuckle as you try and fail not to burst out giggling.

Minho’s voice rings out from the window, gleeful and proud. “FUCK YOU, YOU MANIPULATIVE PRICK!”

From the window next to Minho’s, Changbin’s head pops out, eyes wide with glee. “IS IT GO TIME?”

Chan’s head appears a second later. “FUCK YEAH IT’S GO TIME!”

Hyunjin’s head joins them, already holding an egg. “Say the word.”

“FIRE!” Minho bellows.

Eggs start flying out the window. One hits Juwon square in the shoulder, another explodes at his feet, yolk splattering his expensive shoes. He stumbles and flails, trying to dodge as the barrage continues.

“YOU SHIT-STAINED LOSER!”

“FUCK YOUUUUUU!” 

Chan throws an egg with perfect quarterback aim. It nails Juwon in the chest.

Downstairs, Jeongin and Seungmin have joined the party from the living room. Their window slides open and Jeongin leans halfway out, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“YOU GOTTA BE BRAIN DEAD TO SHOW YOUR FACE HERE!”

“GET THE FUCK OFF OUR PROPERTY, YOU WET MOP OF A MAN!”

“SEE THIS? THIS IS WHAT A BIG DICK LOOKS LIKE!”

Chan loses it. “OH MY GOD.”

Minho keeps going. “FELIX AND Y/N TOLD ME ALL ABOUT YOUR TINY TWO-INCHER!”

A massive whoop goes up from every window. Jeongin howls. Seungmin nearly falls out of the living room. Changbin is wheezing. Chan is crying with laughter.

Juwon, completely humiliated and covered in egg, piss, and verbal abuse, finally stumbles back off the porch and bolts down the walkway like his ass is on fire.

The moment he’s gone, the boys collapse into cackles. You’re still standing in the doorway with Felix, eyes glistening from laughter, hands clapped over your mouths.

Jisung, still stunned beside Minho, finally breathes out. “That was the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Minho, finally shaking himself off and pulling his pants up, turns to Jisung. “Now go fuck your couple before I start peeing on you too.”

The living room glows with the soft, warm hue of the floor lamp in the corner, casting gentle light across the space. Felix is already sprawled across the couch in black sweatpants, shirtless, tattoos in full display and glinting slightly with the soft light. His shoulder-length hair is half-tied, the ends curling over his chest and collarbones. His piercings catch the light when he tilts his head, eyes locked on the opening credits of Mary Poppins playing across the flat screen. 

You’re curled beside him, legs tucked underneath you, dressed in a pale pink silk nightgown that stops mid-thigh. It clings to your curves and catches the light in that way that makes Felix look over at you every few seconds, smirking a little each time.

You’ve got a blanket over your lap, a bowl of popcorn balanced between your knees, and your eyes are soft, a little sleepy, completely content. The familiar music plays low in the background as you sip from a mug of chamomile tea and lean your head against Felix’s shoulder, humming quietly along with the opening score. The air is peaceful, calm in the way only quiet evenings can be in the chaos of a frat house.

The door creaks open just as Julie Andrews starts singing and Jisung pokes his head in, eyes darting around as if he’s checking to make sure this isn’t some weird dream. His gaze lands on you and Felix curled up on the couch and he almost turns around to leave again, heart thudding loudly in his chest, but then Felix looks up and grins.

“Come sit, Ji.”

Jisung freezes for a second. Then, without thinking, he shuffles in quickly, trying to look casual while his pulse is jackhammering. He doesn’t ask where he should sit and doesn’t hesitate. He makes a beeline for the couch, slipping right onto your other side and sliding into place like he was always meant to be there, sandwiching you gently between his thigh and Felix’s hip.

You smile at him as you tuck your feet up onto the couch, shifting just enough to lean into his side while still resting your head lightly on Felix’s shoulder. Jisung goes rigid for half a second, staring straight ahead like a deer in headlights. Then, slowly, he relaxes, wrapping an arm around your shoulders instinctively, like he’s done it a hundred times. You melt into it with a soft sigh.

Felix leans forward to grab another pillow and tosses it onto Jisung’s lap without looking. “You wanna go on a date with us?”

Jisung’s eyes widen and he turns slowly, mouth already falling open. “What? Seriously? Like, a real date? With you two?”

Felix smirks, not taking his eyes off the screen. “That’s what I said, yeah.”

“Yes. Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent in. Sign me the fuck up. I’m so available.”

Felix chuckles. “You’re a switch, right, Ji?”

Jisung sits a little straighter, nodding again with wide eyes. “Yes, that’s me. Very switchy. Versatile, some may say. Emotionally and sexually flexible. Minho calls me chaotic.”

Felix laughs again, and it’s low and warm. “Good. Now let’s keep watching Mary Poppins.”

Jisung nods obediently, heart pounding against his ribs as he tries to process what the fuck just happened. Did he just get asked on a date by Felix? With you? Together? Is this real life?

He tightens the arm around your shoulders just slightly and you lean into it, letting your head rest lightly against his chest as your eyes remain fixed on the movie. Your hair smells like lavender and honey and Jisung’s brain begins its rapid-fire descent into emotional catastrophe.

Then he feels it, Felix’s fingers brushing against his. It’s subtle. Just a slow, warm touch where their hands rest on the blanket across your lap. Jisung glances down, lips parting as Felix’s fingers slide lightly over his knuckles, casually interlacing their pinkies.

Every inch of Jisung’s soul leaves his body. He swears he ascends on the spot. His heart stutters. His breath catches. His eyes sting a little from how full he feels. He is touching both of you. He is sitting between the two people he’s been in love with for months and he just got asked on a fucking date. His mouth moves without his permission.

“Oh my god, I’m going on a date with you two.”

Felix snorts. “Yeah.”

Jisung shoots to his feet, fist punching the air. “OH MY FUCKING GOD!”

You yelp and laugh, startled by the sudden movement, the popcorn bowl nearly falling off your lap. Felix leans away, grinning, as Jisung turns in a circle on the rug, hands up like he’s summoning divine forces. “IT’S HAPPENING. IT’S ACTUALLY FUCKING HAPPENING.”

Footsteps pound on the floorboards above and then Minho comes running into the living room like he’s on fire, wearing a silk emerald green robe, a white towel wrapped around his wet hair, and a sheet mask plastered to his face.

“What the fuck is going on?!” he demands, breathing hard, eyes scanning the room like he expects blood.

Jisung spins to face him, dramatically pointing toward the couch. Toward you. Toward Felix. Then he clutches his chest and drops to his knees like he’s been shot, eyes wide with emotion.

Minho’s jaw drops. “You’re going on a date with them?!”

Felix looks up, blinking. “You understood that?”

Minho throws his hands up. “I speak dramatic bisexual!"

You’re giggling now, eyes wide and shining as you look between the two of them. “Are you okay?”

“No!” Jisung cries from the floor. “I’ve never been less okay in my life!”

Minho steps forward, face mask crinkling slightly as he places a comforting hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “You’ve been training for this moment. All the pacing, the crying, the horny rambling. It all led here.”

Jisung looks up, eyes comically wide. “Do I bow? Should I make a speech? Should I buy condoms?”

“Definitely buy condoms,” Minho says, dead serious.

Felix shakes his head, still grinning, and reaches for the popcorn bowl that nearly got sacrificed to the moment. “You’re not getting laid tonight, Ji. Calm your tits.”

“Oh,” Jisung breathes. “But someday?”

Felix winks and Jisung lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan and flops onto the rug, face pressed into the carpet like he’s one with the floor now.

Minho sighs, adjusting his towel. “I leave you people alone for one evening and you emotionally implode without me.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” Jisung mumbles into the carpet.

Felix laughs and tosses popcorn at his head. “Get up and come cuddle. Movie’s not over.”

Jisung scrambles up, moving like his body is made of jelly and adrenaline, and flops back into his spot beside you, breathless and still smiling like an idiot.

You glance between the two of them, resting your head back on Jisung’s shoulder with a soft hum. “So we’ll pick a night for the date?”

Felix nods. “Yup. Something cute. Something chaotic.”

“Perfect,” Jisung whispers, eyes glued to the screen again, a smile plastered across his face.

Jisung takes a deep breath at the top of the stairs, shaking his arms out like he’s about to walk into a battlefield. His heart is racing, his palms are sweaty, and Minho and Hyunjin are still watching him from behind with matching smirks, both looking like smug stylists who know damn well they’ve created a masterpiece.

“This is either the hottest I’ve ever looked or I look like a bisexual rave warrior,” 

“You look hot enough to cause accidents,” Hyunjin says.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Go before you sweat through that shirt, dumbass.”

Jisung flips them both off and finally descends the stairs, each step making the metal on his vest clink softly. The electric blue leather catches the low lighting of the hallway as he walks, glinting off the studs. Underneath, the dark blue and black abstract-patterned shirt is tucked neatly into wide-leg denim jeans, held up with a studded black belt that gleams. The jeans fall perfectly over chunky black platform boots, adding a few inches to his height, something Minho had insisted on, saying, “You need the presence.”

His hands are decorated with layered silver rings, some bulky, some delicate, all of them catching the light. Matching bracelets jingle softly at his wrists, and his ears are full of silver, glinting against the slight flush in his cheeks.

When he steps into the living room and sees you and Felix standing near the door, everything inside him stutters.

You look like a dream. The pastel blue cropped cardigan clings softly to your arms, the white lace-trimmed camisole underneath giving the outfit a touch of delicate sweetness that makes Jisung’s brain momentarily stop functioning. The high-waisted plaid mini skirt is just barely long enough to be legal, and your hair is curled and perfect, dainty gold necklaces glinting against your collarbones. Your small white bag hangs delicately off your shoulder like the whole look was curated by the universe just to end him.

Felix, on the other hand, looks like a living god. He’s wearing a sleeveless black leather vest over a cropped textured white blouse, and Jisung’s eyes zoom in immediately on the abs beneath the hem. The leather trousers fit him like sin, cinched at the waist with a thick belt dotted with metallic accents. The high-platform combat boots look dangerous and gorgeous at once, chains catching the light with each slight movement. Felix’s hair is half-up, half-down, dark waves falling over his shoulders and framing his face like he’s stepped straight out of some androgynous fantasy.

Jisung makes a noise, something high-pitched and involuntary, a whimper that sounds like “hnnnggg” as his eyes jump back and forth between the two of you.

You giggle softly, stepping forward and brushing your fingers over his vest like you’re inspecting him. “You look amazing, Ji.”

Felix grins, bumping your hip with his. “We clean up nice, huh?”

Jisung’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. He nods like his brain’s buffering. “You both look like you’ve come to kill me. And I’m fine with that.”

Felix laughs, teeth flashing. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Jisung croaks, then clears his throat and tries again, “Yes. Definitely. Extremely ready.”

“Where are we going?” he adds, as you all start heading toward the front door.

You glance back at him, excitement glowing on your face. “One of the workers at the children’s home gave us the keys to the arcade. Said we could have the place to ourselves for a few hours.”

Jisung stares. “That’s fucking adorable.”

“It’s fun,” you say with a smile. “But we’ll have to catch the bus. None of us can drive.”

Felix groans dramatically. “One day, one of us will learn.”

“But not today,” you say sweetly, pulling the door open.

Outside, the night air is cool and comfortable. The three of you walk down the block, Felix on one side of you and Jisung on the other. The world feels smaller in the best way, like everything that matters is right here, walking in step. Jisung’s hand brushes yours as you all move toward the bus stop, and he fights the urge to lace your fingers together. Felix catches the look on his face and just smirks.

At the stop, the street is still alive with distant chatter and the low rumble of traffic. A soft wind lifts your curls, and you tuck a strand behind your ear, smiling to yourself.

“Minho really went off with your outfit,” you say, looking Jisung up and down with open appreciation.

“Hyunjin helped,” he mumbles, cheeks pink. “They kept calling me their doll.”

Felix chuckles. “You’re their proudest creation.”

Jisung huffs, pretending to pout, but the praise makes something flutter in his chest. “You’re lucky I like you both. This much metal makes me sound like a wind chime.”

The bus arrives with a hiss of air brakes, and the doors open with a mechanical wheeze. It’s packed. Standing room only.

Felix curses softly under his breath. “Of course, it’s fucking full.”

Jisung steps up first, helping you up onto the bus by your waist without a thought, and you laugh, bracing your hand against his arm as you find your balance. The three of you move toward the back, wedging into a small open space near the rear exit. There are no poles or rails, so Felix stands behind you, placing his hands firmly on either side of your waist. Jisung slots in front of you, one arm braced above him against the side panel of the bus to steady himself, the other resting loosely around your shoulders.

Felix’s chest is against your back, warm and solid, and his hand slips down slightly to the bare strip of skin between your camisole and the waistband of your skirt. His thumb strokes lazily there, subtle and comforting. Jisung, on the other hand, is keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, but you can feel the tension in his body where it curls around yours like he’s buzzing.

Jisung glances down, sees your skirt hem teasing along your thighs and glances around at the strangers on the bus. Some are looking, some aren't, but none of them are close enough to touch.

Still, he shifts, subtly positioning himself so he’s blocking any line of sight that might give anyone an upskirt view. He meets Felix’s eyes over your shoulder and finds the other man doing the same thing from behind you.

The shared look says everything. 

Jisung exhales slowly. His hand brushes against your upper arm. You don’t flinch. Instead, you lean slightly into the contact, your weight settling more comfortably between the two of them.

Felix’s chin drops to your shoulder for a moment, and his lips skim the top of your ear.

“Almost there, Angel,” he murmurs.

Jisung hears it and feels like he might melt right into the floor.

You glance up at him with a gentle smile. “You okay?”

He nods quickly, eyes warm, voice quiet. “Best I’ve ever fucking been.”

The bus hisses to a stop, brakes squealing as the city noise spills in through the open doors. Felix gently taps your hip, and Jisung lets you step off first before he hops down behind you. Felix follows, his boots thudding against the pavement. The night air hits with a little more bite than before, and you pull your cardigan closer, your fingers gripping the edges as your curls bounce softly with each step.

The arcade sits tucked between a boarded-up ice cream shop and an old record store with graffiti-painted shutters. The neon sign over the arcade entrance is dark, but the bright cartoon decals plastered to the windows are still cheerful even in the dim light. 

Felix fishes the keys from his leather vest pocket. “Moment of truth,” he says, crouching slightly to fit the key into the lock.

Jisung leans against the wall beside you, his boot tapping rhythmically against the ground, eyes darting from Felix to the storefront like he’s waiting for a secret door to a fantasy world to open up. You watch as Felix twists the key, jiggles the handle, and with a loud click, the door creaks open. 

“Holy shit,” Jisung murmurs as the three of you step inside.

The inside is a chaotic mess of bright colours and silent machines, the stillness of them slightly eerie without the usual arcade noise. Prize plushies hang limply from the claw machine near the entrance, their glass cases fogged slightly from humidity. The glow-in-the-dark carpet is tacky under your Converse, and the back wall is a kaleidoscope of neon-painted murals of racing cars, anime characters, and giant pixel hearts.

Felix crosses the floor, his boots thudding against the ground as he heads to the side wall behind the counter where the control panel lives. He squats down, flicking a switch and twisting a dial. Lights flicker to life like dominoes, first the red and blue glow of the skeeball machines, then the bright flashing bulbs of the basketball hoops, then the row of racing games down the middle. Finally, the air fills with the chirps, pings, and start-up jingles of ancient arcade cabinets coming to life.

You grab Jisung’s hand and tug him toward the back. “Come on, I know exactly where we’re starting.”

Jisung follows eagerly and Felix jogs to catch up, laughing under his breath as you lead the way past whirring claw machines and flashing DDR pads, weaving through old-school cabinets until you reach your destination.

The Mario Kart arcade cabinet stands proudly near the corner, worn but functional. The seats are cracked at the edges, and the paint on the plastic steering wheels is chipped, but the screens glow brightly, invitingly.

Felix lets out a low whistle. “This thing still works?”

“Last time I came, yeah,” you say, bouncing on your toes. “It’s a piece of shit, but it’s our piece of shit now.”

Jisung cracks his knuckles. “Alright, bitches, I’m ready to dominate.”

You and Felix both raise your brows at him.

“Dominate twelfth place maybe,” Felix quips, sliding into the red seat on the far left.

You giggle, slipping into the middle seat, leaving the rightmost spot for Jisung. You reach for the controls, squinting at the character select screen as the coins blink in the top right.

Felix digs into his pocket and tosses a couple tokens into each slot. “On the house, courtesy of children’s home generosity and my morally grey sense of fun.”

The game fires up, and you all start mashing buttons to pick your racers. You slam down on Peach without hesitation as Felix hums, eyes scanning the screen before landing on Bowser. 

Jisung squints at the screen and huffs. “Toad. He’s a little freak. Just like me.”

The countdown begins and all three of you grip your wheels like you’ve trained for this your whole lives. The screen bursts to life with colour, the track lighting up in all its over-saturated glory, and the announcer counts down.

Three… two… one… go.

You hit the gas too early and spin your wheels, Peach lurching forward like she’s been hit by a truck. Felix’s Bowser slams into the wall. Jisung’s Toad takes off like a bullet, straight off the side of the track.

“Fuck! Why is this so sensitive?!” Felix huffs, jerking the wheel too hard and sending Bowser straight into a banana peel.

“Why the fuck does the jump make me go backwards?!” Jisung wails.

“I just fell off the fucking rainbow bridge for the third time!” you shout, mashing buttons as Peach spirals into the void again.

The first lap ends and not a single one of you is above ninth place.

“Jesus Christ, how are children supposed to be good at this?!” Jisung yells, frantically steering.

Felix’s entire body is leaning into the wheel like that’ll help. “My guy’s driving like he’s on acid!”

“Felix, you’re fucking Bowser, he weighs like four thousand pounds, you can’t drift like that!” 

Jisung snorts. “How the hell do you know that much about Bowser?”

“I do research,” you say proudly, just before Peach drives into a fake item box and spins out.

“Top-tier research,” Felix mutters. “Look at her go.”

“Shut up, you’re in last!” 

Jisung, somehow, is now in tenth. He cheers like he’s won the lottery. “Suck my tiny mushroom dick, losers!”

You and Felix scream at him simultaneously.

The second lap is just as catastrophic. Jisung forgets to drift on a corner and slams straight into the railing. Felix launches a shell backwards that ricochets and hits himself. You somehow manage to drive off the side three more times.

“Okay, okay, we suck, we’re so fucking bad at this.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jisung says proudly as he crawls into ninth for a whole two seconds before being overtaken by Donkey Kong.

“Alright, Donkey Kong can eat my ass,” Jisung mutters.

“God,” Felix groans, “this is like watching toddlers drive bumper cars. I hate this and I never want to stop.”

The final lap is pure chaos. Items are flying. Someone throws three red shells in a row and Felix is hit by all of them. Jisung misses a ramp and spins out. You manage to catch a boost only to immediately swerve off the track.

By the time the finish line appears, you’re in tenth, Jisung is in eleventh, and Felix is dragging Bowser’s ass in a solid dead last.

There’s a beat of silence and then all three of you erupt into laughter so loud it echoes off the walls.

“That was fucking terrible,” 

“I’ve never been so humiliated,” 

“I fell off the track eleven times,” you say, eyes wide. “I counted.”

"We’re not even racing each other. We’re just trying not to lose to the bots.”

"Fuck you, AI Luigi. Fuck you and your stupid green hat.”

After the catastrophic Mario Kart attempt, you skip over to a basketball hoop game that looks like it’s seen better decades, calling out over your shoulder for them to follow. Jisung jogs to catch up, his boots heavy against the floor, still trying to process that he’s on an actual date, with you, with Felix, with both of you. He’s not sure if he deserves it, but he’s not about to question it too hard either.

“Alright,” you say, tying your cardigan around your waist as you approach the hoop machine, “first to get more than five points wins. If we all fail, I’m claiming victory by default because I’m cute.”

Felix laughs and moves to your left, stretching his arms like he’s preparing for an Olympic event. “Five points? That’s it?”

“This thing is broken,” you reply, gesturing to the net, which sags slightly and tilts suspiciously to one side. “Plus, we all suck.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jisung says, puffing out his chest. “I played basketball in middle school.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What happened?”

“I hit puberty and realized I’m short,” Jisung says, grabbing a ball from the dispenser. “I moved on to journalism and emotional damage.”

The game starts and the timer begins its rapid descent. Balls start flying. Jisung launches one and hits the rim so hard it bounces back and smacks him in the chest. Felix overshoots and the ball hits the plastic board with a thud before dropping straight down. You barely graze the edge of the hoop with your first shot and huff in frustration.

“Fuck this game!” 

“I feel like I’m in gym class again and about to throw up.”

Jisung manages to sink one and throws his arms in the air. “One! ONE POINT, BABY!”

You get two by pure accident, one ball hits the rim, bounces off the back wall, and falls through just as the timer beeps. You cheer in celebration anyway, jumping up and down while Felix collapses against the machine, laughing so hard he nearly slides down the side of it.

“Zero,” he gasps. “I got zero fucking points.”

“I’m the goddamn MVP,” you shout, pointing at yourself. “You losers owe me your lives.”

“You barely got two!” Jisung says, giggling uncontrollably. “I got one!”

“Which is less than two, genius,” you shoot back, poking his chest.

Felix watches the two of you bicker with a fond smile before grabbing both your hands and tugging you toward the next machine. “Come on, you degenerates. Let’s go see what else we’re horrible at.”

The next hour is a full-blown descent into chaos.

You try your hand at the claw machine and almost break a nail before Jisung steps in and somehow, through pure bullshit luck, wins you a tiny plush penguin with lopsided eyes. You hug it to your chest like it’s a diamond, smiling so wide it makes Jisung’s brain short-circuit again.

Felix insists on playing the old-school dancing game, the kind with the coloured arrows and metal platforms. It starts out okay, but five seconds into the first song, it’s obvious none of you have rhythm. Felix does an impressive slide and then trips over his own foot. You flail dramatically, nearly twisting your ankle, and Jisung, determined to win, starts flapping his arms and stomping like he’s being electrocuted.

“Are you having a seizure?” 

“I’M DANCING!”

You collapse on the side rail, laughing so hard tears stream down your face.

The only game any of you do remotely well in is the zombie shooter near the back of the arcade, and that’s only because it doesn’t require finesse, just blind panic and button mashing. Felix dual-wields the plastic pistols like he’s in a John Wick movie. You scream every time something pops out at you and immediately unload the entire clip. Jisung crouches behind the cabinet like he’s in an actual war zone, making little pew-pew sounds with his mouth.

“This is the only time I feel alive,” he mutters, reloading furiously as a zombie dog lunges at the screen.

“You’ve been bitten three times already!” 

“Let me go out with a bang!” 

The three of you don’t even beat the level, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The entire night becomes a competition of who can fail hardest, who can suck the most with the most flair. Felix declares himself king of last place, you call yourself the chaos gremlin queen, and Jisung just keeps yelling “lower-tier excellence!” every time he finishes second-to-last instead of actual last.

You take a break on the floor in front of the air hockey table, all three of you panting and laughing as you pass around a can of soda. 

Jisung leans back on his elbows, watching the way the neon lights reflect in your eyes as you smile. Felix is beside you, his leather trousers creaking softly as he stretches out his legs and leans back. You’re between them, your knees drawn up, cardigan still tied at your waist, hair curling around your face like a halo.

It’s not glamorous. You’re all sweaty, slightly dishevelled, and still laughing at the way Felix screamed during the jump scare in the zombie game.

But to Jisung, it’s fucking perfect. He doesn’t even need to win at anything. He’s already won. Sitting here with the two people he adores most, surrounded by bright lights and busted machines and joy so loud it echoes, he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Okay,” you say, nudging Jisung’s knee with yours, “who’s ready for skeeball?”

“Last place gets no soda,” Felix says, finishing the can with a dramatic gulp and tossing it in the recycling bin like a basketball player.

“I���ve never been more motivated,” Jisung declares, standing up and brushing off his jeans.

And the three of you head back into the blinking chaos of the arcade, ready to fail again in the most glorious way possible.

The morning sun cuts through the gauzy curtains in Minho’s room, casting soft streaks of light across the mess of laundry and half-finished mugs of coffee scattered around his space. Minho is half-awake, his cheek pressed into his pillow, hair a chaotic mess of flattened strands and soft waves from last night’s shower. He’s in a ratty grey tee, one that reads PETA: People Eating Tasty Animals and a pair of threadbare boxers, his legs tangled in the blankets as he squints at the door that creaks open without a knock.

Jisung waddles in with a grin so big it makes his cheeks puff up, arms lifted in a lazy stretch over his head as he yawns. His hair’s sticking up on one side, he’s wearing boxers with tiny frogs on them, and a t-shirt that says I Paused My Game To Be Here. There are faint red scratches on his collarbone, a few more just visible on his upper thigh where the hem of his boxers rides up, and his neck is bearing a fresh set of hickeys.

Minho lifts his head an inch from the pillow. “Why are you smiling like a cat that got the cream?”

Jisung flops dramatically on the bed beside him with a loud groan of happiness. “Because I did, Minho. I did.”

Minho blinks once, then shifts to his side, propping his head up with his hand. “Tell me everything.”

“Oh my god, where do I even start?” Jisung kicks his legs behind him, like he’s trying to contain how excited he is and failing. “We played every game in the arcade. We sucked so bad. Like embarrassingly bad. I nearly cried laughing because we all just kept losing. Felix couldn’t score shit in the basketball game. Y/N somehow managed to reverse drive in every racing game. And me? I was just trying not to piss myself from laughing.”

Minho hums, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re glowing. Like post-orgasmic happiness glowing.”

Jisung shoots him finger guns. “I am glowing. I’m radiant. I’m ethereal. I’m living my best slut life, Min.”

Minho cackles and tosses a pillow at him. “So did they like your pant monster?”

Jisung lifts the hem of his shirt to show the marks on his hip, bright red nail indents and a bite mark. “Loved it. I mean, look at me. These? These are the marks of love.”

“I’m proud of your slutty little journey.”

 “I’m proud of it too.”

Minho’s eyes narrow slightly. “Wait. Why are you walking funny though? You walked in here like you just got railed.”

Jisung turns his head and grins, all teeth. “Because I did get railed by a god, Minho. Multiple times. My ass is still recovering from being respected thoroughly by Felix’s demon dick and my dick is singing heavenly symphonies from being balls deep in Y/N.”

Minho groans and drops his head back onto the pillow. “Fucking hell. Good for you, Ji.”

“Thank you, I’m in polyamorous heaven.”

Minho reaches over to scratch lightly at Jisung’s head, fingers moving gently through the tufts of hair sticking up from sleep, sex and probably too much hairspray the night before. “My sweet bisexual baby bird is all grown up.”

“This is the best timeline. I’m cuddled up with my best friend after fucking the most beautiful couple in Seoul and playing Mario Kart like a toddler with brain damage. Everything is perfect.”

Minho grins. “That’s the dream right there. Tell me more.”

Jisung snorts and lifts his head just enough to meet Minho’s eyes. “Okay, so after the games, we laid on the air hockey table floor, because obviously that’s what you do when you’re sweaty, exhausted, and too horny to stand properly. And I just looked at them. And they weren’t perfect in that moment. They were messy, their hair was everywhere, Felix had sweat dripping down his chest and Y/N’s eyeliner was smudged from laughter. And it was like they’re not gods, they’re just people.”

Minho shrugs lazily. “Yeah. Because they are people.”

Jisung waves a hand dramatically. “No. They are deities. Okay? Divine. Transcendent. Made of glitter and stardust and the best fucking skin I’ve ever touched. But yeah, they’re human too. And that made everything better. Like, I didn’t have to be anything. I didn’t have to pretend. I could just be Jisung, chaos incarnate, and they liked it.”

Minho rests his chin on his palm, watching Jisung with something close to fondness. “So the date went well?”

“So well. The best date of my life. And an even better night.”

Minho perks up. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Nope, you get no details.”

“You asshole! I deserve details! I’ve earned porn privileges!”

“You’ll get the PG-13 version and a mental slideshow if you’re lucky.”

“I want the director’s cut with commentary!”

“Nope! No deleted scenes either!”

Minho groans and rolls on top of him like a cat, pressing his forehead into Jisung’s back. “I hope Felix left hickeys on your balls.”

“He might’ve,” 

"You’re disgusting. I love it. I love you.”

“Love you too, Min,” 

Five months into the relationship, things have settled into a rhythm. A chaotic rhythm, sure, but it’s yours. Mornings are sleepy and warm, full of tangled limbs and grumbled jokes. Evenings are spent rotating between campus classes, shared kitchen experiments, and flopping onto the Alpha Phi living room couch like a pile of affectionate, sleep-deprived puppies. And nights like tonight are for Studio Ghibli, mismatched pyjamas, and three humans pretending they understand the plot of Ponyo while two of them doze off halfway through.

Jisung is the only one paying attention to the screen, bright-eyed and emotionally invested, arms crossed as he leans forward slightly on the couch. His hair’s a little messy, and he’s in a faded yellow sweatshirt with an enormous cartoon duck on the front, paired with navy pyjama pants. On his left side, you’re curled up, your blue silk nightgown just barely covered by the thin blanket thrown over your knees. On his right, Felix is draped lazily across the cushions in loose plaid pants and a black tank top, one arm tossed over your legs and the other tucked behind his head, eyes half-lidded.

“This fish girl’s chaotic. Like she said I'm five and then started flipping physics the bird.”

Felix yawns. “Baby, she's magic, not chaotic.”

“No, she’s chaotic and magic. Like, she’s a menace. She turned the sea into a soup. Look at that wave! That wave had teeth.”

You hum softly, head tilting into Felix’s arm. “She just wants to be a girl.”

“She just almost drowned the world to do it,” Jisung says, grinning. “Honestly, I respect the hustle.”

Felix chuckles sleepily, reaching over to tug your blanket up higher on your legs. “You're missing all the good bits, Angel.”

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “It’s too soothing. The music is like a lullaby.”

“And the visuals?” Jisung adds, still staring at the screen like it’s a life lesson. “I feel like I’m being spiritually cleansed. This is how I ascend.”

You giggle, rubbing your cheek against Felix’s arm. “If you start crying again like you did during Spirited Away-”

“That was a sacred moment,” Jisung says, cutting you off with a mock-serious tone. “I will not be shamed for weeping when Haku remembered who he was.”

Felix laughs under his breath and leans over to kiss the top of your head. You tilt your chin, nudging his cheek with your nose before settling back into the pillow. Jisung’s lips quirk into a soft, content smile.

He’s warm. Not just physically, though the blanket and the two of you squishing him into the couch are definitely cosy, but emotionally. Steady. Safe. Like the world could be crashing down outside and he’d still be fine as long as you two were here with him.

Then there’s a knock at the front door and all three of you pause.

“The fuck?”

You blink a few times, groggy, but the knock comes again. Two sharp raps. You rub your eyes and push the blanket off your legs, standing carefully and padding toward the door in your white fluffy socks.

“We weren’t expecting anyone, right?”

Jisung frowns, already halfway off the couch. “Nope. If this is a surprise inspection from the RA, I swear to god-”

You reach the door and open it cautiously and then immediately lean your head back. “Lix! Ji!”

Felix’s feet are hitting the floor before you finish the sentence. Jisung’s already jogging behind him, hair bouncing, both of them rounding the corner into the hallway just as you step back from the door.

Standing there, in the porch light, holding a small bouquet of crumpled white lilies, is Juwon.

“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking from you to Felix, then to Jisung. “Can I talk to you two? In private?”

Felix’s brows shoot up as Jisung’s face immediately crumples into a scowl.

Felix folds his arms. “What you say to us, you can say to our boyfriend.”

Juwon’s jaw tightens. “It’s personal.”

“Yeah,” Jisung snaps, stepping forward. “So’s being manipulated, guilt-tripped, and emotionally drained, but here we are. I didn’t spend months building a healthy, emotionally stable relationship with the two of them so some insecure, manipulative, micro-dicked gaslight goblin could pretend like I don’t belong"

Felix makes a choking noise behind his hand before he holds his hands up, spreading them wide. “Jisung’s the opposite of you.”

You giggle softly, covering your mouth.

Jisung grins, eyes gleaming. “Minho calls it my monster cock.”

Juwon stares. Silent. The three of you stare back before Jisung grins and opens his mouth.  "JUWON’S BACK!”

Chan’s voice bellows from above. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

Minho appears around the corner with a slipper in one hand and murder in his eyes.

Jeongin and Seungmin skid into view from the kitchen, Hyunjin right behind them, shirtless and wild-haired like he just rolled out of a Renaissance painting. Changbin’s already armed with the legendary frying pan, the one with the dent from Juwon's face almost a year ago.

“MOVE!” 

“I GOT HIM!” Changbin shouts, raising the pan above his head like Thor’s hammer.

Juwon doesn’t even speak. He just turns and runs as six men chase him down the street. You lean against the doorframe, laughing into your hand as the chaos disappears into the distance.

Jisung kisses the top of your head, then leans over to kiss Felix’s too. “Let’s go back to watching Ponyo,” he murmurs. “Or, I watch while you two snooze while those six chase Juwon for as long as they need to.”

Felix smiles softly and threads his fingers through yours. You nod, wrapping an arm around Jisung’s waist. Together, the three of you pad back into the living room, leaving the door open just a little, just in case the guys come back needing water or bandages or to brag about a successful slap.

But for now, your couch waits. The soft buzz of the TV hums in the background. And Jisung? Jisung is exactly where he belongs.

Han Jisung Taglist: @puppymsworld

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @puppymsworld

Proofread by the lovely @hwangjoanna (who has a Squid Game SKZ AU which you should all go and show some love)

Based off this Jilix ask but I took some creative liberties

[randomlonelymusician]

Lacey Games New Transcriptions!

Emails

Email 1 by line:

Concern over Lacey's games character

Hello parents! Today I want to bring attention to this website I found my girl watching: Lacey's girl games.

I thought it was innocent until I saw the mascots. There is

one, Jay, who acts and dresses like a boy. She also throws the

devil's sign constantly [...] which is totally inappropriate

for girls. I can't believe

they'd put a queer in child's website. I am a very concerned

mom because of that. My little Amber started telling me she wanted a skateboard. What's next, wearing those hideous boy caps? Hanging

around boys who will hurt her? Wanting to become a boy? Be careful.

Email 2 by line:

I just saw it. That is not a girl, that is a dʏke. You

character. I posted about it on Facebook.

Everyone agrees its an inappropriate character for kids. by now. It's a dʏke in a

"girls" website. We are getting all the parents to email around, hopefully

knock some sense into the developers…my girl loves this website. I hope they fix it so I can allow her to visit again.

Email 3:

I can definitely agree that a character that says "I'd only be caught dead wearing makeup" in one of her games is not a role model little girls should he having. I don't know why they couldn't just keep Lacey and the other one and get rid of the boygirl thing.. Let us know about updates on sending emails. Maybe also block it in schools until then.

Jay End Screen

Text by line:

She stepped into the empty room at the edge of the universe and

calmly walked toward the single button on the wall as she

had been told by the gods above could delete the existence of anyone

she disliked she thought long and hard of all the ugliest souls she had

ever known she made her decision and her finger met the button without any ceremony

but looking down at her feet it was all red with blood she stood in shock the blood tainted her very being she had thought deletion

to be clean and to start without realizing that death is the only deletion

that exists and there is no death without painful unrelenting grief

and grief stared at her through mirrors forever, from the eyes of

all she has ever thought to delete it was a world catastrophe

___________________________________________________________

Please add to these! This is just a start based on what I can make out!

[toto-the-cactus]

Primarchs + Daughters (2)

Finally finished the damn part two. Been kinda busy here and there with my new job but lo and behold, the one yall asked for. Soon enough, yall find out why it took me a while writing this one for the two main guys I had to add here.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Konrad Curze

A’right, I’ll open this one with the fact we all know that this man shouldn’t even be legally allowed to have children. I’m gonna be real for a hot second and admit that I stared at the screen for HOURS not knowing what to write because any poor little girl that is born from this guy will have the dubious privilege of being the most sheltered and hidden secret the Primarch ever kept close. With all those visions of death and inevitable doom mixed with the sudden power rush that fatherhood gave him, it left in its wake a perfect storm for this lunatic to develop a paranoid and obsessive need (NEED) to keep his daughter safe; something hard to achieve when he already knows the essence of his Legion. His fatalistic nature regarding his own future would suddenly clash violently with the Primarch’s new found protective stance concerning his child. It's almost sad to consider that this poor man GENUINELY wished to avoid becoming the monster his visions showed, but knowing that he’ll be balancing in the thin line of one day hurting his precious girl (or worse than that) it'll put him in the hard decision of having to let go of her eventually. He is no Perturabo, for that matter. In the rare and far away moments of lucidity, I can see Konrad choosing to protect the innocence and life of his child by trusting in the last person ANYONE might expect the Night Hunter would seek help: Vulkan. Honestly this is just plain sad, man.

Sanguinius

This is it! The golden boy, yall! We all know the kind of person Sanguinius is, but add a precious little daughter in the equation and all you get is the perfect example of textbook girl dad. No matter how busy this man is, somehow he’ll squish some playtime with his baby and enjoy every bit of it. Seriously, this guy acting like a dedicated father is worth being in a stockphoto image. His baby girl asks him to play tea party? Some astartes will find their Primarch hunched over, awkwardly holding a comically small cup between his thumb and index while his precious princess pretends to pour more tea for herself. The daughter of Sanguinius doesn't go a single day without knowing that her papa loves her a lot and when the man isn’t around, the Blood Angels Legion are close to keep her company to the point that even she calls them ‘big brothers’. No one is safe when she wants to play dress-up. The single problem I see with Sanguinius when raising his little girl is that he sins of being completely oblivious to the more mortal side of his daughter’s needs. He easily gets so wrapped up in his role of The Perfect Angel that he doesn’t realize his tiny princess has boundaries that are being constantly crossed, but since she feels the need to prove that she can be like her father, endures all those problems and refuses to seek help about anything. It becomes a kind of toxic mix considering how much Sanguinius is loved and adored by others, to the point that his daughter becomes like a coveted gem too by relation, making her need to prove her own ‘perfection’ an unconscious action the older she grows. I’m not even gonna touch with a ten feet pole the “fun fact” called the Red Thirst on this one because, let's be fair, that would require for me to write more than 3 pages with ONLY Sanguinius and his daughter in the spotlight and that’s only assuming his baby girl didn’t inherit it. I specialized in visual arts and marketing, not psychology jfc.

Ferrus Manus

It took me a while but after some investigating and more reading I can safely put this man in between the Papa-tier and ‘tough love’ guys. His practical mentality and belief of the strongest are (oddly enough) healthily separated from his parenting skills. This is one of the few Primarch that can see their daughter as an individual of their own and makes sure to be as present as possible in her life but the loyalty of this man to the Emperor is his own flaw. Not in the case that he’ll choose the Imperium before his little girl, but because it’ll put him in the dreading and guilty notion that he’ll always prioritize his daughter despite his oath to serve for the Great Crusade. Most of his brothers (except maybe Jaghatai and Konrad) just assume or don’t even think about the long term future of their daughters or simply presume that they will become a great part of the Imperium’s well oiled structure. Not exactly their fault since they never grew up with anything resembling normal. On the brighter and wholesome side (whiplash change!), this is a man who finds handmade gifts more meaningful and always makes sure to explain the reason behind them mostly out of the enjoyment of watching his little princess look so amazed at her papa’s skills. More often than not, Ferrus’ belief of the strongest would falter a little as he perceives the true fragile nature of his daughter and, even if she share the resilient blood of a Primarch, that isn’t enough to convince him that she isn’t vulnerable but instead of letting the worry fester, he’ll try to teach the girl the art of fighting. That’s where the ‘tough love’ kind of guy I mentioned comes out to light. He will not spare kind words during those moments of teaching, as he wishes for his princess to prevail any difficulty but he’ll make sure to always end any sort of training with “I love you so much that the idea of one day not being there to protect you, pains me beyond any form” to make sure that his harsh actions have a reason behind. Honestly, it's the kind of father-daughter relationship that possesses so many shades that makes its own drama novel. Good thing that uncle Fulgrim is always there to smooth the hard edges that may come in the future and makes up for the lack of spoiling the little girl deserves. Ferrus is not amused by it. Forgot to mention that the Primarch will be even more motivated to take off the metal of his hands, for he has yet to truly feel the warm and soft flesh of his baby’s hand. It's the one feeling he keeps missing and craves so much.

Angron

Oh man, another of the hard ones. Okay, if I managed with Konrad, I can tackle this bitch too. You need to comprehend that we are talking about a guy that has been so intimate with the meaning of pain that it's amazing he’ll be capable of ranging through other emotions that don’t involve fury into that combo too. That being said, this whole shitshow of being the father of a young girl can only be described as sad AND tragic. First off, Angron’s daughter wouldn’t even be allowed to leave her chambers at The Conqueror for obvious safety reasons and having her stay on Terra can’t be an option too, as Angron would rather be death than leave in a silver plate this one single pittance of good he helped to create under the light of the Emperor. That being said, any little girl born from Angron would be terribly isolated and one can’t even blame the Primarch for that as he, despite his disposition, finds his daughter as a genuine reflection of what he could never ever dream to have or be. That sometimes results in him feeling short and spontaneous moments of anger from the impotence of not being able to be close to his daughter, let alone console her with anything resembling compassion. This is a man that is horribly aware that he’s away from one sharp stab of the Nails to his brain to end up killing his little girl in one single swat of his hand. The moments of anything resembling fatherly love are few and very tense, for Angron has to constantly be focused on not letting the pain control his actions and that always looks as if he’s dismissing his child’s love language or actions. What else can I say that most people don’t know already? This is just a sad story waiting to end in tragedy and had it not been for how Sanguinius ended during the heresy, I can see The Great Angel taking Angron’s daughter under his care as the only consolation and promise to his corrupted brother before his demise. After becoming a Daemon Prince, Angron’s only genuine and foggy memory of his little girl is her crying while calling him with heavy despair. Goddamn I almost tear up with this one.

Roboute Guilliman

Look at my big nerd! One of the few guys that actually is humble enough to feel more human than any of his brothers… sometimes. I gotta say it, Roboute has the vibe of what happens when someone incredibly autistic suddenly becomes a parent; expect lots of books to try and be prepared for what entails to take care of a mortal baby. He’ll have a wholeass strict routine of activities and diets that you AND the baby must follow to ensure both of your health along with “fun facts” regarding a toddler’s development that half of the time lack the keyword ‘fun’ in there. Honestly, Euten will be a BLESSING sent, for she’ll be the one railing back the most extreme attempts of her adoptive son to try and raise his little princess like she was just another task of paperwork. Over all his quirks, the Primarch of the Ultramarines is absolutely trying his hardest to be a good father just as the one that raised him, but this is a man that half of the time ends up clumsily trying to spend time with his little girl only for it to backfire as he simply doesn’t understand how to entertain his daughter. Good thing the child will simply be happy to spend time with her papa despite his weird personality. More often than not, some of the astartes will see the young lady at her father’s chambers in a little booster chair beside him, doodling on some papers to pretend that she’s a big girl helping her papa with his very important job. It's probably the most adorable sight anyone can ever get the chance to see. Just like most of his brothers, Roboute isn’t that good at expressing his love towards his daughter with words, so he simply let his little princess be on his lap and hug her as if it will be the last time.

Mortarion

I’ve written enough of this man being a father that you all can get a wild idea of how he will be when confronted with parenthood. Even if he believes himself to be undeserving of anything resembling happiness thanks to his perception of being nothing but a tool of the Emperor, this guy will only need to see his precious little flower and feel like everything in the world can be forgotten, including his ever festering negative emotions. His daughter is the single light of love that he selfilish believes is his right after such torturous upbringing although that mentality rarely affects his princess, as he simply shows nothing but care and tenderness towards her. He may be a nervous trainwreck, fully aware that his Legion and himself aren’t exactly safe-hazardous, but that never has stopped him from doing his utmost best to protect the little girl from anything that may hurt her. Like most of his traitorous brothers, Mortarion would not hesitate to bring entire worlds into devastation if it meant that his family can be safe, even if that’ll end up making a terrible gap to grow between him and those he loves. It's quite terrible and sad to know that, unlike Fulgrim or Angron, Mortarion was the closest to his daughter and showered her with as much genuine love as he could in an attempt to avoid being anything like his supposed father (adopted or creator equally), so when he turned into a Daemon Prince, the festering and rotting resentment that consumes him sometimes simmers down when he remembers the laugh of joy his little princess often released when he would carry her up in his arms. Oh yes, some good ol’ gut-wrenching emotional damage, teehee.

I will not apologize for being a mean bitch by writing sad shit. XOXO

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I feel like House would want to be at every pre-natal appointment. He wants to make sure you and the baby are all taken care of. Now, when you have a sonogram and the doctor finds not one baby heartbeat but two? Please give him a moment to be slack jawed.

A/n: Ahhhh I loove all this dad!House asks

It was one of those rare mornings where the sun was shining brightly through the windows of their apartment, casting a soft glow on the furniture as House adjusted his coat, trying not to look too impatient. He wasn’t exactly the picture of excitement about these pre-natal appointments, but he was there—every single one. He’d started attending every visit, without fail, whether it was for a simple check-up or for the dreaded blood tests. And it wasn’t just for you—he didn’t want to miss a single moment of what was happening with the baby.

You had been all smiles on their way to the clinic, and even though House could see the subtle exhaustion in your eyes—morning sickness, hormones, and everything else weighing heavily on you—you seemed genuinely excited. Maybe it was the change of scenery or the distraction from everything else, but your enthusiasm was infectious.

They entered the ultrasound room, and as usual, the technician guided you to the examination table and draped a cloth over your stomach. House stood beside you, his arms crossed, trying to act nonchalant, but internally, he was a tangle of nerves. He hadn’t really talked about it, but he’d been worried. About the pregnancy, about the baby, about everything—and he hated that he couldn’t fix everything for you. He hated feeling like he was standing on the sidelines. He didn't want to screw this up, doubts swirling in his mind.

You squeezed his hand as the technician applied the cold gel to your stomach a shiver rushing up your spine, and he was immediately reminded of how much he cared for you. That protective instinct had only grown as the weeks had passed. He kept his gaze firmly on you, trying to keep his mind focused as the technician set up the machine.

“Alright, here we go,” the technician said cheerfully, positioning the wand on your stomach and beginning to move it around.

The screen in front of you both flickered to life, the usual black and white images appearing in a chaotic swirl of shapes and shadows. House couldn’t decipher it all, but he didn’t have to. He knew enough to understand the images of the baby’s developing form.

The technician said nothing at first, just moved the wand a little more, adjusting the angle, and House leaned forward slightly, watching the screen intently. He was still adjusting to this whole “fatherhood” thing, but seeing his baby on the screen was real—the little flicker of a heartbeat, the tiny, fluid movements, all starting to make it seem less like an abstract concept and more like his child.

Finally, the technician paused, her hand hovering over the controls as she studied the screen turning to you both with a smile.

“Well, looks like we’ve got a surprise here.”

House’s brow furrowed, and he glanced between the technician and the screen. He didn’t like the sound of that. Was something wrong? His stomach tightened, and the sudden concern was palpable.The thought of anything being wrong with you made him ill.

The technician glanced at him, then back to the screen, her voice upbeat. “Let me adjust this a bit.”

You looked at him, your brow raised, as the technician moved the wand again a shiver rushed down your spine still not used to the cold jell, this time with a little more deliberation. House swallowed hard, trying to focus. He was pretty sure his heart was beating a little faster now.

And then, it happened.

The sound—a soft, rapid thump-thump, thump-thump—came through the speakers, a steady beat, unmistakable. But then there was another beat, just as loud, just as strong, following the first one.

Two heartbeats.

House’s jaw went slack. His body froze, his mind scrambling for what that could mean. His eyes darted from the screen to the technician and then to you. His heart skipped a beat, the sudden wave of shock and realization hitting him harder than anything else.

Two heartbeats.

The technician looked at him, your expression warm. “Looks like you’re going to be a father twice over. Congratulations—twins.”

Hearing the news, your expression held a mix of disbelief and joy.

He couldn’t say anything. He was just… there. Two heartbeats. His brain was trying to catch up, but it wasn’t happening fast enough.

He stared at the screen, blinking a few times, before turning back to you. You were looking at him, your eyes filled with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, and he could see the hint of a smile tugging at your lips. House wondered if your heart was racing as much as his.

His mouth was dry. He opened it, but no words came out. He tried again, but all he could manage was a weak, breathless “Twins?”

You nodded slowly, your eyes never leaving him. “Looks like it.” A small smile slowly formed on your lips

House looked at the screen again, then back at you, his mind still reeling. Twins.

His heart was racing now, though not from panic. For the first time, it was just a rush of pure emotion—this overwhelming realization of how much he cared, how much he wanted this, wanted them, no matter how crazy it all was.

And then, without thinking, he turned to you and blurted out, “I can’t even put together a crib for one. How the hell am I supposed to do two?” God he already knew how that mess would go.

You laughed, your hand finding his again giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Guess we’ll figure it out together.”

The tension in his chest eased, but his hands were still trembling, his mind spinning with the news. Twins. Two little lives, growing inside of you. A future a future with you, with his children, a future that was going to change in ways he couldn’t yet understand.

He was going to be a father. And now, more than ever, he realized that he didn’t just want this. He needed this.

He could feel the tears forming in his eyes the man swearing it was just dust but holding the sonogram picture in his hands made it all to real

And he couldn’t wait to meet them.

[archivedblog16]

If you asked me during the hazbin hotel pilot era who my favorite character was, it be Alastor 100%. He unironically stole the show with his mystery (if the pilot didn’t have Vaggie lore dump unnecessary I would’ve enjoyed a bit more), personality, voice, charisma, and heck even his design especially his consistent smile intrigued me. Even the way he interacted with the entire cast made me excited.

So what do I think of Alastor now? Alastor to me is a loser, unironically an attention whore in terms of screen time and merch, an egotistical, petty person, and a man child edgelord. He lost most of his mystery and charisma throughout the show (though I will admit I am interested in his backstory but I won’t be surprised if he, himself has daddy issues. And, I did find some of his jokes funny).

The pilot portrayed Alastor as this powerful overlord who didn’t care about his status which made him so unique. He wasn’t gloating about how he’s the radio demon about to end your fucking life. Alastor in the pilot was subtle. At the snap of his fingers he destroys Sir Pentious with no hesitation and no exchange of words. Meanwhile, Alastor in the show has to blab and go this tangent of how sloppy, slow, and unprofessional Adam is only to get his ass handed to him.

Alastor in the show frequently mentions his status and gets pissy when most don’t care that he’s back or straight up not recognize him. Meanwhile, in the pilot you will notice that it’s the opposite, Charlie (the princess of Hell) and Vaggie are freaking out that Alastor is here at their door. It truly shows much power and control presents in the pilot without even trying.

The thing that disappointed me the most was his lack of interaction with the main hazbin squad. It was the driving point of why I was excited for Alastor and how his involvement was going to shake up the hotel for better or worse. Only to find out He barely interacts with them and I’m supposed to “care” when the most of cast members hug and get excited that he is alive in episode 8.

Speaking of the hotel, he barely contributes much regarding the hotel and fucks around. Like I was expecting him to at least help Charlie and Vaggie brainstorm activities for the sinners to do or even take control in his own of how he would handle Angel dust and Sir Pentious. Heck or even go outside with Charlie and Vaggie to promote the hotel to other sinners via singing and cause some drama/mischief along the way. Specifically talking about the hotel, the only things he did was do the commercial, fix the walls, and protects the hotel twice. But That’s it.

As I mentioned earlier, Alastor is an attention whore in terms of stealing the spotlight in the actual show and being in most episodes, which may be good for Alastor fans. They got the full course meal but Vivziepop needs to focus on other undeveloped main characters who desperately need the attention and development. Which why Alastor should be used sparingly, this would also make the audience more interested with him and creates more mystery.

For example: Episode 5, Dad Beat Dad: you would think the episode would focus on Charlie and Lucifer’s relationship which it does for a small portion but we also gotta have Alastor in there so he could drop the biggest F bomb to Lucifer to show that he means business and hatessss him. We also gotta dedicate a 2:30 minute song duet between the two men having a pissing contest, along with our home girl Mimzy being a plot device/prop for Alastor in order to HYPE HIM UP and tell his origins. Because Alastor soooo mysterious and such a hunkkkk. Oh yeah, Charlie is there I guess…

Also, Alastor’s smile in the show bothers me personally, more specifically the way it’s drawn. It’s to jaded and sharp, so it’s pretty obvious to tell how he feels and emotions Alastor goes through. Meanwhile, in the pilot his smile and energy is so goofy and I miss that. That really added to mystery because not only keeps you on your toes but you don’t know what’s on his mind for the most part or his long term goal.

This is by far my longest post and I wanted to get this off my chest regarding Alastor. 😭

[hazbin-writings-and-musings]

Lucifer Morningstar x Pregnant!Reader Headcanons Part 2

I had a blast writing part 1, so here's some more headcanons of reader progressing through their pregnancy!

Warnings: Pregnancy Mention, Implied Smut

- He doesn't have a pregnancy kink per say, but... seeing you pregnant with his child does things to him that he can't even begin to put into words. He's always found you beyond gorgeous, of course, it's just that now it borders on literal worship. Said worship will be expressed quite physically on a daily basis; he'll slide his hands over your middle, leave trails of kisses up and down your body, and catch himself staring multiple times even before the two of you get out of bed each morning. He can't even really believe that you've somehow managed to get more beautiful, but he'll consistently try to describe the depths of his devotion in song, gifts, and countless hours spent adoring your presence.

- He'll want to start preparing for all baby related events as soon as possible, in part because the arrival of another heir is going to be quite the occasion, but he also just wants everything to go perfectly. The official announcement will come with multiple days of celebration across Hell, including a massive party in the castle itself, and each event that follows will somehow manage to top the last. You'll get enough gifts to fill up multiple rooms, and so many cards with well wishes you could fill up an entire library, but Lucifer expects nothing less. Every ounce of his considerable power is dedicated to making sure you get the best of everything. This dedication also applies to the little things the two of you do together, like decorating the baby's room. He'll insist on hand crafting the furniture, the toys, and every decoration with you directing at his side, and he'll use the most magical materials at his disposal. Hand painting the walls with stardust is not out of the question.

- Things have changed a lot since Charlie was born, and he was previously unaware of the many technological advancements now available for expecting couples, specifically ultrasounds. He's amazed and wants to attend every appointment even more at the prospect of actually seeing your child before they're born. Of course, upon beholding the lopsided blob on the screen for your first check up, he's far more overwhelmed than he could have ever imagined. He can see little hooves and everything! The doctor doesn't quite know what to make of the King near to weeping at the sight of a being no larger than a peanut, but you take it all in stride. Once he finds out that pictures can be taken of the scans, he requests as many as he can carry, and his pockets are bursting with photos of Charlie and her not-yet-born sibling. He'll show them to everyone that does and doesn't ask.

- While he can be overly protective and his efforts to provide for you are more akin to spoiling, he's not at all without cause in doing so; carrying a child of Lucifer is no easy task. As your body becomes the epicenter for a developing power beyond imagination, you'll need him by your side with increasing frequency, especially once the baby's uncontrolled magic starts surging and affecting your reality. You'll be unharmed, but it's still quite nice to have Archangel level powers around to get things back to normal once you start inexplicably walking up the walls, speaking in dead languages or levitating random items with a glance. He takes it all in stride with humorous stories about how Charlie did the same before her arrival, though your cravings for increasingly esoteric rare foods do have him apologizing for the inconveniences of angelic biology, as even he needs a few days to acquire the rarer items your body demands.

- As delighted as he is to have another child, he can't help but be haunted by doubts of all he's done wrong as a father so far. No matter how much of it was out of his control, he fears everything that went wrong will happen again, and that he might just be gaining a second child to fail. It's only through your loving reassurance that he retains some faith in himself, and dares to believe he'll be a halfway decent dad to two children.

[crustyfloor]

lowkey becoming a Till hater after this. I hte that guy (Regretted writing this 2 seconds later)

It was established earlier in the series that some of the cast do have parents, some know their parents or remember their face, some don't, I feel like it was important to us to know this fact about Till, because this comic answers more questions about him than I had thought, such as where his sense of humanity originates from entirely.

Starting the comic off with "Lo has always wondered ever since the creation was born whether or not providers also felt the same emotions that they were feeling towards the creation" shows more about the environment of Alien stage than I initially thought, Lo seems to love Till more than any "parental figure" I've seen in alien stage, its real, its affectionate, but Alien stage is so dystopian and detached from our society that Humans have no real solid attachment to morality, social code, etc. Aliens could never relate to humans either, so how can they enforce what they don't understand? This leaves Humans to figure it out on their own because no matter what, they'll still be human and feel inexplicable emotions. Love is one of these major emotions that get confused. and loving someone is normal, but I can imagine "Providers" can't afford to be as attached to their "Creations" as Lo was, they couldn't help forming a special bond with Till. But I love that it's immediately established that Lo loved Till as much as they could, and he wasn't brought into the world without care and familial love.

And it's also made clear that Till's passion for art and music was apparent from the jump.. even as a child, he composed his own song and sang it to his mother, he started showing skill and talent at a young age, he was as much of a prodigy as he's always been said to have been, but Lo's expression upon realizing that is so unmistakably afraid. Lo knew more than anyone in that situation how risky it would be letting Till go on because singing, they were more than familiar with the environment of Alien stage, the elaborate display of talent and entertainment on the big screens, the inauthentic excitement of the performers, Till was almost just like them, and Lo knew that Alien stage was where innocent children like him go to be chewed and spat out by Segyein until they had their fill and moved on to the next talent, Lo feared that fate all the same, humans like them didn't have the right to just sing when they want however loud they want, their voices didn't belong to them. Not anymore, but Till had made it into something of his own, he was too naive to know the truth.

They knew the risk, as a survivor, Lo knew what life, what horrors Till would be subjected to if this was ever found out by the aliens who would only use it to hurt and market him, to put him through a grueling cycle of pain until he too met his end on that stage. Lo's ear notch is a nod to their experience, and they were completely right. But as a mother, they didn't even want to take that innocence away from Till, not when his eyes sparked so brightly and pitifully.

In relationships like these in Alien stage, I always see that there is a choice to make between breaking making reality clear or reveling in obliviousness, it happens with Ivan and Sua, Sua and Mizi, Till and Mizi, etc etc. Something has to give and take.

Sua's sister is my favorite example of this kind of exchange, she told Sua bluntly that she would be doomed on that stage as she is now, that she was pitiful, if only to ensure her safety in some twisted, caring way, it effected Sua a lot as a child, living with such deep seated trauma caused Sua to develop an obsession with safety and security based on the fear her sister instilled in her so deeply, to find that warmth in Mizi, Sua was content living in delusion until she had to face it, continuing the cycle.

Lo made the decision to let Till remain oblivious, they, too, found comfort in such childish carefreeness. Like they had hope, they let Till keep singing despite their unease. They cared so deeply about Till enough to prioritize him being himself rather than making him suppress his spirit. The darkness that shadows over Lo's perspective in contrast to the light that makes Till's shines behind Till shows the difference between living in fear--delusion and living freely, oblivious.

The cruelty of their situation was overshadowed by love for a moment, Lo's one wish for their son-- that he would grow up knowing what it's like to love and be loved and chase after the feeling--if only in his heart he would remember how much they tried to show him that love and actively seek it after they're gone, or give it to someone else. They wanted to teach him to be himself through encouraging his love for music.

I don't believe they failed at all. Till was fully aware of how much he meant to his mother, it was so obvious. He loved making them proud, and making them smile and sing with him every time he tried to replicate those 'good cries', Till loved Lo back equally, and as he grew up he never stopped loving.

One thing about Lo's wish was that they hoped Till would never grow up alone. Till's separation from his mother must have had more of an impact on him than we could ever realize from his perspective, even if we never hear about it again, even if he's forgotten about it, suppressed it, it's a trauma that has deeply plagued his subconscious. He lives with that wariness for the rest of his life.

It was Till's fear that stemmed from the pain and regret of losing his mother that caused him to avoid attachments, emotionally suppressing himself, and he keeps his heart behind restrictive chains because he can never let that vulnerability be used against him again, it explains a lot about his relationship with his friends, how he percieves his own relationship with them after going so long not addressing his feelings. He craves connections but fear, and being in the middle of confusion makes him freeze in place and run back to old habits. Jumping to feelings he can easily rationalize, hatred, anger--or avoiding conflict all together.

Even after Lo and Till were separated, Till did not grow up without love, or without the feeling of loving, even though he was alone in his own self-made bubble distanced from his peers, there is a difference between isolation and loneliness, in his case, he remained distant even with his closest friends, or the girl he loved more than anything, as a way to protect himself. But he was never left alone with 4nakt beside him.

When Till can only realize he's loved when he can recognize it and see it for himself, thats what makes the comic being focused on the whole group rather than just Mizi or Ivan interesting, and telling about his character. It drives home the fact that Till was also a little kid who craved connection just like the others, he expects to be left to himself, and his friends seek him out naturally. He valued and loved all of his friends. rather than a specific person like Sua focuses on Mizi and Ivan focuses on Till this shows that everyone who stayed with Till had an importance to him

(Even Sua looks somewhat fond...)

Till grew up knowing what it was like to be cared about and loved it, sought it out, and inherited that touch from his caretaker, What Till gained from his relationship with his mother shows in the way he treats Mizi, Ivan, even Sua. Mizi's kindness and care were a familiarity, something that instantly attracted him to her, it likely reminded him of his mother in a way and he subtly sought out her attention for that very feeling of love and feeling cared for.

With Ivan, he couldn't help caring about him in little ways, it was only natural, if only because it was part of Till's nature to nurture, letting Ivan be himself around him as a parallel to the way his mother encouraged him to be loud about his interests. And Sua, even if they weren't close at all, Sua was an acquaintance to him, hell even the way he treats a little broken flower with just as much compassion shows us how much Lo impacted Till's growth

To the Segyein, Humans are nothing more than a product, to those who disobey, they are punished, to those who comply, living to sing on stage and feed the aliens is their "prize" for living through it all. Their separation was something Lo saw as a their punishment for having their own little rebellion in making music for themselves, loving it, making it into something the aliens couldn't use against them, it was their own little fun, and they could do it freely. It was an inevitable consequence that they could have prevented as Till's caretaker

In the end, Lo probably never lived to see her son grow up, but they prayed for Till's pursuit of happiness. The traces of them, the evidence of their care that they tried to deeply thread into Till's person stayed with him forever, exactly what kind of trace Lo had left on him...they taught him how to love and be loved, they let him love art, they showed him what living freely with no restraints was like, that's the kind of life he fights for even after he's trapped in this system. her impact keeps him kind-hearted and fighting. It keeps him human despite all of the pain he was burdened with as he grows up

And even when his art is his pain, the creation of art and music reminds him of why he lives, what he lives for, it gives him a vague sense of hope even if for a moment, it brings him that same joy he had when he was a child

"Exactly what kind of trace"

The traces you leave behind is what's important to a human, every human is born to die, what matters most is how you live your life, what impact and memory you leave behind, I love Lo's character, even if we have little context around her background, because she knew that fact and wanted nothing more than to leave a meaningful impact on Till, if they were to one day die they wanted to leave him with a trace of them, a message he would never let go of. and that sentiment became deeply intertwined in his being. Till's emotions, his love, makes him the character he is.

The title of the comic expresses this too. "evidence" or "traces"--this comic is evidence of Lo's impact, evidence that Till was loved and knew how to love in return, Till had relationships. His entire existence was the product of love, it's evidence that he was alive and had humanity, that's what makes this comic even more tragic. It's evidence that he was human at all when we can forget that in the midst of the chaos of all of their lives. Innocence where the aliens don't bother to acknowledge. Till isn't a weapon, or a product. And this perspective of him through his mother's eyes reflects that.

The humanity that he holds within himself even after losing family connects him to more people who prove to care for him as deeply as he cares for them. Till was lonely but never alone with the love he had around him, they always come back, the relationships around him that his mother wished he would have so that he would never sink into a lonely abyss, only a boy and his song, and on that wall is a drawing that draws a picture of a life he's always wanted, a real heavenly garden with real trees and a real sky, and the drawing includes the four of them together, because he had always envisioned a life worth living, free, with all of his friends by his side.

The translation is done by @/WhatfaFruit

[dawndelion-winery]

I Met You Once, I Loved You Twice

Celebrity au! Their persona, and then their true self, it seems like you were meant to love them regardless

Ft. Childe, Furina, Kaveh, Scaramouche (Wanderer), Wriothesley

[Idol! Childe, Actress! Furina, Racer! Kaveh, Artist! Scaramouche, Athlete! Wriothesley]

Childe:

You knew him before the fame, before the glitz and glamour; when he was just Ajax

And as horribly sappy as it sounds, you've loved him since day 1

Falling in love with Ajax was like slipping on ice while you're hiking up a snowy mountain

You get a little too caught up in the scenery, a tad bit too comfortable being around him

And suddenly, you fail to notice the patch of ice and slip, tumbling down the cliffside, your affection for him snowballing into something greater

And so you support him through his dreams of becoming an idol, writing to him while he's a trainee, making care packages for him

Anything for your Ajax

And when he finally debuts...

Oh boy, all the fans calling themselves his partner? They could dream on

You called dibs on him before any of them even set eyes on him

Besides, how could they even fall for someone just from watching them perform?

That was answered for you the first time Ajax excitedly insisted you watch him in the MV

You're not exactly proud of your reactions to seeing him come up on screen, but he seemed happy enough about it

Falling in love with the idol Childe was like drowning

Holding your breath, choking and flailing

It's dizzying until you finally succumb, which doesn't take long at all

And once he's converted you into a fan?

He's such a little shit, whipping out the idol persona for a smidge of free fanservice just to get you flustered at the most random times

And he's back to your sweet old Ajax in seconds too, acting like nothing's amiss

Furina:

The world's greatest actress finds that the world is her stage

Ever perfect, ever entertaining, her splendour is unparalleled

It was impossible not to adore such craft, and you easily fell in love with her acting just as one would fall asleep, gently and blissfully without even realising

Immersing yourself in her works, you develop a sort of fanaticism, delving deeper to find her interviews

She's beautiful whether or not she's filming, you find

So much so that you can't help but wonder how much of it is true

And so when you do, by some trick of fate, meet her, you feel compelled to ask

It's a dark, foggy evening, and you're taking a brisk walk along the forest

Who would've thought you'd bump into her then?

And so you strike up conversation, eager to interact with your favourite actress

And when you broach the topic of her facade, you notice she gets a tad bit defensive

So you apologise and back off, meaning well, hoping to see her again

And you do: these late walks become a regular thing, and slowly, you start to know her for who she really was

It's almost like meeting her for the first time all over again, and it very well may have been if you don't count the act as meeting her

Falling for Furina, your friend, was like taking an ice bath

Frigidity seized you almost instantly, and yet, as you stayed longer, the more pleasant it felt, almost soothing in a sharp sort of way

Kaveh:

Not just anyone could race in what was known to be the pinnacle of motorsports

And Kaveh? He was brilliant, the light of Ksharewar, the face of the team

And frankly, a very charming face

Often regarded as one of the prettiest on the grid (if not the prettiest)

He's really raking in the viewers

Imagine people seeing *1* edit of him getting out his his car post race and suddenly they're invested in races

Ofc being a new fan, the gatekeeping you have to put up with is ridiculous

"I bet your favourite driver is Kaveh because he's handsome."

As if he's not one of the most talented to ever grace us with his presence?

He gets so involved with the car's engineering honestly he should just build the car himself too atp

He is speed on the track

And falling for the light of Ksharewar through the television screen is an adrenaline rush in and of itself

So bumping into him in real life was just breathtaking

You sincerely hoped you didn't come off as some crazed fanatic with the way you rambled on about how much you loved seeing the way he pushed the car to its limits and everything

Overall it was a great once in a lifetime experience and you planned to treasure it

Until it was just a once in a lifetime thing and you seemed to bump into him a fair bit ("Hey aren't you that fan that completely went off about the car that time?")

Once you'd started talking to him more frequently, the rush of meeting him started to fade into less of a frenzy, and more of a bubbling excitement

Falling in love with Kaveh was like taking a breath of fresh air and letting the chilly breeze fill your lungs, a crisp clarity creeping through your senses

But from the faint flush of pink on his cheeks, perhaps the opposite was the case on his end

Scaramouche(Wanderer):

You've heard of artists with depression, now what about artists with borderline personality disorder?

The first time you'd met him, you didn't even know it was him

You'd been at an art gallery admiring the works signed off by Kunikuzushi when a stranger stood beside you

"You've been staring at this sculpture for a pretty long time."

"I like it. I don't think I've ever felt such yearning embedded in stone."

The stranger didn't respond, but nodded in acknowledgement and continued to stand beside you

Falling for Kunikuzushi was like falling in love with shadows

It was no more than a feeling, a yearning, a desperation much like what he portrays in his works

Everything you knew about him seemed to drown in sorrow, loneliness, and self destruction, yet having never met him, you were sure this was only one small aspect of his being

Which left you ever curious

Curiouser still was that same stranger with the odd navy blue hair who always seemed to happen to bump into you at these exhibitions

Without fail, he'd prompt you to speak, as though digging for your thoughts on each piece

Not that it bothered you, the stranger felt familiar, and had become a welcome face

Warm was his presence and gentle was his gaze, yet a detached coldness kept you from him

He was beautiful, you noted, like moonlight, with all it melancholic splendour and grace, like the paintings and sculptures you loved so dearly

And so you found yourself falling for a beguiling stranger whose name you knew not

You loved him like the sea loves the shore, always reaching for him, but pulling back in uncertainty

"You're oddly silent today," he notes.

"I was thinking of how much this piece reminds me of us. It's weird, isn't it? How I'm seeing things, drawing links to some stranger."

"Not really. I made it like that for you. We don't have to be strangers."

Wriothesley:

Baseball player Wriothesley who has his fans swooning at his charming grin and chuckle

A real heart stopper (he could beat me with his bat)

Fans adore him regardless of whether they're simps (they are) because he's good at his job

The only people who hate him are fans of the opposing team

The way his arms flex with every swing, in this essay I will-

He's built like a tank and plays like one too

So obviously you'd expect him to be a pretty confident kind of guy

And he is

He's a charmer, a smooth talker, and painfully level headed

So why was this beefy cannon suddenly bashful over your incessant praise?

Just look at him, which of his fans haven't fallen completely smitten?

Falling for the star player was like stepping into a big city for the first time, and being wowed and blinded by the lights and massive skyscrapers

But Wriothesley was a soft person at heart

And oh so very vulnerable to affection

For every compliment you uttered, he'd readily deflect it, but when they just didn't end?

Boy was he at a loss

He did end up treating you to coffee, so that was nice

But he was very obviously avoiding your gaze which he deemed to raw for him to meet

Yet it is that exact raw adoration that he can't quite dismiss

He knows how superficial fawning can be, yet there's an undeniable gratification when it comes from you

So he keeps you at arm's length, letting you in ever so slightly, but never too close despite not pushing you away

Falling in love with Wriothesley was like planting a seed and nurturing it as it grows

The germination takes place out of sight, the results unnoticeable until it finally sprouts as a fragile sapling

Discouraging as it may be, with continued work, it does get easier

And when he's secure enough to trust you entirely...he promised to return all your efforts tenfold

Taglist: @ryuryuryuyurboat @yinyinggie @mx-kamisato @chaosinanutshell @haliyarobin @irethepotato @boundedbyfate @favonius-captain @aqui-soba @tiredsleep @sadlonelybagel @mastering-procrastinating

[microwavesaferat]

No one in Gotham is human.

It's something in the water, it's in the air, it's in the soil. It's rooted deeply into the soul of Gotham, a distinct sense of wrongness that permeates the streets; Gotham has marked every one of her children.

With every chemical that has been dumped in the sewers, every gas attack, every chemical lab explosion, the people of Gotham grow more and more metahuman. Most of the time it's subtle, a greater constitution, thicker skin, higher pain tolerance. You need these things to manage in a place like this and Gotham will do anything to keep her children. Other times, the mark will distort and corrupt those who have wronged Her. The bird-like man who dumps his trash (living or dead) into her bays develops a distinct waddle, unable to laugh without squawking. The man who clouds her air with cloying, heavy fear, that same fear redoubles on him, constantly seeing the smallest movements in the corners of his burlap-covered eyes.

Gotham gives her greatest blessings to her protectors, the knights of the dark, her precious pet birds.

For the eldest bird, who flipped through her skies with a light and joy sorely needed, she let him bend. While yes, he was always a soaring acrobat, now his muscles were elastic and his bones rubber, contorting and molding to his will. He would never notice the mark, but Gotham would know he was hers.

The bird with the clipped wings, girl who was shot down in her prime. She had lost so much and still kept pushing, striving for her father's and mentor's dream to improve the streets of the city. What better gift than the bird's-eye view she could no longer have? While the woman behind the screen may seem omniscient, she is not. That comes from a mix of her own skill and the slight sense in the back of her head of where to look, what to do, where to go. Call it a hunch, but she will always be there at the right place, at the right time.

The second, the twice born, the one that returned to her, she gave her strength. The strength of the underdogs, the looked-down upon, the rejects. He would always find that strength to defend the defenceless, to aid the needy. He chalked it up to the effects of the Pit, but Gotham knew. Gotham gave him the strength she couldn't when he left her reach, in a warehouse, so far from her watchful gaze.

For the inquisitive one, what to give? He had deduced the city's greatest mystery off of his own merit, he had taken his place as a protector, not been handed it. He was stubborn, and committed, Gotham needn't give him any mark. Until, with allies dwindling and hope fading, with his title taken and his family lost, Gotham gifted him that stubbornness he once had. There would only be one problem who couldn't solve, one task that, once he set his mind to it, he would not complete; the source of his determination, what drives him to work through till dawn, to not rest until his job is down.

Then came the blonde one, who was cheeky, and cunning, and oh so determined. The mark that was left was one of laughter, of a smile in the face of anguish, a joke in times of war. She would be a beacon of hope, of the joy to come in her wake. Regardless of what happened around her, she would always be able to crack a smile, such is the optimism that Gotham granted her.

Then came the youngest, the violent child with eyes far older than himself. He was often misunderstood by those around him, he himself would be understanding. He would always know what someone needs, and, more specifically, what the voiceless would need. Gotham did not anticipate that this mark be utilised for his growing farm, apparently the 'voiceless' extends to those who moo or bark, but she was happy regardless. Her children would always surprise, but never disappoint.

Then came another girl, a silent, skilled, deadly girl, with a capacity for great pain, but a will for something better. The child was trained beyond what Gotham could gift her. So Gotham gave her comfort: the ability to hide. she would always be able to disappear into the shadows when needed, a safety so rarely granted to her before.

She will admit that she was not as subtle with her final gift, but that did not matter. While her dark nights defended her people and her streets in shadow, this new bird was a shining light to the public, protecting her people as the sun shone. It was only fair that he shine just as brightly then.

Yes, Gotham loved her children. Regardless of what people thought, she was not a malicious city, and would do her best to protect her own. But who could forget her favourite? Her crusader defending her honor every night, her knight in black armour. To him she gave the greatest gift she could, his birds.

[little-one-eyed-monsters]

Film fact (from a media nerd) part 2- Why actors like Top Form's Johnny fall in love with their co-stars on set

Part 1 here.

Method Acting is deemed by many experts (including the Screen Actors Guild of America) as the most prestigious and difficult acting technique in the profession. It takes years to master, and just as long to shake the after-effects off. Those who perfect the craft enjoy a long and decorated career, but they usually undergo intense mentorship and training for this technique.

We see this in Top Form's main character, Akin. The moment we were introduced to him, we learn that Akin is not just famous; he's a prestige actor. Prestige actors are highly respected for their artistic integrity, and are recognized for their extensive acting portfolio. Akin is classically-trained in the Alba Acting Method by his grandmother (herself a beloved, multi-awarded theater actress), and was working as a child actor long before he received his first breakout role as a full fledged star. Prior to the arrival of his professional rival Jin (and Johnny, in some capacity), Akin had a decade-long foothold in the industry. But best of all, Akin is experienced enough to separate whatever he's feeling from his characters' projections. We see that he still acts wonderfully on stage even though he's going through a breakup with Jin, and can establish onscreen chemistry with anyone, even people who irritate him.

So, what happens when a rookie attempts to do Method Acting without proper training and mentorship? Well, they suffer the after-effects of the technique: sham emotions.

They become a Johnny.

An assaulter? A rapist? A manipulative tool? In this context, no. Just a bad actor.

In the industry, sham emotions go by many names, but they usually pertain to a similar phenomenon. These refer to unexpected by-products of a characters' thoughts and emotions, that some actors mistake as their own. You see, some kinds of method acting demand so much emotional imbibing that actors even forget their own personality and behavior, and mistakenly believe that they are the same as their character.

We see this from Jin in Ep 1, who, after being given a crash course on the Alba Method by Akin so he can cry on camera, imbibed too hard and developed a sham emotion: arousal (see part 1). This in turn, developed into obssession, and finally, actual attraction.

But what about Johnny? He never received Akin's crash course, just his criticism. Why is he attracted to Akin?

(Well, aside from the fact that Akin, and actual Thai actor Boom Raweewit, is drop-dead gorgeous, a genuine talent, and a wonderful human being).

It's quite obvious in the series that Johnny practices a different acting technique from both Akin and Jin. He's trying (and failing) to execute the most EXTREME kind of Method Acting: Dissociation

Dissociation refers to an acting method where the actor completely empties himself of all personal thoughts, personality and emotions, in order to become the literal embodiment of their character. They do not "break character" even when the director yells cut at the end of the day-- they will continue to be their character for the whole duration of the project.

Ideally, Dissociation ends once the project is finished and the actor moves on to another character. The actors who do this often win awards for such convincing performances, BUT they usually have a hard time distancing themselves because of the physical and psychological impact of their transformation. They develop weird quirks, or find it difficult to move on from emotional scenes like crying or confrontations.

Famous Hollywood actors who practice Dissociation (based on interviews):

Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Lady Gaga, Meryll Streep

Oh Lord, here's where it gets dicey- Famous Thai BL actors who practice Dissociation (based on how they personally describe their performance, and some bts):

Mew Suppasit and Gulf Kanawut

Boss Chaikamon and Noeul Nuttarat

For this, I absolutely blame Mame Orawan and her team. They're demanding that these actors disappear so much into these characters that both Mew and Boss are seen in behind-the-scenes videos unable to stop crying after they end an emotional scene. Mew had to be comforted by at least five Tharntype cast members in order to calm down. Gulf adapted his character Type's mannerisms so much that he admitted in a radio interview that it took him two months to return to his normal speaking voice. And Noeul admitted in a LITA bts interview that he once forgot they were filming an NC mid-scene, with how much improvisation he and Boss were doing on set. These are all signs of unsafe work environments.

Also, take note that sham emotions aren't just manufactured in actors, they can be elicited from the audience, too, if Dissociation is highly effective.

Anyway,

Johnny, Johnny, why Akin?

Johnny practices Dissociation every time he sleeps with his producers. He sheds all of his personal thoughts and emotions in order to adapt to the role of obedient sexpot. In the stage play, he uses exaggerations in his portrayal of Monte-- a scrunched facial expression, a lower-register voice, an overenunciated accent, slower, bigger movements-- anything to remove Johnny and replace it with Monte.

Akin's Alba Method is the DIRECT OPPOSITE of Dissociation. It removes the character altogether, and focuses on natural human reactions based on movement. Akin doesn't pander to Johnny's emotional (stunted) smirking-- instead, he focuses on eliciting a visible reaction from Johnny, that may not be related to his character at all.

Remember the first time they met?

Akin during the practice swordfight is not channeling his character's emotions. His character, in the script, is supposed to be enraged, and Akin here is personally annoyed. But instead of channeling either emotions through facial expressions or words, he moves instead. He challenges Johnny by tossing him the prop, then lets the natural adrenaline of the fight build his anger. In the end, he actually encouraged scene partner Johnny to be mad, too.

Just like Jin, Akin Alba'd Johnny into another sham emotion: anger.

But for Johnny, this was the first time someone actually removed him from his Dissociation. Someone elicited an emotion from him that felt natural. He was annoyed and cocky when he came in. At the end, he was angry.

And much like how crying mimics arousal, in the Alba Method's emoting chart, anger mimics sexual tension.

(The difference in the chart is that arousal is slow-building. Sexual tension is sudden. This would explain why Jin wanted to woo Akin, while Johnny wanted to have sex with him immediately).

Additionally, dissociation practitioners in HOLLYWOOD often find themselves vulnerable to sham emotions. The five I mentioned up there went on to couple up with or marry (multiple) people who were present in their films--costars, producers, directors, etc. Notoriously, these relationships do not last because again, they are shells for their characters. The moment they FEEL that someone is making them experience a human emotion outside of their character, they get attached. But do these last? No, because they are sham emotions.

Johnny's attraction for Akin is a sham because he's so dissociated, he can't determine what's real and what isn't. All he has is his reaction to Akin, and Akin makes him feel something different. In another universe, one without a Jin and one where Johnny is a decent human being, maybe he would've been able to pursue Akin. But just like Brad and Angelina' marriage, or any of Johnny Depp's five co-star girlfriends, I doubt it would have lasted very long.

Disclaimer: I am not implying that MewGulf or BossNoeul are ACTUAL COUPLES. I believe the opposite-- you can check my dash for previous posts on the matter. I respect all of their past, present, and future significant others. I mentioned them as examples-- please don't come after me stans.

Trust Johnny to give me a hard time analyzing his trash character. This was so long and I apologize. Stay kooky, folks.

[yelenasfloppyhand]

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Summary: Spencer is feeling insecure about his glasses, good thing you are there to help him see his beauty.

Warnings: none?

You glance up, concerned, as you see your boyfriend squinting at the television in front of him. His face looks scrunched up uncomfortably as he tries to read the subtitles that he insists on having on every time he forces you to watch a documentary with him, mainly because he talks over the documentary so often that it would be practically impossible to follow without them. This is a bit unusual, which makes you wonder: what is bothering him? "Why're you squinting?"

He breaks his gaze from the screen and looks at you with a puzzled expression, the kind of look that a child would give a parent after receiving a scolding for misbehaving. "Umm... could you repeat that I didn't hear you?" He asks sheepishly.

That was the moment it clicked. Whenever Spencer wasn't wearing his glasses or contacts, he often exclaimed that he couldn't hear without his glasses on. Most people didn't understand, considering glasses aided sight - not hearing. However, to you it made perfect sense. Spencer often relied on lipreading to prevent any miscommunication. He feared it would lead to an accidental offence. "You aren't wearing your glasses" it came off as more of a soft accusation than an observation.

A delicate pout graces his plump lips as he glances bashfully at you before sighing. "They make me look ugly..." His tone is dejectful as he breaks eyecontact to stare at the soft tartan blanket on his lap.

You feel your eyes widen as a frown pulls at your lips, there are many adjectives you could use to describe Spencer: awkward, intelligent, sweet, loving, beautiful, thoughtful... never in a million years would the word ugly even cross your mind. He was truly gorgeous, his eyes were a light brown with flecks of gold near his pupils, his nose was button like with a small bump on the bridge, his lips were plump and pink, he had alluring crinkles at the corners of his eyes each time he smiled (which was frequently around you), his hair oh his silky hair that he often begged you to play with in order to help him fall asleep, it was soft and a light shade of brown that shined bronze in the sunlight. You could use a multitude of synonyms to describe how beautiful he is but never would you describe him as ugly.

"Spencer Walter Reid, I'm appalled! How dare you call yourself ugly?" Your anger simmers as you stare at him with a pointed look, utterly disgusted with his self-deprecation. "You're not ugly," you add, softening slightly, "And I think your glasses make you even hotter." His cheeks flush with color and he looks away, clearly embarrassed.

"If you'd let me, I'd kiss each and every part of your beautiful body, I love the small freckle on your forehead, and your toothy grin, I love the way your glasses sit on you're gorgeous nose" you continue, you've been with him since you were both in your 20s and despite him now being 30 he still looked just as beautiful as ever.

"My confidence always takes a hit with my glasses on. The frames make me feel like an even bigger nerd than usual." His gorgeous gold eyes usually wore contact lenses, a solution to his glasses related insecurity. But recently, he developed a slight allergy to the contact lens solution he uses meaning he was now forced to wear his glasses. The whole situation leaves him feeling like more of a wounded puppy.

You could cry at his self deprication. You wished you could see him the way you see him. You immediately have a great idea. You stand from your spot next to him on the couch before rushing away, leaving him confused and slightly curious.

You return wearing his glasses, admittedly you can't see much considering how strong his prescription is, it distorts your vision an uncomfortable amount. But you watch as his expression changed to utter disorientation as he trys to understand what you're doing. "Do you think I look ugly?"

You watch as he is taken aback by your question, he cannot fathom ever finding you anything other than breathtaking. His eyebrows furrow as he answers quickly. "No, you're absolutely breathtaking as always." You can't help the grin that pulls at your lips at his compliment.

"So you don't think these glasses make me ugly, don't they change how I look? Do they make me unappealing to gaze at?" You ask confidently, praying to whoever is listening that you can help him see himself in a more positive light.

"How can I ever see you as anything other than beautiful?" He asks with confusion. He frowns before continuing. "Nothing could ever change how I view you, you're the sun in my solar system." You can feel yourself metaphorically melt at his words, he was always sweet with his complments, its what made you fall for him.

"You've just proved my point pretty boy." You smile before walking over to him and placing his glasses on his face, you can see the slight relief in his eyes when his vision focuses. "Hey." You grin and wave slightly at him. "There's my love. I promise you that just because you wear glasses doesn't mean you're ugly, you aren't ugly and you know why?" You watch with amusement and adoration as his eye brows furrow in confusion as he waits for you to answer your own question. "Because despite your gorgeous face, it's your heart I feel for, and as long as you're heart stays just as sweet and lovable as always I will always find you beautiful."

You realise how clichet and corny it sounds the second the words leave your mouth but you can't help but find the truth in them. He is gorgeous and not even his glasses could change his beauty. After all his nickname was 'pretty boy' for a reason.

Note: I'm so sorry if this was badly written it's like midnight and I'm sleepy, this was inspired when I remembered that mgg wore glasses as Spencer in season 2 because he developed an allergy to his contact lens solution (thank god that happened if not we would've never been blessed with glasses reid). Also you can request stories using the request box in my bio :)