#cw: snakebite

[markscherz]

New SquaMates Episode!

Ep. 30: Nolite te serpentes biteyouonyourbum

In this episode we talk about how many people are getting bitten by venomous snakes in South Africa, and how reporting encounters like this can help to reduce morbidity and mortality from snakebite: all the topic of a new paper by co-host Hiral Naik!

You can watch the full episode with video at www.youtube.com/@squamatespod!

You can listen on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or via RSS feed, or go to our website for show notes and more, here!

Artwork by co-host @blackmudpuppy

[goddessofbees]

Stray Tim and Red Hood Jason

[forourtomorrows]

stupid guy with the stupid card that i couldn’t get.

[nanamisgirly]

cw. chubby read (but I think it can fit for any female body type), mean geto, praise, degrading, marathon, pets name (sweets mostly), nerd reader, breaking up motion (briefly), tongue lips and cock piercing, creampied, unprotected sex, hate sex (?), p in v, a bit of nipple sucking, cock drunk, pussy drunk, oral (f. receiving), big dick geto duuuh, TATTOED GETO!!!

a/n. youhouuuu, finally finally this is the enddd. ik this is not perfect as i wrote this originally for fun and not to be a series, there's probably some rushed part. but ig it's all fun and fantasy at the end of the day sooo no need to be perfect right,,,, haha ENJOY!!! <33 + i put what some anons send me ;) part.1 part.2 part.3 bonus

wc. 4.4k (only smut)

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees <333

banner arts aransmind on x :))

“you gonna cry?” geto asks once your boyfriend's gone, voice all smug. he doesn't even pretend to soften. just leans back against the wall like he didn't burn your life to the ground.

you keep your voice steady, laced with fury. “you're such a piece of shit, suguru.” you whisper, eyebrows drawn so tight they hurt, hands clenched to your sides to stop yourself from shaking.

“didn't hear you complaining last time you soaked your hand in front of me.”

“fuck you,” you spit.

“already did, pretty. in spirit,” he shrugs, eyes dragging over your body like his hands would. “don't pout. not my fault you're easy to read. skirt that clunges to your body and all,” he adds with a cruel smile “shaking when he touched you. . hoping it was my hands instead.”

you take a step forward, “you think ruining my relationship is some kind of fucking game?”

geto's smile drops, jaw ticking. his next words are quieter—dangerous. “no, pretty. you did that. the moment you started squeezing your thighs every time i walked into a room.” his eyes narrow, voice dipping lower. “the moment you started thinking about me when he kissed you.”

your slap nearly lands. nearly.

because unlike the previous time, he catches your wrist midair—fingers wrapping around it tight, pulling you closer.

“go ahead,” he dares, mouth inches from yours. “hit me. hate me. scratch my fucking face off. but don't pretend you never wanted me.”

you tremble—because he's right. and when you breathe, it's shallow—sharp and painful. your bodies are too close, your heart's a drumbeat against your ribs.

his fingers slide to your waist, “you know i'd fuck you angry, right?” he murmurs at your lips, the threat heavy in his voice. “make you cry for a real reason.” and your lips part, but no words come out. just breath. just heat.

just the weight of everything he’s done crashing into you.

your desire for him, also crashing into you—violent and impossible to stop. it flattens every ounce of logic, grinds the mess from earlier into dust. 

and that's probably why you're back at your shared place with geto. and it's brutal.

he barely shuts the door before he's on you—mouth crashing into yours with violent desperation, all tongue and teeth and the sharp, addictive scrape of his snakebite piercings against your lips. his pierced tongue licks into your mouth—tasting the remnants of something smoky and bitter, like cigarettes. but it’s not the wrong kind. no, it makes your head spin in the best way, a dizzying mix of need and something darker. you gasp, your lungs emptying from the weight of his kiss. 

his mouth is greedy, devouring, taking everything. geto's pushing you against the wall in no time. his hands are all over—the roughness of his tattooed fingers scrape against your sides, your skin, dragging up your skirt without a shred of patience. he’s hungry—greedy, starved—and when his hands finally find the bare, soft curve of your stomach, he growls, low and guttural.

“fuck, sweets,” he hisses, voice dripping with want. his palms slam against the curve of your belly, cupping it hard, feeling the softness of it under his touch, and there's something about the way he holds you—so roughly, so possessively—that makes you shiver.

his lips taste like fire and want, and his snake piercings catch your bottom lip every time he pulls back, sending jolts of sensation through your whole body. every inch of him is on you, and you can’t breathe—can’t think—your entire world shrinking down to the feel of his hands, his mouth, the sharpness of his piercings against your lips. he pulls you closer, pinning you against the wall, the heat of him burning into you as he crushes your body against his.

his thigh slips between yours, presses hard against your clothed pussy, and you jerk—already soaked and sensitive. he growls at that, loosing his mind. 

the kiss turns brutal: you moan into his mouth, biting his lower lip, tugging hard on the lond black strands of his hair just to make him grunt. and he pushes closer, grinding his thigh up until you're squirming, your hips chasing friction like a shameless thing.

“look at you,” he says, diving onto your neck and leaving open mouthed-kisses. “nerd girl's this needy, huh? all that brainpower and still dumb on my thigh.” 

your hands claw at his back, nails dragging over ink. your voice is barely above a whisper, “shut the fuck up and use that tongue to good use, would you?”

to your surprise, that makes him laugh—mean, breathless. his teeth scrape your collarbone. “trynna order me around, pretty? hope you can handle what you're asking for. 'm not feeling nice tonight.”

before you can retort, his hands are sliding down—one gripping your ass, the other behind your thigh, and he lifts.

“wh—” you gasp, arms locking around his neck and your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. “what the hell—”

“shh,” he murmurs, amused. “thought i couldn't handle all this?” he squeezes, fingers digging in shamelessly. “'s cute, sweets. should have known better.”

you blink, stunned, heart pounding harder from this than from his thigh earlier—and that had felt like drowning already. but this, being manhandled like this, it does something ugly to you. makes your pride burn and your core clench with something molten.

no one's ever dared.

he walks to the couch like you don't even slow him down, then sits, bringing you with him, straddling his lap, still holding you in place. your knees dig into the cushions, chest pressed to his, lips parted with surprise.

you want to say something—some smart ass quip, some demand—but your brain's fizzled out entirely.

“aww,” he mocks with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “did i break your brain already? and here i was hoping you'd last longer.”

geto doesn't bother pretending to be gentle, his hand moves between you with a rough, hungry kind of focus, yanking your panties to the side. “fuckin' soaked” he mutters, almost to himself. 

and then he moves—shifting, lowering himself to the floor with a single-minded hunger that makes your stomach flutters with anticipation. his hands grip your thighs again—harder, more impatient—guiding you upward, lifting you until your cunt hovers over his face, with your knees on the couch.

“right on my face.”

you blink, dazed. “wha—”

“on. my. face.” his eyes gleam as he looks up at you from between your thighs. “i want all of you. i want the weight. don't hold back. if you sit like you're scared, i'll drag you down myself.”

your pulse jumps. “n-no one's ever—”

“i don't care,” he cuts in, almost snarling. “i'm not ‘no one’. i said sit.”

he doesn't wait for your answer. 

hands clamp around your hips, and he pulls. 

you collapse onto it.

you brace one hand on the back of the couch, the other on your thigh, shocked by the intensity, by the sheer greed in the way his mouth finds your cunt and devours you. tongue hot and unrelenting, nose nudging your clit just right, his low groans sending vibration through your whole body.

you try to shift your weight off a little, unsure, but he growls again and digs his fingers in harder. “i said,” he pants between licks, “don't you fucking dare hover. you ride it. all of it. now.”

the heat in your stomach twists hard. your thighs tremble as you let yourself go, sinking down fully onto his mouth. geto moans like you just gave him oxygen after being starved.

“good girl,” he rasps, voice muffled against your pussy, and then he goes back in, ravenous. 

your thighs are trembling, slick coating them, dripping down onto his face. his grip never lets up, fingers bruising into your hips, keeping you right there, locked down against his mouth. 

his tongue is fucking wicked—the cool press of that piercing sending shocks straight through your core every time it drags over your clit. he knows what he's doing. knows exactly how to make you squirm, to make you whimper his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

his hands slide further, gripping your ass, spreads you open and groan right into your cunt at the sensation of all that squishy skin. “mmph-fuck,” he chokes out, violet eyes locked with yours as your sweet slick coated his tongue, drowning his taste buds. 

you do try to lift up, but he won't let you—each time dragging you back down with a low growl. his tongue thrusts into you, filthy, wet, messy—spit and slick dripping down his chin and onto his chest beneath his shirt. his hair's splayed out around him, strands clinging to his face, his neck, your thighs.

your hand finds it—tangled, damp—and you grab a fistful, yanking hard enough to make him grunt into you. his reaction is instant, hips twitching up. and then he shakes his head, tongue moving in these obscene little circles—dragging the metal around your clit, making your vision go white at the edges.

“suguru—fuck—” you sob, thighs squeezing around his head as your orgasm hits like a truck, messy and soaking and completely ungraceful. you swear you gush on his face, and he doesn’t even flinch. just groans louder and sucks on your clit like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

he lets you ride it out—ride him—until you're slumping forward, weak, sweating, mouth parted. and when he finally allows you to lift up, he licks his lips—sticky with spit.

his lashes are heavy, lips swollen. he grins lazily and his voice wrecked to gravel when he finally speaks “did i use my tongue right, huh?” he pants, tongue flashing that silver bar again as he licks back into your folds—still starving.

his mouth latches onto you, faster and greedier—he's shamelessly making out with your cunt, snake bites cold against your fat lips. you flinch, whimper, hands holding his hair for dear life. 

it's just too much—and keeps getting too much as you feel the cool press of metal of his rings, thick and cold as they slide into your heat. two fingers, no easing, no teasing—he sinks them slow but deep, stretching you just enough to punch another broken moan out of you.

“oh fuck—”

he hums against your clit, the sound reverberating through his piercing and into you like static. the calluses on his fingers grind perfectly against your walls, wet sounds filling the room as he pumps them in and out, curling just right, wet squelch echoing with every stroke.

you're drooling—mouth open, lip trembling, spit trailing down your chin—his fingers feel way better than any other's boy cock you took. 

geto glances up, lips shiny with you, that long black hair stuck to his cheeks, his forehead. his eyes are glowing with need. “c'mon, nerd girl,” he growls into your cunt. “don't go shy now. you wanted it smart—take it like you mean it.”

you whine, wordless, overstimulated to hell, and he crooks his fingers experimentally onto that sweet spot inside you. “that's it. all those grades, all that brain, and you're just a messy fuckin' toy on my tongue.”

his tongue drags up, slow and filthy, pierced tip flicking over your clit with precision. you jolt again. your breath comes in gasping, high-pitched hiccups, and tears start to sting from how intense it is, how endless.

your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, his hair, the couch—anything. but there’s no ground anymore. just his rings tickling your entrance, his mouth never letting go, and your body falling to pieces again.

one more stroke of his tongue, one more slow thrust of his fingers, and you’re gone.

you sob through your orgasm—wet, helpless, coming hard, slick gushing around his hand. he keeps fucking into you, slower now, just to feel the way you twitch and spasm and clamp down on his rings. you collapse forward, trembling all over, your face buried on the couch, drooling.

and under you, geto laughs—low, ragged, fucked-out himself just from tasting you, like a man who just got the first hit of an addiction he’ll never shake.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice shredded. “but we’re not done.”

after two orgasms—your limbs are jelly, your mind's blank. “c'here” he rasps, chest rising fast. he grabs your hips and flips you over like nothing, tossing you onto your back on the couch. your shirt's still clinging to you, riding up just beneath your tits, soaked with sweat and drool.

his eyes drag down your body, ravenous. he doesn't hide it.

“you're not keepin' this one,” he says as he lifts the hem of your top and tugs it up over your chest with a rough yank, he's definitely tired of waiting. “wanna see 'em bounce.”

he grins when your tits spill free, slow and filthy, like he already knew you wouldn’t be wearing a bra. smart girl, he thinks. smarter than she looks when she's whining on my tongue.

he also removes his shirt, and that's when you catch the gleam of silver on his chest. a piercing right through his nipple, glinting against ink and muscle. 

but what really fucks with your mind is lower down—when his pants slide down and his cock springs free. the sight makes you dizzy—it's thick and veiny, a pretty brown tip leaking down the shaft. and right near the tip, another barbell—obscene, beautiful, glinting on something that shouldn't be that much pretty—promising destruction.

your stomach flips. your cunt clenches like it knows it’s in trouble.

geto catches the look on your face and smirks. “betta than you're stem boy, right?”

you huff, trying to push your hair off your forehead, still trying—trying—to hold on to something smart, something dry. “well who knows,” you manage, cocking an eyebrow. “he's probably better than you. he surely knows how to use his cock, making me hit ninth cloud in record time.” 

you don't know how you said all that—especially when you believed none of what you just said. especially when geto's cock is ridiculously long and mean with a dragon tattoo curling over his hip, licking toward his pelvis—obscenely hot. and a sexy happy trail you want to bury your face in it, soak it, lick the salt and sweat from every line of ink stamped. your pussy is already pulsing, aching to be split open.

and maybe, just maybe, you said it to provoke him. just to see what he'd do.

and maybe, was it the worst idea ever.

you'd tried to act smart—tried to poke at him, bait him. thought you could tease. what a joke.

he stares at you—quiet, still—and his eyes, those deep violet irises, go flat. something shifts in them. that usual lazy playfulness is gone. what's left is cold, dark and feral.

he moves without a word, pushing you back onto the couch, body caging yours in. his chest brushes yours as he leans in, dragging one palm slow and heavy down your stomach until he reaches your inner thigh, spreading you open.

he looks down at your slick folds, glistening and fluttering—a mess from your previous orgasms.

“keep talkin' like a smart bitch,” his voice is low. “go on. let's hear what that mouth's good for—besides moaning.”

his eyes are blown wide, rimmed in dark lashes, pupils eating up the violet, “you wanted to rile me up? that was your play? you're lucky i don't tie you up and leave you dripping for hours.”

he strokes himself once, guiding his cock to your entrance, and the way he looks down at you, brows drawn tight with hunger and restraint. you see it in his face: the way he’s fighting not to just shove all of it in, stretch you raw. 

his teeth grit. his jaw flexes. that vein in his temple pulses.

“you feel this?” he mutters, dragging the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds, the barbell of his piercing catching your clit just to drives you deeper in pleasure—tapping it meanly against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

you nod, or try, at least.

he doesn’t warn you before pressing in.

just a push—a deep one—and the first ring of resistance hits like a brick wall. your breath catches, back arches, and your hands fly up to brace, but geto just grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

“relax,” he says, his hips pressing forward again, splitting you inch by unforgiving inch. “didn’t i prep this tight pussy enough before stuffing you full?”

your mouth opens but nothing comes out—a miserable attempt to answer.

your eyes are wet, mouth open in a silent cry as he stretches your cunt wide, forcing her to make room for him, and geto groans at the heat. his eyes go sharp, fixated on the way your pussy stretches around him, swallowing inch after inch of his cock. his lips part, a breath hissing through his teeth, and his brow furrows like it physically pains him to go slow.

“shit,” he pants. “you’re choking me. this tight little pussy really thought some weak-ass nerd could handle her?”

you try to answer  anything—but he bottoms out and your mouth just drops open, a silent scream caught in your throat. he reaches in deep, his piercing dragging over your cervix, and your whole body spasms beneath him.

"look at that,” he whispers, his hand squeezing yours above your head. “eyes rollin’. cunt twitchin'. what happened to all that sass, sweets?”

your nails dig into his hand pinning yours, throat tight with sobs you can’t even form. 

he loves it. loves how you're fighting to take it. loves how broken your sass has become.

he pulls out a little—not enough to give you relief though—and rams back in harder, hips snapping cruelly. your tits bounce from the force. your pussy’s a soaked mess, clenching and twitching around him like you don’t know whether you want to cum or pass out.

“keep squeezing me like that, keep milking it like a slut and i���ll stuff you full 'til you’re leaking down your legs.”

his hips snap forward like a weapon, pounding into you with a pace so savage your head knocks against the couch's arm with each thrust. the slap of skin is loud, wet. and he’s not even trying to be kind. 

“you said" slams “he could” slams "make you cum?” slams he spits, hand wrapping tight around your throat now, thumb pressing just enough to make your vision pulse. “where is he now, huh? he ever make you drool like this? fuck the sense outta your skull?”

sweat drop on his brow, his teeth catch his lower lip when you flutter around him.

geto feels like a beast, driven by need and lust, your body, your warm, it takes the worst of him and he can't stop, his hips snap harder, faster, in need to imprint his cock into your guts and ruin you for any other man that would dare to approach you.

"that’s what it means to get fucked. say it. say it’s mine.”

you sob. “y-yours—”

“louder.”

“yours, geto, it’s yours—!”

he looks insane—hair a mess, spit slicking his bottom lip. “don't look away,” he buries his cock so deep. “you wanted to act big. wanted to provoke me. so take it. take all of it.” his hand slide from your neck down to your breasts bouncing, holding one in his rough palm.

“those are perfect, sweets,” his ring drags over your sensitive nipple, pressing in. “fuck, wanna worship ‘em. they’re so soft, so beautiful, so mine.” his tongue flicks your nipple, the piercing brushing against it as he swirls around, holding your gaze.

that's how another orgasm crashes down on you suddenly. one of geto's arm lock around your waist the other still holding your breast for him to taste as he keeps fucking you through it, cock still hard, still punching every overstimulated nerve like he’s trying to burn them out of existence.

you barely register when he finally pulls out—leaving your nipple shining with spit. your legs fall open on instinct, cunt fluttering around nothing, slick and cum dripping out onto the couch. you’re boneless. and you should be done by now.

but geto just sits back next to your exhausted body, cock hard and glistening, dragging his palm along the length of it with lazy strokes. he watches you with that same half-lidded, smug look.

“get over here,” he says, voice low and sharp.

you blink, slow, dazed. “wha—?”

he slaps his thigh. “c’mon, nerd. get on. you’re gonna ride me.”

your thighs twitch at the command—surprisingly something in your gut coils tight again. you drag yourself off the cushion on trembling legs, slick dripping down the insides of your thighs, and make your way over.

geto strokes his cock slowly as you straddle him,"that's it," he mutters, dragging your cunt over his cockhead, teasing you both. “gonna let me watch that fat little body bounce for me now, yeah?” he lines you up, the stretch hits all over again.he doesn’t ease you down. he holds you firm and makes you take it.

“fuck, look at that,” he groans when you sink halfway. “pussy still so tight. thought i fucked it loose, but she’s still clenching like she don’t know what to do with it.”

“ride it,” he says. “i want to see every inch of you shake.”

you do just as he says—slowly at first, bouncing on his cock with stuttering, messy little movements, slick squelching loud between your bodies. 

he leans back, lets you struggle for a bit, arms crossed behind his head while he watches the way your tits bounce with each grind, the way your soft belly jiggles, how your face twists up so sweet when you try to hold back tears from the overstimulation.

“s-suguru…” you whine, pace faltering—ego throwed to the bin. “need…h-help.”

you drop your eyes, too lost in pleasure—only to be meet with the inked dragon moving elegantly on his hips, flexing each time he shifts. 

“what's that pretty?” he says, mocking and gentle at once. “don't tell me you're tired already?” he tilts his head, almost disppointed.

your eyes are wattering, your cheeks pink from how much you're hating up, and how much you cried. “'m s-sorry…”

you don’t even realize you’ve stopped moving until he shifts beneath you.

he sits up, planting his feet to the floor as his inked hands grope your ass, holding you in the air.

he slams back up to your warm core. the pace changes instantly: fast, brutal, relentless. his hips drive up into you like a machine.

“this—” a hard thrust, “is how we fuck.” Another. And another. “you want help? of course i'll help my pretty girl.”

your head falls onto the crook of his inked neck, hands clawing at his shoulders as your vision blurs. each mean thrust knocks the air from your lungs, the impact jolting through your whole body. you’re no longer riding—geto is using you like his personal fleshlight, with no mercy in sight. his arms flex with the effort, and his pupils are so dilated that the violet almost disappeared.

the look on his face…

his lip ring catches the light when he grins, teeth bared, eyes dark with hunger. there’s something wild in his expression, primal. the dragon tattoo flexes along his side with every thrust. His voice is a low growl in your ear.

“you're doing so good, sweets. takin' all that without complain, you're perfect. perfect for me.” he drops one hand down, fingers finding your clit, swollen and abused by his hands, tongue and happy trail brushing against it. “feel how this pussy still wants it. still suckin' me in, even now?”

geto pounds, loosing his rythm as his climax approaches. his hand grip your ass harder—hips rolling into yours in quick, desperate motions. your cries go hoarse, high-pitched, your cunt too full, too sore, too overstimulated—but it’s not stopping him. if anything he just goes impossibly harder.

“one more, sweets. gimme another one. just one more.”

you wail—actually scream, back arching—your walls spasm around him again, soaking his cock all over again. you’re crying now, tears mixing with drool, hips bucking. your cunt squelches with every thrust, mess spilling out of you down onto his thighs, pooling on the couch, dripping onto the floor. it's loud. filthy. every stroke is slick and wet and relentless, his rings glinting where his fingers grip your thighs, your hips, your throat.

“'so fuckin' wet for me,” he murmurs, voice dark and gone, leaning down, his tongue dragging up your neck. “you hear that? goddamn. so messy. all this for me?”

his hair—long, black, half-stuck to his face—is swinging into your chest, and when he leans in, it brushes your nipples. he bites one, just enough to make you cry out. 

“…t-too much,” you breathe, voice shaking. “can’t—can’t—”

“you can.” his teeth graze your jaw, “yeah… just like that. take it. fuck, you feel so good—so good—”

and then he slows, just a little, breathing ragged, hips grinding in deep as he presses you flush against his chest. you can feel it—the twitch of his cock, the low, wrecked curse against your shoulder as he cums deep inside you, warmth spilling out around the stretch.

the couch creaks under the weight of it. of you. of him. your weight drops heavy into his lap, body boneless. head rolls to the side. eyes fluttering shut.

“hey,” geto breathes, blinking, slowing instantly. “hey—”

he catches you, both arms wrapping around your waist, holding you upright as his cock slips free of your dripping cunt. the loss of heat is jarring, but your body doesn’t even react. you’re gone. heavy and spent, your face slack, lips parted.

“pretty?” he lifts your chin gently, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where spit still cling.

your eyes are heavy, breath shallow and uneven, head lolling just slightly to the side. a soft sound leaves your throat, nothing coherent, just breath and daze. you're not gone. just fucked-out, somwhere between sleep and extasis.

he exhales through his nose, dragging a palm over his face and holding you tightly against him. he leans in close, lips brushing your temple—not tender, exactly, but grounding. quiet. 

almost like apology, almost like awe.

“you're still here,” he whispers more to himself than to you. his hands comes up and cups your cheek. 

your skin's hot. damp. marked.

his thumb slides slowly along your jaw.

“you did good pretty,” he says resting his forehead against yours. “my pretty nerd.”

՞⸝⸝'ᜊ'⸝⸝՞ 

[noctiva]

I’m back!! I’m super curious do you have a list of general Toby Headcanons posted anywhere or am I just entirely blind? Lmao I’m super curious what your HCs for the man are like.

- 🐼

you’re not blind!! I’ve been meaning to post a general hc list for AGESSSSS you just gave me to push to do it hehe here it is!

-

Toby Rogers - General Headcanons

CW for: mentions of violence, cannibalism, self-destructive tendencies

-

Visual/Appearance

Toby is a tall, lanky mf. Standing at about 6’1 but appears shorter because he’s got horrible posture.

The CEO of having a sleeper build tbh. He looks skinny, especially under all the layers of sweaters and jackets he likes to wear, but don’t let that fool you. He’s scary strong, with a mean right hook.

Mousy brown hair that’s long enough to cover his ears. Shaggy, choppy, and uneven because he cuts it himself.

Has a ton of freckles that show best when he’s gotten some sun

Crooked, chipped teeth from one too many blows to the face, with uncannily sharp canines.

Dark, dark brown eyes with even darker circles under them.

Wardrobe

The midwest emo type

Flannels, ripped baggy jeans, jackets with patches that he sewed on himself

Either wearing a beat up pair of sneakers or more sturdy hunting boots when he’s out on a mission

Wears a ton of layers (as mentioned before) because he always feels cold even if it’s warm outside

I’m talking like; a t-shirt, under a hoodie, with a flannel over top, topped with a big comfy jacket

Personality

Sarcastic motherfucker. Even in times that definitely don’t warrant it al all.

Pretty scarred mentally from being bullied ruthlessly as a kid, so he’s actually really closed off. Pretty reluctant to get close to or open up to people because he’s convinced he’ll just end up being the butt of the joke again.

HATES being around aggressive, violent men. Reminds him too much of his father, and he’ll genuinely just freeze up completely as a trauma response.

Same goes for people who drink. He can’t stand that shit either. (He will smoke weed though, but alcohol is a complete no go).

Absolute jokester once you actually do get him to open up. Pretty carefree and funny, despite it all.

Chronically bottles up his emotions. Would much rather just slap on a smile and push everything down than actually confront them. (Leads to pretty nasty breakdowns more often than not.)

Shit disturber. Will stir drama and start fights just because he’s bored.

Swears like a sailor.

General

Chronic nail biter and skin picker. It’s partially an oral fixation type thing so if it’s not his fingers in his mouth it’s a toothpick, or gum, or the drawstrings of his sweater orrrr…

…A cigarette. Because this man smokes like a chimney. Tim isn’t fully to blame for why he got into it, but he is the one Toby stole smokes from when he first got the urge to try it.

Now it’s a constant thing. Half a pack a day on a good day. He’s always got one tucked behind his ear, and he constantly reeks of the smell of it.

Has a ton of scarring from piercings he did on himself and then decided he hated a few months later. (The only ones he kept being a septum and a pair of snakebites, but he sucks at taking care of them so they’re infected like ALL the time)

He’s flip floppy like this in a lot of aspects of his life. Constantly hyperfixating on things just to decide he hates them a few weeks later.

Also does stick n’ poke tattoos on himself like all the time. Dumb little chicken scratch doodles on his arms and thighs.

Loves sour candy like CRAZY.

A huge nerd deep down. Used to collect comic books and figurines when he was a kid, but lost them all when his house burnt down. (If he breaks into someone’s house and finds some nowadays he’s stealing them. IMMEDIATELY. Especially if it’s anything X-Men.)

Speaking of stealing, he’s a klepto. If he wants it, he’s just gonna take it. And lord knows the proxies don’t get paid a living wage so it’s not like he’d be able to afford it anyway.

Big forager. Likes to look for animal bones and pretty rocks while out in the woods. Cleans them and decorates the shelves of his cabin with them. Also likes to carve things as well. Making knives out of sticks and bones. Little figures that he whittles to keep his hands busy.

Is fluent in German, and slips back into it when he’s really pissed or annoyed (or when… yk..). His mother spoke it a lot at home when he was growing up.

Has cannibalistic tendencies and pretty nasty intrusive thoughts. Almost always bites a chunk out of his victims before disposing of their body. Has a hard time not getting a taste of the living people he knows.

Chews on his own skin because of this, gnawing at his palms to satiate the craving for blood.

Pyromaniac (duh) always has a lighter or matches on him. Sets fires just for fun, and could sit and stare into the flames for hours on end.

He hates his tics :( It’s deep seated trauma from the kids at school and shit his dad used to say to him. To the point where he’s grown a habit of hitting himself whenever he does tic, like if he punishes himself for doing it, maybe one day his body will stop (it hasn’t)

Verbal and physical tics. Often mimicry of words and sounds he hears often (common ones include whistles that mimic bird calls)

Low-key a sadist. Because he can’t feel pain himself, watching people react to being in pain is morbidly fascinating to him. Really takes his time with his victims because of it.

Virgin teenage boy levels of hormones LMAOOO. The type to have a bikini model poster plastered on his bedroom wall.

Sucks at talking to girls irl though. Puts on a way too confident facade and makes a total fool of himself more often than not.

—————————————————————————☆

yaaaay! I’ve been meaning to post this for ages

let me know if you guys want relationship hcs too (sfw + nsfw)!

[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

[earth2rin]

emo megs?

megumi fushiguro x fem!reader

words: 1.4k

summary: just thoughts about megs <3 non-sourcer au, not proofread ;)

cw: piercings, megumi being a bit insecure, maybe like one curseword

scumbag!megumi who unironically is an alt/emo kid in the modern world.

scumbag!megumi who’s eyebrow and snakebite piercings ward off any suitors.

scumbag!megumi who’s apparel makes people think he’s weird and they tend to avoid any interactions with him.

scumbag!megumi who is too enthralled with the yabujin playing through his wired headphones to realize there’s a new student that just walked into the classroom.

scumbag!megumi who fails to notice your presence when the teacher sat you right next to him. there were always empty seats around him.

scumbag!megumi who doesn’t realize he has you in 3 other classes.

scumbag!megumi who only began to notice you when you would send a small smile and wave towards him in the morning. he thought you were kind of pretty.

scumbag!megumi who would greet you with a ‘sup’ whenever you finally gained the courage to actually say hi to him in the morning.

scumbag!megumi who would ask you for the notes from the previous day since he wasn’t there for the lecture. you always replied with a chirpy ‘of course!’ and would hand it to him with a smile.

scumbag!megumi who gave you the vibes that he never really was listening to the small conversation you tried to spark between you two. he actually was trying to spare your social status as people would deem you weird for talking to the outcast. little did he know you didn’t care one bit, you thought he was cool and were determined to be his friend.

scumbag!megumi who always thought why is a pretty little sweet thing like you trying to befriend a loser like him.

scumbag!megumi who can’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually let you in and get to know him. would you think he’s odd like everyone else does, or would you actually like being his friend?

scumbag!megumi who gives in and entertains your conversations, actually enjoying talking to you and your personality as a whole.

scumbag!megumi who you learn, loves to actually yap. like a lot, which is surprising since the first few days you saw him he was always listening to music and doing his work, avoiding any interaction with people.

scumbag!megumi and his snakebite piercings that have you hypnotized and you can’t help staring at whenever he went into deep conversation about something he liked. you really hope he didn’t notice the staring.

scumbag!megumi who asks for your number whenever you tell him you never heard of the kind of music he listens to, but you really like and want to learn more artists and songs in the same genre.

scumbag!megumi who’s cheeks tint a slight shade of pink whenever he hands you his phone, embarrassed on how his contacts consist of only 6 people; yuuji, nobara, gojo, maki, toge, toji, and now you. you smile as you put your contact info in, putting your name as ‘y/n :3’

scumbag!megumi who now shares his headphones with you in class, one wired bud in his ear and the other in yours. you had to scoot closer to him, your shoulders barely brushing and you couldn’t help the small blush that dusted your cheeks.

scumbag!megumi who invites you to his place one random weekend, saying that he and his friends were gonna watch horror movies on friday and he would like it if you'd come. of course you say yes, a little too fast for your liking.

scumbag!megumi who lectures his friends to please don’t be weird. and don’t say anything that would make her uncomfortable! they laugh at how his cheeks are red but they agree, promising they’ll be nice.

scumbag!megumi who introduces you to his friends. “that's yuuji and that's nobora. they’re idiots so don't mind too much about what they say.” yuuji gasps, “hey you told us to be nice but you're the one that's being mean!” you blink and smile and megumi’s eye twitches.

scumbag!megumi who rolls his eyes when nobara whines, “finally! another girl! i thought i was gonna die if i had to sit here one more weekend with these guys watching movies by myself. too bad you met that loser first.”

scumbag!megumi who gives you a blanket and pillow so you can lay down, you say thank you but tell him that you were just going to sit next to him. he lays the blanket over you two anyways.

scumbag!megumi who tells you to stay on the couch, that he’ll get you a slice of the pizza that had just arrived. you give him a sweet smile and say thank you, he just nods.

scumbag!megumi who’s sitting so close to you, you can smell his cologne. you’re getting dizzy from the proximity of how close he is. you think you might faint. you decide to lean your head on his shoulder and his heart thumps wildly in his ribs.

scumbag!megumi who’s hand is right next to yours, your fingers brushing each others constantly. he rubs his pinky on yours, you don't retract so he takes it as a win. he finally gets the balls to hold your hand when you jump, being scared from the movie. you’re both blushing, but no one seems to notice because of how dark it is.

scumbag!megumi who offers to drive you home after you watch about 5 different movies. it was now rounding 3 in the morning, yuuji and nobara were asleep on the couch which he knew they were going to sleep over, but he didn’t want to ask you if you’d like to as well, he feared he’d make you uncomfortable. you say ‘if it’s not too much trouble yes please. but i’m perfectly fine calling someone from home to pick me up!’ he waves you off, insisting that he doesn’t mind one bit.

scumbag!megumi who drives a modded 2013 dodge charger rt, it’s blacked out and loud. he opens the door for you before quickly entering the driver's side. he drives with the windows down, admiring the wind blowing through your hair. you looked absolutely stunning.

scumbag!megumi who walks you to your door whenever you reach your destination.

“i had a lot of fun tonight megs.” you smile up at him, batting your eyelashes. he still blushes when you call him that, even though it's been about over a month since you started to call him that.

he scratches the back of his neck, looking away. “yeah me too. i really like hanging out with you.” you nod and say you do too.

you step a bit closer to him, “will you text me when you get home?” he turns his head back towards you, entranced at how beautifully you’re looking up at him. he feels like the wind was knocked out of him. he nods, and slightly gulps when you lean in to him, fluttering your eyelids. his nerves kick in and his hands get sweaty, holy shit does she want me to kiss her?

he decided he’ll be brave, for once in his life he’s going to get what he wants.

he puts one hand on your waist, the other quickly being wiped off on his jeans before he places it on your cheek. your lips meet and the kiss is sweet but firm. the irony taste from his lip rings is bitter, but addicting, his lips are so soft and taste of cherries. the kiss makes your head spin, you steady yourself by putting both of your palms on his firm chest. you both pull away slightly, looking into each other's eyes before leaning back in. this time the kiss is more heated, a bit needy, a bit shy. you both finally pull away, he moves his hands to both sides of your face, thumbing your cheeks. he leaves a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“i’ll call you, yeah?” you nod, biting your lip slightly.

“okay, goodnight megs.”

“goodnight y/n”

you open the door coolly, once it’s closed, you squeal and bring a hand up to your lips, where his had just been. he hears you through the door and chuckles, walking to his car. he waits a couple of seconds before he sends you a text.

megs :)): you in bed?

y/n :3: attachment: 1 image

y/n :3: yes !!!

megs :)): good, call you when i get home.

y/n :3: okay :)))

[angel-of-the-moons]

I need me some venom angst…

Can you do some Venom/Eddie x reader angst? Whatever you want idm! Also the reader is goth. No specific reason. I just like goth girls…:P(sorry if that last part was weird idk how to say it…)

*cracks knuckles* Hoooo I'm boutta make y'all cry up in this bitch (I know I said I only had requests open for 2 days but I only got two requests during that time frame so you get this as a lil treat 😘)

Chocolate Friends

Venom x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Angst angst angstttt! But don't worry , it gets fluffy!!! Depression, mentions of domestic violence/abuse, self-harm, suicide attempt, Reader has long hair and piercings (I love me some goth girls, too, especially the classic onesss)

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

It was a typical night in the city--the nasty, dirty, smelly city that was crawling with vermin once the lights went out.

But during October, it was different. Especially because of Halloween. Children frolicking in the streets, asking for goodies and playing games... well, people of all ages, really.

They needed someone to look out for them.

And that's what they did. That's what he did.

Venom. The one many consider to be a "bad guy". It's not his fault he needed to eat people's brains to survive. And besides, he promised Eddie he'd only eat "bad guys".

Which is what he did. A you g family with their two innocent little children were on their way back from a candy carnival when they were jumped by three men with masks and blunt weapons.

They weren't expecting Venom to be prowling the streets tonight--to be right above their filthy, filthy heads. They certainly didn't expect to have their heads bitten off, either. (Venom of course ensured the children didn't see anything of course, neither he nor Eddie would ever traumatize such tiny people!).

The police showed up not long after, but before that, one of the children rushed up to Venom and placed in his massive hand a little plastic baggy full of chocolates!

Venom patted the little boy--dressed like some green video game character--and left before the police barley rounded the corner.

"Tonight was amazing!" Venom growled as he popped another piece of chocolate into his maw. "Ate some bad guys and got some chocolate!"

'Yeah,good job, Vee.' Eddie chuckled softly from within.

He practically skipped from rooftop to rooftop across the city, humming and singing to himself as he did.

However, something gave him a pause.

Atop some sort of warehouse building was a figure dressed in all black. His first instinct was maybe it was some idiot trying to be some kinda super villain. They were all over the place, these days.

However that changed as he silently crept closer. He strained he and Eddie's combined senses to the highest level to examine the person.

You.

You were crying. Your long, wispy black hair blew in the breeze from the dank city. Your face was an almost ghostly white with thick black streaks cutting through like tar on snow. Your dark lips trembled, your snakebite piercings (At least that's what Eddie said they were) poking through the delicate skin, shining off of the dim city lights.

Your eyes were shrouded in thick, heavy eyeliner and eyeshadow, your wispy lashes brushing your cheeks as fresh tears fell.

Your feet teetered on the edge as you looked down, your hands grasping one another as if having second thoughts.

"Oh, shit!" Venom cursed to himself.

You were going to jump.

He thought quickly, rushing and leaping onto the rooftop with you. You either didn't notice or didn't care, your entire body shaking in the chilly air.

Your clothes had holes shredded into them in multiple places. Fishnets poked out from beneath your baggy pants, the chains tinkling as you shifted your weight around; an equally baggy shirt for some grunge band or another fluttered a bit as the breeze caught it.

Your nails were a nice, lacquered black, almost like his own inky body.

Apparently Venom and Eddie both blue-screened and their body merely acted on its own accord.

He plopped his butt down on the edge of the roof next to you, hanging his massive legs over the side.

"A little close to the edge, right?" Venom tried to say lightly. He could just barely make out the scent of blood on you, and he didn't like it. Neither did Eddie. They were both worried for you, and they didn't even know who you were.

"Wh-what do you care?" You asked, your voice trembling as you side-stepped by an inch, your eyes hesitantly dragging to the dirty street below.

"Just a little close, is all." Venom grumbled out with a shrug, kicking his feet a little.

"One wrong step and--" He made a descending whistle and then a "boom", gesture with his fingers. "Splat! Wind up decorating someone's car for Halloween in a real gross way."

Despite yourself, you huffed out a laugh, followed by a sniff, "Well it w-won't be a problem I have to worry about then, would it?"

Venom snorted, "True. But think about the poor guy that's gotta scrape the bits off the sidewalk! Traumatizing!"

You shook your head, swallowing deeply.

A tense silence falls between you as you continue to contemplate your fate--trying to make that one decision whether to end it all or back away like you have so many times before.

Venom broke the silence as subtly as a bulldozer trying to drive over a frozen lake.

"So. Why are you up here?"

"Because I want to die, wh-what does it look like?" You sniffled, trying to fight back the fresh sobs that tried to claw their way out of your chest.

"Well, yeah. That's obvious," He replied, tilting his head to the side to look at you. "But why?"

"I... I just..."

You weren't prepared for that. Nobody just asked you things. Nobody cared. Nobody just asks someone why they want to die. Right?

Your shoulders slump as you collapse into a squat, burying your face in your arms as you cried.

"I'm so tired... I can't take it all anymore."

"Can't take... what?" Venom pressed gently, his body relaxing slightly, hoping your new posture indicated you weren't just gonna swan dive over the rooftop.

"I... I try so hard, y'know?" You whispered, barely audible from how you had your face buried. "I try to take care of him, to help him get better, but... but he turns around and says it's all my fault. That it's all me. That he only does it because of me."

Venom looks at you, his fingers twitching. Ah. So that was it. He let you continue;

"I know he doesn't mean it. He just--he gets so angry when he drinks. Tonight I tried to h-hide the b-bottles and he... he just--"

Venom feels something nasty twist in his gut as you choke off into another crying fit.

"But he's my dad. If I don't s-stay... he's all alone. And he's gonna drink himself to death!"

"If he needs you, why are you up here?"

You snapped your head to look up at him, your makeup smeared down your face as your brows pinched.

"I mean, obviously your dad needs some serious help, but by your logic, he won't get it if you're not around..." He looked out into the city streets for a moment, "Don't understand it."

"I..." You swallowed, your mouth going dry. You sighed deeply, letting your body sag. "I don't know. I'm so tired. I'm sick of people treating me like shit just because of how I dress--I-I had an old lady hit me in the back of my head with her cane because she said I'm some kind of--of Satan worshipper!"

Venom growled lowly, making you jump a little as the sound vibrates off your bones, "Stupid." He spat.

"Y-yeah!" You say, letting your feet dangle over the edge, like his.

"It... It's just that I like being like this! But nobody has ever understood it!" You say, exasperated. "They just... They just..."

You couldn't find the words to continue, and was shocked when Venom held out his hand, offering tiny wrapped pieces of... candy. Chocolate?

"My other half says chocolate is good when you are sad. It makes your brain feel better." He said rather plainly. He could have gone into details of the effects it had on the human brain, but you didn't seem like you were in the mental state to have a scientific conversation right now.

Your shaky fingers take the morsel, unwrapping it before popping it into your mouth.

"So people treat you bad because you like to dress in all black?" He scoffed.

"People always equate goths to bad things in general." You replied sadly, your eyes downcast around the chocolate as it coated your tongue, "I'm not even really into the subculture itself, I just... sometimes the fashion is pretty and the makeup is crazy intense y'know?"

Venom grinned, happy that you've stopped crying, offering you another piece of his previous chocolate loot and letting you vent to him.

"What's wrong with dressing in all black?" Venom said, puffing up his chest a little dramatically, even striking a bit of a pose, "I think the look goes quite well with everything."

The sound of your laugh made him relax a little bit more, the tenseness in the air fading as he shared his snacks. He listened to you talk about the kinds of clothes you liked, makeup, music, how you DIY'd some of your own fashion yourself; and most of all, how people treated you because of it.

But the only person to really accept that was your dad. He just had his own problems, and didn't have the strength to drag himself out of the pit he was drowning himself in after he got laid off from the job he'd had since you were a baby. Since before your mom...

Little by little, your exterior chipped away and the sight of the real person you were came bubbling to the surface. Despite your dark aesthetic, you were a very bubbly and sweet person. Perhaps caring a bit too much about others rather than focusing on yourself, yes, but it showed how big your heart really was.

Eventually, the candy ran out. And you apologized. And before you knew it, it was well past midnight.

You don't want to jump anymore.

"Do you want some help?" Venom asked.

You nodded, whispering; "Please."

He took one of your tiny hands into his, as if you were made of the most delicate porcelain and lifted--pulling you onto the rooftop with him.

You rubbed your elbow, feeling guilty for everything, despite what was going on that wasn't your fault.

Venom could tell you were still feeling upset... and he didn't like he could still smell blood on you.

"... you're hurt." He finally pointed out, noticing how you flinched.

"It--it's not that bad." You muttered, your heart pounding as Venom crossed his arms and stared you down. Not in a malicious way, but in a way that said "I'm not falling for your bullshit".

And, of course, you break. You tell him about how sometimes, when the pain gets so bad, you... hurt yourself. You take a razor, or a knife or a pair of scissors and just... cut. The injuries are always to your legs so nobody can see, so they are easily covered by pants, but... obviously Venom could smell they were there.

"How about this." He held up a finger, "Meet us here again tomorrow night. My better half will get us more chocolate--"

His head snapped to the side and he growled, "You promised!"

Venom turned back to you after apparently having an argument with... himself, and said, "--and then we can sit down and talk some more. It can be our little chocolate spot any time you get the feeling like you want to hurt yourself. We can give you our number!"

"But..."

"No buts!" He said, wagging his large finger at you in reprimand.

You can't help the laugh that slips out of you, wiping at your face, uncaring if any more of your makeup got ruined. Despite yourself, you nod.

"Yessss!" Venom hisses, holding out his fist for a bump. "Chocolate friends!"

"Ch-Chocolate friends." You hiccup, giving him the bump.

You never came back to that rooftop with the intention of throwing yourself off of it, after that. It only became associated with your new and unlikely friend, the sweet treats you shared, and the knowledge that out there--there was somebody even weirder that you who was treated as much as an alien that you were.

And he/they had one hell of a sweet tooth.

[standfucker]

Finding Out You’re Stronger Than Them - Logia Edition (Crocodile)

"Cold Blooded"

Characters: Crocodile

Reader: GN

Word Count: 3.2k

CW: smoking, mildly suggestive, reader has body mods

Summary: “Come on, Sir. If you’re so upset about the money, I could give it back. I don’t really need it,” you roll your eyes on the ‘really,’ “but I don’t intend on walking away empty-handed. You understand. Us cold-blooded types get what we want, right?”

-Thanks to @quinloki for beta'ing as my usual beta, @zoros-sheath, got sick. (Love you both, glad you're on the mend, Mama.)

Ao3 Link

Wealth was not Sir Crocodile’s ultimate goal, his burgeoning ambitions far grander than mere riches. But the vast quantity of treasure that had been stolen from him was not something he could ignore. Civil wars needed funding, and with over half of his hoard disappeared overnight–a feat that should be physically impossible–he couldn’t make the payment on the firearms he had shipped out.

He sends a pair of Officer Agents to take care of it, neither of whom report back. In the radio silence, he sends another, stronger duo this time. They also seem to vanish. Fed up, he finally sends his best, Mr. 1 and Miss Doublefinger.

Instead of hearing back from them, Crocodile finds the six bodies of his strongest Officer Agents dumped unceremoniously outside of his smoking room, beaten to shit and unconscious, but alive.

You're waiting for him inside, an unassuming masked figure picking through his humidors like you own the place. 

"You picked a beautiful country to play with,” you say without looking up, inspecting an expensive cigar. “I just love the landscape of Alabasta...reminds me of home." 

For a minute, he just stares, mentally running through the list of people he knows in the underworld who can both pull off a heist like that and beat his best assassins bloody. Your lavish jewelry suggests affluence, his eye especially drawn to the gold bracelet on your wrist. There’s a huge ruby mounted onto the band that’s jogging his memory in a bad way. You keep talking in the meantime.

"Sorry to invade on your private time. I understand the necessity of a good smoke break, but you wouldn’t grace me with your presence, so I had to take matters into my own hands."

You tuck the cigar behind your ear, take off your mask, and turn to face him. There are some differences from your bounty poster: You’ve changed your hair, and there’s now a gnarled scar stretching diagonally over your face, narrowly missing your eye. But the snakebite piercings are the same, as are the small, transdermal spikes implanted above your eyes, painted gold to represent your namesake.

“You’re the Thief King, Sidewinder,” Crocodile says slowly. Even with the facial scar, you’re beautiful, skin reflecting the moonlight coming through the window.

You smile at his recognition. “In the flesh.”

“It’s rare for you to leave the New World.”

“Seems you've heard a bit about me.” You look surprised at that.

“You’re a Devil Fruit user, but since you prefer to use Haki, little is known about your ability," Crocodile says, and your eyes widen. "Beyond stealing, your motives are a mystery, as you don’t engage in power struggles, nor do you rule any territory. The lack of land means no one knows where you keep your spoils.”

Of course he's heard of you. He knows the shock is an act, too. Sure enough, your expression relaxes into a casual smile. Crocodile bites down harder on his cigar. You’re notorious for targeting powerful people and getting away with it, but he'll be damned if you make a fool of him.

Crocodile takes off his jacket and tosses it onto a lounge chair. Cracking his neck, he starts to approach you. "Here are your options, thief," he says. "You can return what you've stolen willingly. Or, I can peel the nails from your fingers and rip the teeth from your skull, one by one, until you tell me where it is."

“How frightening.” You tilt your head, hands in your pockets as he gets closer. “Whatever will I do?”

He fires his hook at you, left arm becoming sand and extending. You calmly step around it, dodging by a fraction. He withdraws his hook and fires again; you step to the other side. Keeping his arm extended, he sweeps it out to the side to catch you. You duck, bending far back in an impressive show of flexibility, hands never leaving your pockets. He swings the column of sand at your feet, you hop over it. With every dodge, you move closer to him.

“I’m flattered you recognized me despite the differences from my bounty poster,” you say, pausing in your approach. “You, on the other hand, look almost exactly the same as yours. Except…” You look him up and down, seeming impressed. “I must say, Sir, the poster doesn’t do you justice.”

Rage simmers beneath Crocodile’s cool demeanor. He hates how genuine you sound–it feels more like mockery than true admiration to him. Moving faster, he forms a blade of sand with his right hand and hurls it at you.

“Desert Spada!”

You easily match his speed, side-stepping so the blade cuts through the bookshelf behind you instead. It collapses, sending a heap of wood and fine hardbacks to the floor.

“Careful now,” you chide, shining eyes focused on him.

Undeterred, he strikes again, and again, and again. Each time, you dodge effortlessly, moving with a light, fluid grace. It’s almost as if you’re dancing with him–he can see how you earned your nickname. Furniture crumbles behind you as it’s sliced and smashed to pieces. The more he attacks, the more you avoid, the angrier he gets.

Amidst the chaos, Crocodile suddenly realizes you’ve had yet to break eye contact with him, your own eyes slightly narrowed, assessing. There’s a faint smile on your face.

You're playing with him. 

That only pisses him off further. He won’t become another one of your victims–Crocodile races through plans in his head as he unleashes another Desert Spada, keeping you moving as he thinks. He won’t let this end with anything but his own gain. He’ll trap you and torture you until he finds out both where his money is, and where the rest of your hoard is stashed.

You’ll regret having ever made a target out of him.

Crocodile fires off both arms at you, hook aiming for your lower half to force you to jump, while his right arm forms a blanket of sand at the ground. When you inevitably land on it, he’ll be able to grab your leg and hold you still.

As he predicts, you jump over his hook and land on the sand–but somehow, for some reason, your feet do not sink in. It’s as if there’s something solid under your feet, letting you stay at the surface. At first, he’s not certain of how you’re doing it. Crocodile withdraws the sand blanket back toward him, aiming to make you trip, but you don’t so much as lose balance, simply walking forward over the sand like there are hidden stepping stones within it.

Crocodile rapidly withdraws his hook, going to catch your neck. You duck again, even doing a little twirl as you do, as if to hammer home the fact that he can’t destabilize you.

Both Crocodile’s arms revert to their usual shapes, and he stares you down. You’re only a few feet from him now. Whatever you did to avoid slipping, it must be your Devil Fruit.

“You’re making an awful mess,” you say.

“Why did you really come to Alabasta?” Crocodile questions. “It’s a long voyage from the New World–there’s plenty of game for you there.”

“I came to see you.” Again, your words carry nothing but sincerity, and you won’t stop looking into his eyes. Your own are sparkling with mischief.

“You robbed me.”

“That was just to get your attention.”

“Careful what you wish for, thief–” Crocodile fires off a sudden attack now that you’re close. You bend back, not fully dodging it, your shirt getting sliced wide open, “–because you’ve got…it...” His words slow as he sees beneath your shirt: you’re wearing lace underneath your clothes, as well as a leather harness. He frowns, trying to figure out what it all means.

“I’m liking the energy, but will you settle down a sec? You’re destroying your lovely smoking room.”

“You attacked my officers.”

“Your lackeys are lacking.” You grin to yourself at your wordplay. “Aside from that blade guy. Mr. 1, I think it was? He was more fun than the others. Couldn’t go the distance, but entertained me for a few minutes. He wasn’t your strongest goon, was he?”

Crocodile’s face twists up in rage, giving away the answer.

“He was? Goodness… Don’t you wish you had someone stronger?” You grin. “Maybe we could help each other.” 

“I don’t need your help,” he spits.

“Whatever you say,” you chirp. Then your eyes darken. “My turn now.”

You disappear. A split second later, you’ve grabbed his arm and hurled him straight through his door as if he weighed nothing. He bounces once, then catches himself, skidding backwards as he looks up, but you’re already behind him, grabbing and throwing him right back into the room.

Crocodile lets his form break up into sand, re-forming a distance away to give him a moment to spot you. His head whips left and right; you instead come from above, a brutal axe kick to his head that throws him onto his hands and knees. Pain thuds through his skull, and he clenches his teeth. Every time you make contact, there’s a moment he can’t transform. It’s that damned Haki of yours–he needs to become sand in the time you’re away from him. He dissipates once more, moving in a random direction away. You aren’t deterred at all–Observation Haki, too, it must be– as you’re right in front of him when he re-forms.

“Boo!” you hold your hands up like claws, making Crocodile flinch, and you smile, showing pointed canines. “Come on, Sir. I know you can do better than this.”

He can’t even bring his arms up to block before you punch him, black-fisted, directly in the solar plexus. He gasps, nearly dropping his cigar, body locking up for a moment before his knees buckle and hit the ground. There’s a faint smell of smoke that he realizes is coming from burned spots in the floor–from your feet?

Just what was your Devil Fruit power? If he didn’t figure it out, he might actually lose.

Suddenly you’re sitting on his shoulders, legs draped over his chest. Before he can move, you grab him by the root of the hair and yank his head back so you’ve forced him to look into your eyes. You have the cigar you stole in your mouth. Holding his head still, you lean forward and touch the tip of your cigar to his, lighting yours with an inhale. Then you exhale in his face.

Enraged, Crocodile grabs you by the neck and slams you into the floor. You grunt. He lifts and slams you again, then lifts you one more time, arm extending fast to harshly slam you into the wall. He follows swiftly, tightening his grip. He can’t kill you yet, not yet.

“I gotta say, Sir,” you say, a little strained, still smiling, “you seem to know exactly what I’m into.”

Crocodile brings his hook to your pretty face. Maybe he’ll give you another scar. Your eyes drop down to the sharp tip of his hook, then back up to his. You open your mouth, letting the cigar fall out. Then, slowly, keeping full eye contact, you lick along the hook.

Oh. You have a body mod there, too–a split tongue, each side curving around the hook and sliding up, their tips scraping the point of it. Caught off guard, Crocodile can only stare, feeling his blood surge and his pulse quicken. You smile knowingly.

“Everyone wants to know what it feels like.”

Another one of your tricks. He won’t fall for it, not when he literally has you in his clutches. Your Haki may be powerful, but you’ve made a mistake letting him make contact with you like this. He’ll simply dehydrate you, drawing out just enough moisture for you to cling to life, and will only grant you water when you tell him what he wants to know.

Crocodile focuses.

Nothing happens.

His brow furrows, gritting his teeth, and he focuses again. You stay utterly whole and perfect.

“Why isn’t it working?” you say. “Why won’t I shrivel up? Is that what you’re thinking? Maybe I just can’t stay dry when you play rough with me like this.”

“Once I have my funds back,” Crocodile hisses, “I’m going to kill you so slowly you’ll beg me for death.”

“Come on, Sir. If you’re so upset about the money, I could give it back. I don’t really need it,” you roll your eyes on the ‘really,’ “but I don’t intend on walking away empty-handed. You understand. Us cold-blooded types get what we want, right?”

“What is it you want, Thief?”

“I want you to think of more constructive ways to vent your frustrations.”

Crocodile’s about to stab your face when his hand starts burning where it’s made contact with your neck. Iron-hot, he can’t hold on and drops you. Thinking quickly, he follows it up by bringing a blade of sand down on you while you’re beneath him.

It all happens in a moment: You catch the sand blade. A searing, scorching heat runs through his arm. The sand instantly becomes glass. 

Your fingers dig into the glass and shatter it one-handed, your predatory gaze reflected in the thousand falling pieces all around him.

He’s stunned. At that moment, you grab him by the shirt collar and pull him down to your level, close to your face.

“You know, baby crocodiles, before they grow into apex predators, are prey for pretty much everything,” you smile. “Birds, fish, wild pigs… Snakes…”

You throw him onto the ground, the rubble digging into his back, and straddle his chest.

“You may be a threat in Paradise,” you continue, “but you’d get eaten alive in the New World. That’s why you left, isn’t it? Couldn’t hold your own among monsters like Whitebeard.”

Whitebeard. Crocodile grimaces at the mention, still feeling the sting of that loss. You shake your head.

“Now now, don’t feel bad,” you say. “He got me too.” You point to your scar. “Crusty geezer almost took my damn eye out, but not before I robbed him. He’s gotten slow.”

Suddenly, he remembers where he’s seen your bracelet, recognizing it as one of Whitebeard’s rings, one he had gotten decked by in the past. You stole the ring right off Whitebeard’s finger. He stares at you, starting to become aware of the difference between the two of you.

“You can’t beat me in strength,” you say simply, “what will you do?”

You’re right–he can’t beat you in strength. But he didn’t become the Desert King by being the strongest one. No, it’s never been about brute force. Crocodile takes in your shining eyes, your harness and lace, the sultry words you’ve been dropping, connecting the dots.

Grabbing you by the harness, Crocodile pulls you down to him for a kiss, crashing his lips into yours. As he suspected, you immediately reciprocate, parting your lips and licking into his mouth. Your split tongue is a potent distraction, as is your little moan, riling him up more than he expects. Behind you, his unsheathed, poison hook is poised to sink into your neck. You smile against his lips.

A second later, you’ve snapped the hook off its base and stabbed it into his shoulder.

“Heh… Did you think I’d fall for that?” you purr, licking your lips.

“What do you really want?” Crocodile growls.

“You’re far too smart not to have picked up on that by now. Or do you need me to spell it out for you?” You pull the hook out of his shoulder and toss it over yours, licking the blood from your finger. “You want motives? I pick strong targets because I'm bored. Everything I do, I do to entertain myself. But stealing doesn’t meet every need... I’m certain a man of your status is not wanting for company. But I’ve found that monsters like us tend to only feel sated when we’re with other monsters. Catch my drift?”

“So you’re thrill-seeking,” Crocodile says slowly.

“Please. ‘Thrill’ implies my life is in danger. It is what I’m offering you, though,” you smile. “Not that you need to worry, Sir. I won’t hurt you…unless you ask me nicely.”

“You rob me, beat up my men, and you expect me to sleep with you?” he says, incredulous.

“Not for free. I have an offer to make.”

He’s insulted you’d consider him no better than a whore, and spits out his next words.

“I don’t negotiate with thieves.”

“Let’s cut the illusion of rank. Becoming king of this land won’t erase your pirate background. You’re every bit the conniving cheat that I am.” You laugh. “I’ll return your treasure regardless. Chump change like that is meaningless to me. After passing a certain point of wealth, you start dealing in favors instead. So here’s my offer to you: Entertain me for the night. Do a good job, and I’ll join your little syndicate for a while. My power at your whim to use. I’ll let you order me around…” you trail a finger down his chest, “and I’ll behave until the end of our contract, at which point, you’re free to try and kill me again.”

A demonstration, Crocodile realizes as you get off of him. That’s what this all was: a demonstration of power, all so you could get what you wanted.

“If you only wanted to sleep with me,” he says, getting to his feet, “you could have just asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you chuckle. “Really, though. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have fought me. This wasn’t going to go anywhere until you understood the gulf that spans between us. Now, you know that when you shove me against a wall, it’s because I let you.”

You dust yourself off and stick your hands back in your pockets like nothing had happened, idly kicking a piece of rubble. Meanwhile, the gears are turning in Crocodile’s head. You defeated Mr. 1 in mere minutes, allegedly. You tossed his own self around like it was nothing, and made him look like a second-rate pirate, much less a king. You have both types of Haki and an unknown Devil Fruit… All in all, an invaluable asset to be under his control. He regards you coolly. You’re waiting patiently for his response.

“So what’ll it be?” you say, sensing he’s made a decision. “I get to have a little fun, you get your most powerful minion yet. We both win.”

“How long would you intend to work for me?” Crocodile asks.

“Depends on your performance,” you shrug. “Let’s start with a few months, and after that, well. If you make it worth sticking around…” your eyes half-lid, letting the implication hang. “Sound like a good deal to you?” You hold out your hand in offering. When Crocodile takes it, you give that predatory smile. “I look forward to working for you, Sir.”

“From now on, you’ll call me Mr. Zero,” he replies, then pauses. “...You can call me Sir in private.”

You grin. “Sorry about your smoking room. Really.”

“Nevermind that. I’ll have someone clean it up. More importantly,” Crocodile says, “what's your Devil Fruit? I’m ordering you to tell me.”

“I can amplify the force of friction,” you respond obediently. “I'm an abrasion human.”

“...You certainly are,” Crocodile says. “It suits you.”

“I think you’ll find, tonight, that it suits you too.” You smile, tugging on your harness lightly. “So, when do we start?”

Crocodile pins you to the wall.

You let him.

[pav-ia]

can you write Pavia and a s/o with big boobs? (NSFW)

MDNI

pavia x reader with big boobs hcs

cw :: implied afab but you can read it as manboobs , smut, breeding kink

i wrote the word boob too many times because i dont know any synonyms beyond tit. (i am not referring to them as “mounds of soft flesh” or similar)

• tit grabber. in the most inappropriate of places too !

-> u could be out shopping, seeing a movie, at a restaurant.. if you turn your back to him, hes gonna hug you from behind and sneak his hands up to ur chest and honk them like a clown nose. absolute menace, loves when you wear his sweaters/shirts cuz theyre so big on you and they usually show his collarbones off,,, he goes insane for ur boobs and collar bones and chest and skin

• he loves to lay on u when u cuddle but specifically on your chest

-> despite being an insomniac, he takes the sleepiest naps ever when you let him bury his face into your boobs. he says its because he likes to listen to your heartbeat but hes a stinking liar !

• fav position is either missionary or riding, loves watching them bounce.

-> in missionary he absolutely grabs ur tits and plays with them. i killed a part of myself writing this but he pops a titty in his mouth when he cums tbh ! when u ride him, he has his hands on your waist and goes feral watching them move around…

• obligatory breeding kink mention. wants to get you pregnant.

-> does not gaf if you cant get pregnant hes going to find a way. i personally dont think he has an abnormal amount of sexual stamina, slightly above average on good days. can go two rounds before he has to tap out for a few minutes. mating press???? folds your thighs up and keeps em pinned to your chest with his hands as he rails you, loves seeing ur tits get squeezed together. keeps his cum plugged inside of you either with his dick or with his fingers. when you fuck at night, collapses against the bed still buried inside of you, falls asleep on the spot. when he has to pull out, he pushes the cum back in with two fingers, gets horny, fucks you again. pouts when you need to clean urself cuz u look so pretty when ur full of him :( probably has a lactation kink icl but i will not speak more on that. nghhh i need him so bad

• yk that one position where he would lay on your lap and suck on one boob while u stroke him off

-> yeah. requests u do that at least one time a month

your hands stroke his hard length, your face flushed as he literally buries his face into your chest. hes letting out small moans, his skilled tongue swirling around your nipple. he occasionally sucks, pulling away to gasp for air. his hair is a mess, his snakebites warm from being pressed against your skin. is it so wrong to think that he has a tongue piercing? the metal presses on your nipple right along with his tongue, your fist involuntarily squeezing a little tighter as you shudder.

his moans grow in volume as he gets closer, burying himself back into your tits immediately. one of his hands were massaging the unoccupied boob, his thumb flicking over the hardened nubs. as you kept moving your hand up and down, he eventually let out a small breathy noise of pleasure as cum dribbled out of his tip, pulling away to catch his breath. he lays on your thigh, face red as he tries to recover, his hips momentarily twitching. he looks up at your flushed face and fucking grins.

also would absolutely love to die buried in your booba. if he suffocated in them he would be a happy man

[pigeonwhumps]

Courtroom

MD-264N masterlist

So um. You may notice this is not my Whumptober story. This is bc my brain decided it would only write this today. But enjoy anyway! At least I'm writing more than a sentence or two again!

Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @den-of-evil @dustypinetree @cardboardarsonist @skittles-the-whumpee

@whatwhumpcomments @whump-tr0pes @snakebites-and-ink @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds

@a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

An AU of MD-264N based on this prompt by @lumpywhump. Morgan goes on trial.

1.4k

CWs: living weapon whumpee, minor whump (discussed), past minor whump, meltdown, unintentional attempted self-harm (head banging), guns, gunshots

"I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

Asha glances across at Morgan worriedly. This is the make-or-break evidence of the trial, she's sure of it, she hasn't seen what Blue has to present but she's seen the medical aftermath of it, and she's seen Blue's reaction (she knows exactly when he cracked the files because that's when he brought her the widened cutlery for them, visibly seething). The problem is that Morgan hasn't visibly reacted to anything so far today, and Asha doesn't think that'll help in the eyes of the judges.

Also, against all medical advice, Morgan is standing for the trial. It's standard. They shouldn't be, not on that ankle, not if they don't want to make the permanent damage worse. They didn't even walk here, but apparently weapons don't get seating if they're being reprimanded, so they won't sit now.

But it's been hours, and Asha is really worried about that ankle.

Blue clears his throat and Asha snaps her attention back to him.

"As you all know, Morgan has been with the Regime's Ministry of Defence since they were eight. Within their file was video and written evidence dating back to then. Your Honours, you have the written reports in your evidence packs, but there's videos that I am going to show you chronologically." He clicks a remote control and the screen changes to the hallway of a normal-seeming family home, books and toys scattered around. The 'play' triangle is superimposed over it. "Morgan's parents were well-documented protesters, though by the time they were eight they'd both stepped back from the movement to raise their child. Morgan had several disabilities and powers, both of which put them in danger. They were known as Lili then, and this video, of their... I suppose you could say recruitment, if you want to follow the government's euphemisms, is the last evidence we have of them having a name rather than a serial number until Rhian Williams named them Morgan upon their arrival here. If I may play the video, Your Honour?"

The head judge nods, and the video starts.

There's a high-pitched giggle off-screen, and then a kid charges into view, holding a battered notebook with sticky bookmarks sticking out of the side.

Asha's breath hitches. This must be Morgan. They don't look eight. They're so small.

"Hey!"

Morgan – Lili? – giggles again. A woman runs in, grabbing Morgan around the middle and lifting them into the air. Their long brown hair flies around them, mixing with her light hair.

"Got you! Now give me my notes back!"

There's a movement in the courtroom and Asha glances over. Morgan's dropped to the floor. At first Asha thinks it's just their ankle, but then they get up, clawing at the thin wooden rail attached to the plexiglass sides. Their eyes are fixed on the screen, and at first they look no more emotional than before, but tears stream down their cheeks, and their hands tremble.

"No!"

The woman smiles and snatches the notebook. "Too late. Let's see what you've given me."

As the woman flips through the pages, Asha notices the subtitles for the first time and her breath catches in her throat. She was focused so much on Morgan she didn't notice the language switch – she's not sure how that happened. But Welsh. Morgan's Welsh. A different part of Wales to herself, it sounds like more of a borders accent to Asha's north Wales, but they're Welsh. Can they still speak it? Would it help them if she did? Make them feel less alone?

The woman's eyes widen. "Baby, you–"

A door latch clicks off-screen. "Honey, I'm home!"

Morgan grins and scrambles off the woman, running for the edge of the screen. "Tad!"

Their dad enters the video, catching Morgan around the waist and spinning them in a circle. "Hey little monster. How was your day?"

"I decorated mam's notebook! And I've been practicing my writing!"

"Here, have a look," says Morgan's mam, passing the notebook over with a smile. Their dad's grin widens.

"You wrote your name? And a whole sentence?"

Morgan nods enthusiastically.

"She did indeed. She also coloured in my notes at the same time, but I'm sure my professor won't mind too much."

Morgan's dad ruffles their hair. "Well, I think this calls for celebratory pancakes. Why don't you go and pick out the mould?"

Morgan nods and charges off-screen. Morgan's dad wilts and he runs a hand through his hair. Their mam kisses him.

"Hard day at work?"

"No kidding. I got the number for that specialist, but we don't have long. If anyone catches wind of Lili..."

"We don't have long. But let's leave today for celebrating Lili. 50p she chooses the Archimedes mould?"

"I'd be a fool to take that bet." He puts an arm around her shoulders and they wander off-screen. There's nothing for a minute, just a blank hallway with no sound. Whatever camera bug this is by the former regime, it's good quality.

"Hey baby, what'd you choose?"

"Archimedes!"

"Your favourite. Come and help me with–"

There's a fast, loud banging on a door. "Ministry of Defence! Open up!"

Someone curses. Morgan yelps.

"Lili, I will always love you. Now run. Just like we practiced."

"Mam? Tad? What's–"

"Go! We'll catch you up."

A running child's footsteps. Morgan's dad strides into the hallway and takes down a framed painting, unlocking the safe beneath it and passing a gun to their mum.

She cocks it. Was it already loaded in there? Who were Morgan's parents?

"I love you."

"And I you."

The door crashes in. The sound of gunshots fills the room, and not just from Morgan's parents. They–

"No!"

The scream is strangled and wet. Asha glances around to see Morgan on their knees, their head in their hands, rocking. They look devastated.

The video doesn't end there, as Morgan's dragged on-screen, kicking and screaming, smacked around the head until she stops, and all of this over her parents' bodies, splayed out on the wood, blood pooling around them.

There's a makeshift height chart just visible in the last shot, the pencil marks on the wallpaper sprayed with blood.

This video ends here, with Morgan's removal, but it's not the only one. Asha doesn't know how Blue can stand there and present these so calmly. There's one very soon after, with Morgan's head newly-shaved, a shock harness and mittens freshly fitted, and they look so cold. They're in shock, they're an orphan, but they're not allowed to grieve, the attitudes of the handlers makes that clear. They don't understand but nobody's giving them a chance to do so.

And so it continues. And so Morgan grows up. Never spoken of as a person, never given an inch, locked into the tiniest room, shocked until they stop moving, stop speaking. Stop resisting. Trained, punished. Taught to kill, punished when they resist, hesitate, react violently to the harsh sounds and movements and actions. Hurt until they stop hesitating, forget that they can, perhaps forget that they were ever anything but a weapon, forged in the fires of pain and desperation, purged of everything they don't actively need in an effort to survive.

But the nightmares never stop. They still haven't, Asha knows. She just didn't have the context until now.

Meanwhile, present-day Morgan is getting worse with every piece of evidence. Scrambling back when certain people come on screen, and freezing, and pleading with the videos when they think they're going to be punished. Their face is blotchy with silent tears, and they keen, rocking back and forth in distress from the latest video (active mission testing).

And then they start trying to bash their head against the plexiglass, and one of their guards has to restrain them. Asha should be there, she's their doctor, but she tries to stand and someone official shakes their head at her. It's not fair, she knows she's part of the trial, but she– she–

"They've survived worse, they'll be okay," whispers Rhian hoarsely. Asha nods, unable to speak. She should still be there.

She aches to go to them. She knew it was bad – only a fool would see a young person wearing an electroshock harness and think it wasn't – but she didn't realise it was this bad.

But she can't. She's not allowed, she can't risk the trial, they won't let her. All she can do is sit here and watch uselessly as Morgan's heart is ripped wide open, all over the very public courtroom floor.

[tired-of-being-nice]

the sound

*emerges from finals covered in blood* IM ALIVE *throws this down* *leaves*

anyway, enjoy a little showing of how coren is kept in line!

cws: brainwashing/conditioning, sensory overload (sort of), willing brainwashing

Coren's head isn't working right. It feels all floaty, not quite attached to its body. By the time it got back to where it was supposed to be it was already late in the day and it was too exhausted to give a proper explanation of why it was so late and what it was doing last night. It just begged forgiveness as much as it could when it couldn't think in coherent sentences, much less speak, and now it's sitting on a chair putting all its strength into staying upright and waiting patiently to be told what its punishment is.

It hopes it's the noise. It really, really hopes that. Not just because the alternative is being alone and it can't bear being alone, but because it's so tired and it can't think straight and the noise will help with that, it always does. It'll fix Coren. Make them able to do their job again. Coren wants to be able to do a good job. They want to so badly.

Its head hurts so terribly, which is good, because if it didn't it thinks it would probably slide right off the chair and collapse onto the ground, but it hurts, it hurts so much, the lights are too bright in here and their thoughts are chasing each other in circles and their ears are starting to ring–

"–ren? Coren?" 

Coren blinks and squints at the blurry figure in front of them until it resolves into the shape of Erica, their...manager, or handler, or whatever it is you want to call her.

"Hi, Erica," they mumble. "I don't feel good."

"I can tell that," Erica says with a raised eyebrow, and Coren shrinks back in shame. "What are you holding?"

Coren turns their head to stare at the spatula clutched in their hand. "I, um...dunno."

Erica sighs. "Well, I don't have time to pry it away now. Come on. We've decided you need some more time with the Sound."

Coren perks up immediately and follows behind Erica obediently, mustering their protesting body through the few steps with the promise of soon, soon, soon.

The noise room is empty and white and clean, and Erica shoves Coren inside in a way they'd protest usually but today are grateful for.

The door shuts behind them, and there's a slight click from the speakers, and then the Sound comes on.

It's like white noise but more, resounding, near-deafening, filling the room and your mind until you can't hear yourself think, let alone scream.

(They did use to scream, didn't they? They almost remember that, every time they come in here. But it never sticks— the sound takes it away, and besides, they don't want to remember something so unpleasant.)

Coren sighs, slumping bonelessly to the floor, a dazed smile spreading across their face. The noise drowns out any thoughts, rises and falls in waves, crashing against Coren's brain and gently smoothing away all the pesky contradictory thoughts that had been nagging at them. The ache of starvation fades from their limbs, and the haze of sleepiness melts from their mind. Everything is fine. Everything is alright. 

(but milo–) shhhh (but i have to–) shhhhhh (i'm still hungry–) shhhh (i can't rememb–) shhhhhhhh

This is so nice. Coren doesn't need to worry now. What was there to worry about, anyway? They're safe. The Company has them. The Company loves them.

Their fingers loosen, and the spatula drops from their hand, forgotten.

that's right! it was an EMOTIONALLY SIGNIFICANT SPATULA this whole time! haha!

taglist: @whumpsoda @snakebites-and-ink

[whumped-by-glitter]

A Quick View of Tallis' Banding System

⚠️CW: Institutionalized Slavery

Just a bit of lore dump since I've gotten a few questions about it.

Here are 3 different classes of slave bands. These are differentiated by different metals. They indicate what the slave is trained for is also (usually) an indication of their master's social class. Slaves are also sometimes referred to “[type] band”.

Gold bands:

the highest “rank” of slave. They are owned by the royal family. They are split into 2 categories- Palace and Personal slaves. Both categories can be used for entertainment, though it’s more common for personal slaves.

Personal slaves are owned by a specific member of the royal family and tend to their every need. They also perform bodyguard duties if necessary. They are distinguished by a jewel embedded on the bale of the O ring on their collar. Their uniform includes a corset vest with solid boning in the back and front. This restricts their movements and provides an extra layer of safety to the royal they serve. It is essentially a cage hidden behind fancy fabric. Personal slaves, sometimes called gem slaves, do have a small amount of authority over other slaves. They are usually the most highly trained/ specifically skilled.

The palace slaves do not have a specific master and instead answer to a servant overseer. They help in the kitchens as well as laundry, housekeeping, and working the stables, among many other important jobs, such as repairs and groundskeeping. They keep the palace functional and running smoothly.

Silver bands:

They are slaves owned by nobles. Silver bands are used for housekeeping, childcare, food service, and protection. However, usually they are just used for entertainment. They are often the least educated of the 3 classes and the most mistreated. The nobles usually see them as disposable and easily replaced.

Brass bands:

The final class of slaves are the brass bands, sometimes called drudge slaves. Owned by commoners, they are the heartbeat of Tallis. Without them the kingdom’s economy would collapse. Ironically, they are generally treated the best out of the three classes. They are usually given days off, and often have their own living quarters. Sometimes entire villages must pool their resources to buy them, so they are rarely mistreated since they can’t be easily replaced. Their masters often get to know them and care about them. They are usually educated in the most basic reading, writing, and math, if at all.

Potential jobs include (but not limited to)-

Miller

Farm hand

Running the shop when their master is away.

Childcare

Laundry

Stable keep

Construction

And many other jobs requiring heavy lifting or are tedious or time consuming.

@whumpsandbumps, @whumperofworlds, @skittles-the-whumpee, @3-2-whump, @wounds-seen-and-unseen

@generic-whumperz, @emptycalories-splitlip, @pigeonwhumps, @i-eat-worlds, @starfields08000

@onlywhump, @snakebites-and-ink, @aloafofbreadwithanxiety, @turvuren, @whumps-and-bumps

@paingoes, @spectral-whumpy-writer, @vampiresprite, @whumping-in-the-dark

I am also creating an 18+ blog to include spicier scenes and content. It'll be the same story, just with add parts. please let me know if you want to be added to that taglist instead or as well.

[snakebites-and-ink]

🐍 Snakebites-and-Ink Master Masterlist 🖋️

INFO

Welcome

About me + my blog

Guidelines/policies

CWs

Old masterposts: 1 2

OTHER PROFILES

My Ko-fi (virtual tip jar)

My whump-writing-focused sideblog: @snakewrites-and-ink

My goblin (fediverse)

My Pillowfort

MY WRITING

✔=Completed | ◐=In progress | ◼=On hold On hiatus from series and miniseries until further notice

Series

⚡ Technically Not Human (working title) ◐ Nolan signs away his freedom and goes to an institution that trains superhumans to serve the highest bidder.

🖱️ Asher the IT Pet ✔ What if someone who was legally a pet were allowed to have a life like a free person?

🤕 Whumper-turned-Caretaker CYOA ✔ What it says on the tin.

Miniseries

♒ Living Weapon Aquarius ◐

🔊 Hero Brainwashed to Villain's Living Weapon ✔

🪶 Sky's the Limit ◼

🦹 Hero Villain Amnesia interactive ◼

🐝 Separate ✔

Events & Collections

❄️ Whumpuary 2024

🎄 Whumpmas in July 2024

☀️ Augusnippets 2024

🎃 Whumptober 2024

🍂 Whumptember 2023 (retroactive)

🌹 Febuwhump 2025 (retroactive)

✒️ 5 sentence fics + May 2024 challenges

🎼 Seven Songs of Suffering (others' work, hosted here)

Drabbles/Standalones

✒ Pet Whumpee + Broken Dish

✒ Recovering Clone Whumpee

✒ Already Trained

✒ Reluctant Whumper Whumpee

✒ Irresistible

✒ The Psychic's Revenge

✒ Hypnotic Caretaker

✒ Emerald Jewel Wasp-Inspired Whump

✒ Tangled in Thorns

✒ Doppelgänger

✒ Affectionate handler + living weapon

✒ Everything is Fine

✒ Villain being "redeemed"

✒ Work injury caretaking

✒ Caretaker Made Whumper

✒ Ember (not whump)

✒ Vigilante's Recognition

OTHER STUFF

Tags

My blog’s main tags

Curating your experience

Ongoing games/events

Send me a June of Doom + August of Whump combo request!

[auxryn]

So my son told me to paint up the other dinosaur which we got together. Now I have a second Gargantuan Squiggoth.

I call her Big Red.

The triceratops had a lot of cybernetic modifications, but Red was already plenty smashy so I figured she didn't need new gubbins. Instead I worked on giving her a comfy saddle pad and pretty Snakebites colors.

The howdah was made with some foamboard and a collection of popsicle sticks. I added some orky glyphs for flair.

The Supa Kannon is an old Kromlech piece that I can remove and use separately if needed. Her crew are all grots who take very good care of her. Sort of like the relationship between an alcoholic handler and a circus elephant. (cw animal cruelty on that link)

There is one more grot I want to add (a little guy hauling a shell) but I don't know where he has gotten to.

The howdah is magnetized and detachable which should help with transport.

I enjoyed painting the tyrannosaurus part the most. It was fun to do the mouth and eyes, and to play around with all the skin.

[starrypawz]

The goths are horny but also tipsy (cw for alcohol use, other content notes on the AO3 link)

They both thank their lucky stars that once again Nemo’s roommates are elsewhere for the evening. 

Nemo moulds to his body as he has them with their back pressed against the bedroom door. He pulls one leg up around his hip as he kisses them over and over. Eager if a bit off kilter. 

(That can be blamed on the… several snakebites and blacks they’ve downed over the evening between the two of them.) 

His eager if a little off kilter attentions shift to their neck and Nemo gasps as they grip onto his shirt. 

He pulls back. Both grin breathlessly at each other, their respective black lipsticks beyond smudged. Gerry’s hand shifts to cup and squeeze one of Nemo’s tits and then

“What,” He tugs at one of the buckles on the front of Nemo’s shirt, a low cut thing that’s been taunting him with glimpses of their fishnet clad chest all night, “The fuck,”

Nemo giggles, “It’s not a real buckle,”

He gives another tug, “That’s fucking rude,” 

Nemo giggles again as he groans, forehead presses against the door as the weight of the great injustice of being denied easy access to their tits hits him. 

Nemo’s fingers wander to slip under his shirt. A cropped one that reveals a tempting expanse of fishnet clad skin. 

“You’re one to talk!” Nemo protests with tipsy indignation. 

Gerry makes some tipsy little sound that’s some variant on ‘Huh?’ 

“It’s sewn in!” Nemo tugs on the shirt. 

He snorts.

“Sorry,” He tipsily drags the word out before he turns his attention back to their neck and Nemo shudders as their hands drift lower to- 

“Fuck’s sake”” 

“Now what?” 

“Why…” Nemo whines, “Do you have a belt that doesn’t do anything?” Nemo tugs on the offending studded belt worn at an angle over his hips. 

“Sorry,” He tipsily drags the word out as he mumbles against their neck and then moans as Nemo palms him and he bucks his hips against them. Nemo’s fingers make surprisingly swift work considering the circumstances of his fly and shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough. 

Nemo’s reward is another moan as they wrap a fishnet clad hand around him and tease him with slow strokes and they giggle as he twitches as their thumb brushes the head of his cock. 

Nemo gasps as he grabs them, manages to switch their positions, if slightly shakily. 

Thankfully there's no frustrating barriers when he hikes up their skirt and pushes their underwear to the side. He’s clumsier than normal as he takes a few long moments to tease them but he has them whimpering in short order as he teases slick flesh 

“Ger!” Nemo moans as he fingers them and they dig their fingers into his shoulder. 

He lifts one of their legs around his hip and Nemo clings onto him as he slips into them with a groan. 

It’s not one of their more elegant fucks. But he manages to keep them both upright, shakily as he thrusts. 

He’s over the edge in no time. Too soon judging from the frustrated whimper as he spills into Nemo. 

He groans as he gives a couple more thrusts before he pulls out.

Nemo pouts.

“Sorry,” He sighs as he cups their cheek then gives a breathless, tipsy grin, “Don’t worry,” as he drops to their knees.

Nemo reaches out to run a hand through his hair.

He runs his fingers over the top of their thigh high sock before he continues the evening’s theme of ‘eager if a bit off kilter’ as he trails kisses across their inner thigh.

He gets to work. Licks, sucks and fingers them as he swallows himself down with muffled moans as Nemo buries a hand into his hair as they whimper above him as they grind against his face. 

“Good… Good boy,” Nemo croons, tipsy and giggly.  Then gasps and gives a soft little whined “Fuck,” As they finally go over the edge.

Their grip slackens and he pulls away, pants as he focuses on teasing their clit to chase them through their climax and somehow Nemo manages to stay upright even as they shake. 

“Oh,” Nemo bends downward and flicks their tongue just under his lip to catch an errant drop of cum before they kiss him as he laughs.