#LIKE SCRATCH THAT!!! FUCKING SCRATCH THAT!! he wasn't even a player he was a fucking PIECE in the game

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Male Harem of Bullies

Kinktober Day 9: Bullies/Gang Bang

Four Male Animal-Human Hybrid Yanderes x Feminized Male Ferret-Hybrid Reader CW: Noncon, ass eaten like it's groceries, bullying, fivesome, gang bang, double penetration, triple penetration, more double penetration, forced feminization, crossdressing, kidnapping, non-human genitalia, massive horse dick, colossal rhino cock, slimy reptilian dicks, rhino-man, horse-man, lizard-man, bull-man, male harem, oral sex, anal sex, bottom reader, general yandere behavior Word Count: 2k (Slightly different from my initial vision but much better imho, made to be expanded on with drabbles involving each man, possibly multiple drabbles with each exploring different situations.)

Baryn the Bully. A brash, arrogant, cocky, oversexed rhino hybrid jock who thought more with his dick than his brain. He was the star of the college's football team, so of course, he was extremely popular.

You were the complete opposite. A small, intelligent, and soft spoken male ferret hybrid. A total nerd. Always kept your head down, and often between the pages of a book.

While he was a bit rude to the other geeks, he reserved his worst behavior for you. Trapping you in your locker, pantsing you, making fun of you.

There wasn't any recourse. There was no way the college was going to punish their most talented football player. And you weren't made of money, you couldn't just transfer to another school.

And you didn't want to leave anyway! Why should you? You liked your classes, you had friends in your dorm, and you only lived one town away from family. You could handle a little bullying if it meant keeping all those perks. Not to mention the campus library. It was colossal. And where you spent the vast majority of your spare time.

That's where you were on the night of the big football game, in the library studying with your friend, and roommate, Nat. With the vast majority of students preparing to watch the game with their friends from their dorms or attend live, the library was nearly empty.

"I have to use the restroom, I'll be right back."

Nat made a sound of acknowledgment as he continued his studies.

On your way out of the restroom, you smacked right into Baryn. A wall of thick grey muscle. What the hell was he doing in the library at all, let alone before a big game? You flicked your tail nervously as he smirked at you wickedly. You only saw that expression on him before he bullied you in some way. You noticed he was carrying a large gym bag.

"Just who I was looking for!"

Baryn gave you no time to complain as he quickly stuffed you into the duffel bag and left. It stank heavily of the rhino's heady musk, the smell making you quite a bit dizzy. You had no idea where he was taking you. Despite your shouts and thrashing, no one stopped to help. Either they were too scared of the big rhino-man, or they recognized him and figured it was just a silly jock or frat prank.

And you had thought it was some fucked up joke too. Maybe he was going to keep you in this bag during the game or put you in a locker, but it was far worse than that.

You felt the bag being set down gently. It was opened soon after that. You immediately leapt out, claws at the ready. You scratched and bit at Baryn's tough skin. You didn't even register that he was naked. He chuckled as the most you managed to do was cause a stray trickle of blood here and there.

"Love it when ya start throwin' a hissy fit."

He smacked your ass playfully before  he started removing your clothing. By then, tears were running down your face as you cried in frustration.

"F-fuck off! Give me m-my clothes!"

He sat on the sofa and pulled you into his lap. A strong hand was over your mouth, and he held you close, forcing you to lean back into his chest. He nuzzled your neck, careful not to poke you with the horn that tipped his nose.

"Just relax, darlin." You're gonna help me and the bros with a lil' pre-game tradition we have."

He took his free hand and fondled your cock and balls.

"We always have a good fuck before a big game! The gals we normally use weren't available for the job. It's super easy, y'all ain't even gotta do any work. Just be a good fleshlight for us."

At that, you thrashed and let out muffled screams, you didn't want this fucker's dick in you. Just then, the door burst open, and the other top three football players who were members of Baryn's frat barged in.

Mikael, the part horse hybrid. He was really tall but still pretty muscular. His ears and tail were the only visible horse traits, but there were rumors his dick was horse-like, too.

Alvaro, the lizard hybrid. He was a bit short but extremely strong. Eyes like a snake, with scales framing his face and covering his arms, legs, and tail.

The final one inside was Krash, at least that's what everyone called him. He was a bull man. He was as tall and muscled as Baryn, but fur covered his entire body with the exception of his face. He was also equipped with two large curved horns.

All of your bullies were assembled to make your life worse.

"Yo, you already started without us?" Inquired Alvaro.

"Nah, I was just explaining the job to our new girlfriend. About how she just has to stay still and let it happen. I hadn't gotten to the part about how we decided that she would be our girlfriend permanently, though," explained Baryn.

You were trembling. The way that they were staring at you. The way they were talking. They were insane.

Mikael leaned down and licked up your tears before chuckling.

"Aww, don't be scared. We won't hurt you, cutie. You're lucky. We all wanted to share a girlfriend for our pre-game tradition, and we all had a crush on you! Don't you feel lucky?" he said in a mocking tone.

"Course we're all bi, but kinda prefer women. More acceptable for my family, too. So we've decided that you're a lady now. And none of us gentlemen would bully a lady, so if you cooperate, we'll treat ya a lot better," the rhino cooed into your ear while rubbing your thighs.

"N-no! Just let me go! You aren't treating me b-better, j-just trading one torture for a-a-another!!" You began sobbing and shaking inconsolably.

Not to worry though, you're four new boyfriends knew just how to cheer up their little lady friend. You were clearly just moody and upset by a lack of proper attention. You obviously needed their seed in your belly.

Krash wordlessly kneeled between your legs and held your legs still with his strong hands. He used his broad tongue to apply thick drool to your hole, slipping it into you and massaging it as well as he could. You had to be as stretched, lubed, and relaxed as possible if you were going to take all of them.

You twitched and shuddered as the unwelcome intrusion made your cock stand up.

"Pl-please sto-," you whined pitifully before being cut off by Mikael.

"Stop? You clearly like it!" He leaned over Krash and rubbed a finger up and down your cock to tease you.

Baryn bit and sucked on your neck before you could reply, causing your mind to go a bit blank with how good it felt in conjunction with Krash's sloppy tongue tending to your ass.

"I think that means she's ready," someone chuckled. You couldn't tell who, though. Your brain was soup. It must have been Baryn because he was the first to slip his cock into you once Krash stopped licking.

It must have been more rhino like than human because the ridges and folds made you drool when you felt them slowly move back and forth against your inner walls. While Baryn continued fucking into you slowly Krash decided to suck on your leaking dick.

"Damn, she really does like it," Alvaro mused as you bucked instinctively into Krash's warm, inviting mouth.

You moaned as you came and then relaxed quite a bit. Since you were so well stretched and much more compliant now, Krash got up and positioned himself in front of you and slipped his dick in beside Baryn's. The stretch was uncomfortable but not painful. They were careful to go at a slow pace that their previously virgin girlfriend could handle.

Krash didn't last too terribly long. He had forgotten to jerk off several times so that he could last a long time like the others had told him to. With a grunt, he emptied his large furry nuts into you, then pulled out and let Alvaro take his place.

Alvaro, being reptilian, had two hard cocks ready to sink into you. And he did so eagerly. Both of them were slimy and tapered and had no issue fitting into you, especially with Krash's cum having lubed you up so well. He went at a faster pace than Krash had or Baryn was.

Luckily, you were ready by that point. Baryn matches his pace since you were taking them so well. Both men whispered praises into your ear since you were taking them all just so perfectly. Alvaro claimed your mouth with his and snaked his long tongue into your mouth.

Your whole body shuddered around their dicks as you came again, this time from their cocks battering a special spot inside of you.

"So sex hungry, this one. Can't wait for my turn."

Mikael didn't have a long wait. Baryn and Alvaro finally unloaded into you simultaneously, a vast torrent of cum that started to bulge out your belly.

"Fuck, you're the best hole I've ever had!"

Alvaro pulled out after making sure he finished loading you with his semen.

"Yeah, darlin' we're gonna have to do this a lot."

With a loud squelch, Baryn lifted you up and swapped places with Mikael, who quickly settled you on his dick. The flared tip went in easily with how "well-loved" your hole was from your other three boyfriends. He had you facing him so he could kiss your fucked out face.

Your stare was blank, your face flushed, and the only sounds you could make was feeble mewling as hid large equine prick made an outline in your belly. He pressed your face into his armpit so that you could get a nose full of his pheromone laden musk. He needed you to reek of him.

After that, the horse hybrid bit at your neck, all while he pounded into you tirelessly. When he eventually came, it made your belly bulge further. When he pulled out an incredible amount of cum dribbled down his cock and onto his balls.

You were tired but remained conscious, your brain struggling to comprehend the violation that just occurred. Your body was limp. At least it made you easy to clean up.

"Girls just need dick to calm them down, I guess," mumbled Arvalo.

"Well, I reckon we know what to do when she gets bratty," Baryn replied.

They took you gently and cleaned you up in the tub, all of them praising you for doing so well. Once they had you clean, they dressed up in a cheerleader outfit. It was the cutest thing they had ever seen. It had been a wise decision to bribe your roommate Nat to get your measurements for them while you slept. You were embarrassed but didn't complain. You knew it wouldn't do any good. The will to fight had been thoroughly fucked out of you.

They each scented you and your clothing to make sure their combined smell clung to you. No one would dare touch their precious nerdy girlfriend.

When it was time for the game, they had you sit beside the benched players, right between some players they trusted. You looked down awkwardly the majority of the time with your tail curled closely around you. They won that game by a wider margin than they had won any game before! They chalked it up to their newly enhanced tradition of bedding you combined with your presence at the game.

It was certainly something they'd have to do every single time!

[suempu]

a segment from the first pro gamer bf! kinich post

-> gn reader, maybe ooc kinich, fluff, not proofread i scratch my head

"isn't this a little bit inconvenient?"

kinich murmurs , a bit of your sweater's sleeves was threatening to slip through his lips, the cotton making him gag and spit.

"yes, you're my moral support." you say simply. both your arms were wrapped around his neck while he laid his head against your stomach, the buttons on the controller click and clank while he watches your 23rd run on hades.

he hums, running his hands on your thighs that was surrounding his body. feeling like a snug caterpillar in its cocoon, kinich wiggles in your embrace, getting comfortable knowing that you weren't beating the game any time soon.

"i hate dungeon crawlers." he comments, hearing you grumble and mutter curses from above him.

"this fucking minotaur won't leave me— ALONE, WHAT THE FUCK!?"

his head is shaking and tossing in between your arms as you let out a half cry-half scream.

muttering to yourself from above him, "fuckin hate this stupid ass game."

kinich lets out a soft laugh, eyes watching zagreus come up from the pool of blood on screen.

"you think this is funny?" you grumble. "i died. and you're laughing. you're a horrible support."

he smiles, finding amusement in your antics. this wasn't his first rodeo when dealing with you. and it certainly wasn't going to be the last.

getting up from his position, he turns slightly and soothes a hand up and down your thigh before pecking your cheek. "this is why i stick to shooters."

you scoff, "yeah, as if your kind isn't well known for being the bitchiest."

he stretches your cheek with a frown while you whine and wiggle in his arms.

"stop being racist to the fps player community. or i'm getting you cancelled on twitter."

you laugh in garbles, distorted by his fingers pinching and pulling at your face.

"i can already see the headlines— 'pro player's significant other, racist to the fps community despite boyfriend specializing in it!"

kinich smiles before releasing your cheeks. he pats and caresses it in apology, kissing your nose and then your lips.

seeing you calm down, he peppers even more kisses across your face. "there. now never call me a bad support ever again."

[thewertsearch]

Ask Comp 13/04

@bladekindeyewear submitted: You've noticed something important: Everyone seems to have come down with the SAME items that John gave them on their birth meteors. That means that excluding some incredible shenanigans, the ectobiology that created the kids only happened ONCE, and we're unlikely to see some weird repeat. John did it. In his session. Before the Scratch. Have you noticed the problem yet? In the Trolls' session, all of the ectobiology was done by KARKAT. In a session we now know was a POST-SCRATCH one. p=4053:

The Pre-Scratch trolls were forced to invoke the Scratch to even be BORN. And Lord English is somehow responsible. And this is apparently Lord English's "calling card". Utterly terrifying.

Yup. English's 'already-hereness' applies to more than just his physical presence, it seems!

Anonymous asked: I believe I sent an ask some time ago, regarding my eagerness towards seeing you take on my favorite character. At the time, I noted that their introduction was still a ways off, but now the moment is just about at hand and I couldn't possibly be more thrilled. Happy blogging, and welcome to Act 6! ^u^

Thank you! You're presumably talking about one of the new Players, and their introduction has certainly been a lot of fun for me so far. For the first time in forever, we're getting a new set of protagonists!

@sanctferum asked: seems like nobody has mentioned it yet, but 10/25, the day Cascade came out (and one of Homestuck's arc numbers, with 1025 being what you get when adding 413 and 612 together), was christened "Gristmas" by the fandom. Intermission 2, meanwhile, was (very fittingly) a Halloween upd8. Act 6 started on 11/11/11, so the arc number there is various configurations of 1 or 11. Truly the most important thing to happen on 11/11/11 and let neither man nor tod say otherwise.

Gristmas is pretty great - and thank you, I'll keep an eye out for long strings of ones. I imagine that we'll be seeing one on Jane's Cruxtruder, at the very least.

Anonymous asked: I'm surprised that no one pointed out that Hussie describing the story of the Troll Ancestors as Fanfiction is actually an accurate accusation In-Universe. As after, Doc Scratch took the trolls' original story, and rewrote it into how he wanted it to go. Anonymous asked: If you think about it, since Scratch is responsible for Alternia being such a hellhole when it originally wasn't, it is technically his "troll fanfiction".

Oh, I like that. Scratch is, after all, both the instigator and the narrator of the Ancestors' fucked-up lives, which does indeed put him in a position akin to that of a fanfiction writer. This Scratch-as-author stuff has layers, huh?

@manorinthewoods asked: If it was Bec's put-Jade-to-bed instincts that caused her revival, then Vriska's abuse of Jade to practice her powers on humans was the reason Jade survived Act 5. ~LOSS (9/1/24)

Good point, actually - but fucking hell, don't tell her that. You already know how insufferable she'd be about it.

Anonymous asked: Unsure if it was simply not mentioned, but in case you missed it there are two other messages on Jane's computer: Submit and Cease Reproduction

So there are.

CEASE REPRODUCTION, in particular, makes a lot of sense, now that I think about it. After all, I doubt the Condesce actually wants to rule over humanity; instead, she probably wants to exterminate them, so that they can be replaced with a brand-new cohort of trolls.

@joyfulldreams asked: Detective Pony is absolutely a masterwork of fanfiction. It has the original version on AO3, an equally excellent podfic by NakedBee, and then the podfic was later adapted by NakedBee into a full feature-length film. It has basically Legend status and in some ways has been partially(???) canonized because of how widely regarded it is by the fandom at large to be Legit. There is also a similar fic called Theatre of Coolty, a fanfic written in the format of a play, which I believe was written by the same person who voice acted DS in the Detective Pony podfic (DuckFace, I think) which NakedBee adapted into a short film. Recommend watching Theatre of Coolty before touching Detective Pony, tbh, it's much shorter and more easily digestible. (Both are EXTREMELY DENSE TEXTS.) Also you probably shouldn't touch either until you've finished Act 6, unfortunately. Theatre of Coolty has a minor spoiler for something pretty late in Act 6, and while Detective Pony doesn't TECHNICALLY have any REAL spoilers as-is (the movie has visuals that could be considered more spoilery), the entire thing is basically a deep dive into DS's character and you really ought to understand DS better before getting into it. (You don't even know his name yet!) @creamcloud0 asked:I don't know if it's what you were implying in your tags but i would absolutely LOVE seeing your dissection of Detective Pony. @heliotropopause asked: since we're doing this, The Serendipity Gospels should now also be spoiler-free, though i haven't double-checked, nor read the unfinished act three that's only available on tumblr. and yeah, very much seconded on sonnetstuck's Detective Pony- it'd spoil DS's name if you read it right now, along with maybe one other thing that'll get revealed soon, but it should be fine to read quite soon, and is one of the absolute best fanworks i've ever read. there's also a very high quality hours-long puppet theatre video adaptation of it made by someone else, but the visuals there contain spoilers up to pretty much the very end of the comic. ben-guy asked: The detective pony fic is absolutely still full of spoilers, if only for later kid bro characterization @pechikka asked: Im gonna be real. I don't even think of Detective Pony as a fanwork. To me it's just part of Homestuck's extended quasicanon to the same degree the epilogues are, and a crucial part of how I read kid bro as a character. It's THAT spot on to the characters and themes of Homestuck itself and it's a fascinating read. For obvious reasons tho that does means I absolutely cannot recommend anyone read it until kid bro has been introduced and has had a long while to be established as a character. @publicuniversalworstie asked: Seconding the Detective Pony recommendation as hard as I can, but I'd recommend saving it for after you finish the main comic at least. It's essentially a D-Stri character study. @hussianphilosopher submitted: There's really only one Hussie quote that matters.

(Thirding or fourth-ing or fifth-ing the Detective Pony recs, though I would argue that you need to wait a while before you read it - you need to meet teen-Bro and have seen quite a bit of him to actually get what it's going for.) Hussie's commentary is really interesting and deserves to be read if you like the comic, but the most recent and (in my opinion) most enlightening parts pretty much assume that you've read the Epilogues. If and when you're ever interested it's all wrapped up in the Homestuck Unofficial Collection.

I'm moving Detective Pony up on the list, because this all sounds amazing. We already know from the Auto-Responder conversation that Kid Bro is a pretty weird dude, so a deep dive into his character via a horse girl parody sounds like a hell of a time.

As for The Serendipity Gospels, if I can vet it completely for spoilers, it might finally be time for my first fanfiction analysis. After all, I've been waiting for this one for years.

Anonymous asked: How many doomed timelines have Sally and Sahlee made from their continued insistence on trying to break the Incipisphere even after seeing how utterly fucked they'd be from attempting that?

Less than you'd think, honestly. They'd definitely make a few, especially in the first days of the session, but once they start to understand how Doomed Timelines worked, they'd probably try to ensure their experiments were less destructive.

That's not to say they'd stop trying to violate the Alpha Timeline - but it does mean they'd be smarter about it, potentially abusing systems like the Scratch to create some additional non-doomed timelines. I can't tell you where their experiments would lead, though - not until I'm more familiar with Sburb's deeplore myself.

@elkian asked: Obviously Jake types on the coat sleeves, Power Glove-style xD @thelegendofgreg-2 asked: "Jake, for god's sake. How are you typing on a coat?" I am choosing to believe right now as of this very moment that every single one of the rainbow flashing boxes on the lining of his coat is a teeny tiny computer screen, and he has a keyboard hidden under one of the arms of his coat It's very practical

I do think that the sleeves are the best choice here - but I also like the idea that his clawed slipper is an integral part of the setup, with buttons on the soles that he needs to shift his weight to press. A shift key, perhaps?

This thing's just so awesomely impractical. Grandma Jade was a real one.

@library-seraph asked: "Michael Cera's a strange choice for one of these portraits. He's neither a harlequin, nor a gentleman, and thus doesn't really fit Dad's normal aesthetic." This is a fandom injoke, actually. So many people joked that the guy wearing the groucho glasses in the egbert house's hallway looked like michael cera despite it not being him, that Hussie decided to shout out the meme

Ah, that makes sense.

Sometimes, I wonder how many of the comic's 'confusing' moments are actually fandom in-jokes that I don't have the context to understand. To get that context, I need these messages, so keep 'em coming!

Anonymous asked: it truly is like, the greatest jape of all that your blog popularity is coinciding with the tumblr fanbase popularity of homestuck

No kidding? I wasn't aware there was an uptick in the fandom's Tumblr presence, but I'm happy to hear it!

The last thing I want to do is finish the comic, stroll into the fandom, and discover that it died before I was ready to engage with it. Not that that wouldn't be kind of funny.

@elkian asked: Possibly one of the funniest things about the Alpha Reboot here is finding out Jane, of her familysquad if not the humans as a whole (depending on how sincere Rose was about her taxidermy Jaspers rage) who has a problem with embalment. Everyone else has been involved in the taxidermy or other preservation of some kind of corpse; I was gonna exclude Bro but then remembered the horsebib.

Jane, Homestuck's primary cast is all weird as fuck. You need to get with the program.

@abysswarlock asked: AR to Jake: “Here’s your problem”

Jake's response:

Anonymous asked: while not that big of a deal on the grand scheme of things, the revelation that rose gets her eloquence and wordiness from her father is perhaps my favorite revelation in all of hs.

I like it too! Based on what Bro was like with Dave, I expect his kidsona to be the strong, silent type, but - assuming he's as chatty as AR - I really like Hussie's decision to make him a yapper.

It feels right, somehow - and I hope it means that he's the one who wrote this session's GameFAQs guide.

Anonymous asked: One of my favorite bits of the Auto-responder's replys to Jake is the % of how close the responses are to Bro's goes down as Jake catches on, dude is having the time of his life messing with him

This guy really is hilarious. He's honestly going to be a pretty tough act for the real Little Bro to follow.

Anonymous asked: ive sent an ask like this in the early days. but il say i have never been so extraordinarily possessed by a 2014 era fan of homestuck in its UPD8 era than i have been waiting all these days for the D Stri inteoduction chatlog. for reasons i am almost betting many may have expressed in this inbox already Anonymous asked: Every update you post convinces me harder that you're going to absolutely love kid bro Anonymous asked: So fucking excited for you to start analyzing kid bro it has me twirling my hair. I barely even have enough hair to twirl this is a high compliment. So excited

...that said, people have pretty high hopes for the impression he's going to make!

I'm sure that whatever vibe I get from him, one thing is already clear: he's clearly recognized as the post-Scratch kid, the Vriska of his team. His introduction is getting the most hype of any character outside of Hivebent.

Anonymous asked: "Though we adore Him we shall never enjoy His beauteous croak. We spill our blood on acres of black and white so they may cross the yellow yard. At last in Skaia's reflection through broken glass He may find the pond in which he's meant to squat." - A Prospitan book in [S] Seer: Descend.

Hey, you're right - this passage does make a lot more sense in retrospect. I guess the implication here is that Jade's frog might still be the designated Genesis Frog in the post-Scratch session...

This gels well with Umbra's earlier statement implying that Jade & co. will be slotted into the new session as Players. It also means the post-Scratch humans might not need a Space Player, since Jade can still fill that role as before.

...yeah, it's looking more and more likely that Jane's team will wield completely different Aspects to their predecessors. I honestly prefer this to the alternative, since it'll allow us to get up close and personal with four Aspects that we've previously only seen in the abridged Hivebent session - or, potentially, four Aspects we've never seen at all.

Anonymous asked: "Poppop in the attic" is a reference to the TV show Arrested Development. In one episode, Michael Cera's character is harboring his fugitive grandfather in the attic of his home. He attempts to inform his dad but he misinterprets "poppop" as a euphemism for sex or masturbation. @skelekingfeddy asked: ‘the mere fact you call it that tells him youre not ready’ is just reference to arrested development lol. basically the kid michael cera plays is hiding his grandpa/‘poppop’ in the attic away from the feds. later he tries to tell his dad but due to earlier misunderstandings he thinks ‘poppop’ is actually referring to having sex with his girlfriend. and so he tells michael cera ‘the mere fact you call making love poppop tells me youre not ready’ the auto-responder's line ‘since we've already shot that wad's eventuality on so many dry runs of flustered ambivalence’ is also an arrested development reference, albeit a much more subtle one (the original line is just ‘i prematurely shot my wad on what was supposed to be a dry run if you will’) @random2908 asked: Maybe others mentioned this already, but the stuff about Poppop and the attic is a quote from the tv show Arrested Development. There's a bit where Poppop is hiding in the attic, only Michael Cera knows he's there, and his father is trying to give him a sex talk and misinterprets "poppop" as a euphemism. It's been a while, but IIRC Hussie makes a few Arrested Development references in early Act 6; fans speculated at the time that they must have just watched the show for the first time.

Ah. I've never seen Arrested Development myself, so it's kind of wild to see a teenage Michael Cera for the first time. People say he has a baby face now, but he actually was a baby, here.

Anonymous asked: The dads aren't clones their eyes are completely different colors :P

Turns out one of them's left-handed, and that's literally the only difference.

@wickedsick asked: RoLal my beloLal @morganwick asked: "Huh, we're approaching the halfway mark of the comic and I haven't met Roxy yet. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's Mom Lalonde's name, but it hasn't come up. How could she make such an impact that I'd have heard her name before starting Homestuck despite only really appearing in half- oh. That's how." @abundantchewtoys asked: You try to control yourself and not overhype Roxy, but the S-tier on your tierlist… it beckons. @necrowyrm asked: So hyped for you to get to know Roxy, the greatest character in homestuck by a mile @elkian asked: God I'm so excited for you to meet Roxy. I'm pretty sure you'll love her for multiple reasons.

I can't wait! Like I said, I think she's very likely to be one of my faves. Hackers play with with an unfair advantage in the Sally Sweepstakes.

@manorinthewoods submitted: https://www.tumblr.com/darks-arts/757253456235053056/got-inspired-by-this-post-n-made-a-new-troll?source=share ~LOSS (1/15/25)

Don't get it twisted - this is who the Condesce picks as her VP.

@mrjocrafter asked: Any Bro Strider (and to some extent every Strider) analysis needs to be tempered by the acknowledgement that that's just what Texas is like. Like, one time I saw someone hold up a self-driving taxi at sword point. Texas is just like that.

Apart from a three-day childhood trip to New York City, the USA is a closed book to me - but I've heard enough wild shit about Texas that I don't think you're kidding.

@carcinogeneticist-writes-fanfic submitted: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IuNgQEWgjwk Submitted for your approval: a full orchestra cover of Sburban Jungle. Possibly my favorite fan work of one of my favorite homestuck songs. Really captures that epic feel of the original song.

Dang. This fire burns hotter than the Green Sun.

@dedicatedfollower467 asked: i'm sure lots of people will have told you this, OR you will have figured it out yourself by the time you read this, but where DNA uses guanine, cytosine, adenine and thymine to represent information, its counterpart, RNA, actually uses a base called uracil in place of thymine. Meaning that uranianUmbra manages to both break the troll/kids naming pattern AND fit in it, in a slightly different way. UwU Anonymous asked: Concerning UU: Uracil (U) is a nucleotide that replaces Thymine (T) in RNA, which makes UU an -- at least in theory -- valid base pair. Compare this to how their chat symbol is a caduceus, and the constellation Ophiucus (traditionally, Apollo battling a pair of serpents) is sometimes considered the thirteenth Zodiacal sign. Anonymous asked: Fun Biochemistry Fact: (Almost) All the players using a combination of GCAT in their names is a reference to the 4 amino acids found in DNA (guanine, cytosine, adenine and thymine). The exception is John (EB), but who originally used GT only to change due to the trolls' interference. However, RNA, which 'reads' DNA to perform biological functions, uses Uracil (U) instead of thymine. I hope this helps your theorizing about UU! @3dgftw asked: belated congratulations on making it to act 6! from biologist to coder- the letter “U” is almost as important as GCAT in biology, and for a related reason! while G, C, A, and T are the most common nucleic acids, they’re not the only ones around! uracil (U) replaces T when RNA is transcribed, and this substitution is one of the reasons why it’s so unstable, comparatively. that, and the fact that RNA is a single stranded polymer, while DNA is double-stranded. it’s quite the headache for me- sometimes it feels like my RNA will degrade if I look at it wrong!

Huh. So the pattern arguably does still hold, for now - but since uracil is a component of RNA, rather than DNA, there's still an implication that UU is 'different' from our GCAT heroes in some fundamental way. What the hell is up with this girl?

Anonymous asked: The symbol that was similar to the Rod of Asclepius is the Caduceus, the symbol of Hermes (who I think is Asclepius' father?). Interestingly enough, the symbols are often confused with each other, which has led to medical organisations using the Caduceus instead of the Rod. I'm sure you already know, but if you don't, Hermes was the Messenger of the Gods, and patron of a lot of things, most notably travelers and thieves. Anonymous asked: Caduceus anon here. Small correction on my last ask, Asclepius was the son of Apollo, not Hermes. @likelyvampirical asked: Although both have been used in the medical profession, that symbol is actually the Caduceus, a symbol of Hermes, rather than the Rod of Asclepius. Although, the origin of the use of the Caduceus as a medical symbol is also thought to be mistaken symbology, so I suppose it's fitting.

It's possible that Hussie intended it to be the symbol for medicine, and simply got the reference wrong, but it's impossible to say for sure.

The thing certainly looks more like a caduceus to me, but I don't know what it would mean for UU to be Hermes-themed. Maybe she's a Player, and Hermes is her Denizen?

@skelekingfeddy asked: ok, some context on UU: basically, for more than a year the fandom had been theorizing about a SECRET 13TH TROLL. it started out as people pointing out that there were 4 kids and 12 trolls, so a 13th extra troll would make it so that it’s 4/13. then people realised, oh shit, there actually is a 13th extra zodiac named Ophiucus (one of the proposed symbols for which is the caduceus)! people even decided that their handle’s initials would be UU (because of Uracil, the fifth nucleotide base). the theory got so big, Toby even made a theme for UU as a bonus track in his Alternia solo album… …and now, in late 2011, here she is in the comic itself!!! she has the name, the zodiac symbol, everything. what’s her deal? you’ll just have to wait and see :)

That's good context to have, but I still have no idea what the implications are. It really doesn't feel like the trolls could have had a secret thirteenth Player stashed away somewhere, and we already know the pre-Scratch Alternian session was a twelve-Player one, too. Curiouser, curiouser and curiouser.

@aceotaku asked: random: it's only natural PM and Jack Noir were fated to be archenemies of sorts. After all, what is a dog's natural enemy according to cartoons without any real reason?

lmao, does this mean Jack's going to defeat PM by biting her ankle off?

@spiddermen asked: fun homestuck fact: shortly after homestuck ended, hussie came out as clowngender. everyone assumed this was just a bad joke for a while but it was not, hussie is nonbinary and one of the things I like about this second half of homestuck is that you can see them starting to critique the idea of gender roles a lot which I think is interesting. once they stopped working on homestuck they wrote psycholonials which explores these ideas and their thoughts on online society a lot more, it's really good

I heard about this recently, yeah! Apparently the official What Pumpkin press releases have switched to they/them for Hussie - who, if I'm not mistaken, uses any pronouns. Kind of based, honestly.

I'm surprised that this hasn't come up before, given how much the comic likes to delve into gender. I guess I just don't talk about things too much from an out-of-universe perspective, except to offer Doylist explanations for otherwise confusing plot developments.

@aceotaku asked: Your theory of Doc Scratch's Omniscience being based around meta knowledge of the author is incredibly clever and interesting and works really well especially with what we see of Scratch and Hussie after you made that theory. I also wanna bring up how he's my favourite villain in homestuck (I like his dark charisma and tendency to manipualte people while being upfront about his motives, goals and nature which i find unique) and am saddned by the many livebloggers who seem to genuinely hate him.

Oh yeah, I think Doc Scratch is great.

I kind of love to hate him, if that makes sense. He's totally awful, of course - but he's awful in a really fascinating way, that I haven't often seen in fiction. Above all, he's always entertaining to read.

@abibeur asked: One thing I like with the Betty Crocker propaganda is the obvious They Live reference, even if I didn't get it at my first reading. Jane Nada would be really funny… Even if there's another likely candidate to play a character with cool shades!

I picked up on the reference to They Live - but since I haven't seen the movie, I'm not really sure about the exact mechanics of the movie's iconic propaganda-revealing shades. One for the watch pile, for sure.

@abibeur asked: "Apparently his goofy lil' wave is a universal constant." This reminds me of another master of the wind…

Now that's a real Breath Player.

@calcamity asked: im rereading your liveblog for fun since youve reached act 6 (which features my favorite character) and i just have to say you have a great understanding of the characters. all of your pesterchum screenshot bits are (terminally funnily) in character. you could write some baller hs fanfic

Well, thank you very much!

I'm definitely going to at least write a fic involving my 'sonas, when I'm done. If I do have other ideas, though, I could easily end up writing some more canon-adjacent fiction, too. We'll see!

Anonymous asked: is jake english in the newtonverse called hass, just to tie this whole joke together? maybe the newtonverse is where the felt is the varnish instead, and hes like… hass brusher or whatever

Hass Brusher is too good. That one's 100% canon to the Newtonverse now.

@carcinogeneticist-writes-fanfic asked: New reader here who just caught up, congrats on making it to the EOA5! What was your favorite song of the four featured in Cascade? Savior of the Dreaming Dead is a top-tier personal favorite of mine, not just here or even in its album but in the entire Homestuck discography, and one of the songs I was most hoping would make it into the comic proper (not that you have to worry about that, I can def respect not wanting to hear any of the songs 'out of context' beforehand). Good luck with Act 6!

It probably was Savior of the Dreaming Dead, to be honest. It really sells how triumphant Jade's big moment was.

I also loved the section of the track that played during the Perfect Mendicant's transformation. The scene was already epic, but those chords knocked it into twelfth gear.

@krixwell asked: Curiously, as its card was stamped in the punch designix and used to alchemize a worn old hat, the only thing that went through the mind of the bowl of petunias was "Oh no, not again."

Oh, that is a great pull. I need to reread the Hitchhiker's Guide series again sometime soon.

Anonymous asked: I never made the connection that Aradia's voices could have been coming from the Haidmaid before, but that fits so perfectly. I'm just imagining her summoning up a bunch of ghosts to constantly haunt Aradia and whisper exactly what she "needs" to hear.

That's pretty much what I'm thinking! I don't know if she'd have revealed herself in person, but she was absolutely behind that particular plot.

@aliceoverzero asked: I discovered this blog just before New Years and it's been an incredible binge-read. You've probably noticed by now that Homestuck is one of the most extreme cases of "you can never repeat the experience of reading it for the first time" due to the structures of its mysteries, and this was further amplified by the original reader experience including maddening wild speculation in between each wait for new pages to drop. Your deliberate pace with this liveblog and your willingness to slam the brakes to hyperfixate on details is the closest a returning reader can get to recapturing that feeling, and it's been a good reminder for me about why this comic has been so impactful to me. Thank you for doing this. Now that you've cleared Act 5, it's worth bringing up that while not present in the original panel where the declaration is made, the "most important character in homestuck" moment is expanded in Cascade to show that it includes both Lil Cal and Gamzee. This has prompted a lot of debate about which of them is actually being referred to as the most important character. Also now it's possible to talk about my favorite detail about Doc Scratch. His repeated use of the statement "I am an excellent host" has finally revealed its double-meaning. @leo60228 asked: so, what do you think about the alternate angle we saw the "The most important character in Homestuck fondly regards the miracle of a new beginning." panel from? @elkian asked: You may have received such a comment already, but during the "most important character in Homestuck" scene, Lil Cal was in Gamzee's lap. Either way you slice it, it's correct, but it's interesting to speculate which is meant. (Though ig one also requires considering Cal as a CHARACTER which is a bit unsettling…) Anonymous asked: Jade's laboratory falling seems to mirror Lord English's arrival. Also, in [S] Cascade you can see that Lil' Cal is also watching this happen. Does that make him the most important character in homestuck? @morganwick asked: In light of Cascade and Intermission 2, you might want to consider whether, now that you've seen the "miracle of a new beginning" moment in fuller context, the "most important character in Homestuck" might not have been referring to Gamzee after all…

Thank you!

And... uh, hang on a second. Do you mean what I think you mean?

...ah, fuck.

[whimsimille]

KEMPS!

Minsung x Fem! reader

Summary: Where Minho uses sex and rough words to forget how shitty his life is. It all works pretty well until he meets two people that can only ruin his game.

alpha x alpha x alpha

Word count: ~ 10000

Warnings: angst with happy ending, ptsd mention, coping mechanisms, sex, smut, +18, toxicity, use of alcohol and drugs, knotting, piv, creampie, roughness, dom and sub undertones, f and m receiving, oral, anal, dp, light bondage, breeding kink mention

-------------

"When will I see you again?"

"There we go again."

Every time, the same scene played out: him tying off the used condom, thumb and forefinger working in sync while his gut churned with familiar self-loathing. His tanned legs slid from between the cheap cotton sheets like a lizard escaping midday heat and his shirt, reeking of cigarettes and bearing the evidence of pink lipstick on its collar, returned to its place along with what remained of his dignity.

"You didn't answer my question," she insisted, sitting up with her breasts exposed to the stale air. Her nose, red-tipped like she was fighting back tears, twitched as she caught his scent beginning to sour. "Why do you always run away like this? Is it because I'm a lower-class omega? Because I work at a convenience store instead of some fancy office?"

He had a headache, the kind that started at the nape where his undercut needed a trim and crawled upward. The kind that made his eyes throb as if someone was performing brain surgery with a rusty hammer. He needed to go home. He needed to go to her. He needed a scalding shower to burn away the shame. He needed to stop fucking thinking.

"Listen carefully because I won't repeat myself," he drawled while adjusting his hair in the mirror. "I'm not interested in seconds. I don't do repeats. I thought I made that crystal fucking clear. Or should I draw you a diagram?"

"But Minho-ssi..." she started, biting her lower lip in a way that probably worked wonders on lesser men.

"Cut the honorifics bullshit, Marina. We just fucked; we're not at a business meeting." He yanked his belt through the loops. "Got any coffee in this shoebox you call an apartment? And aspirin. Definitely need aspirin. My head's fucking killing me, and your omega pheromones aren't helping."

"Kitchen," she responded, finally pulling the sheet up to cover herself as if modesty had suddenly become a priority. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily as her own bitter strawberry pheromones filled the room, mixing with his acidic alpha scent to create something that smelled like regret. "First door on the right. We're out of sugar though. And for the last fucking time, it's Melissa. Not Marina, not Mariana. Me-li-ssa, you entitled knothead."

"Perfect. Sugar's for people who can't handle reality." He fished out the crumpled pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, tapping one against his wrist. "Don't wait up, sweetheart. Or better yet, don't wait at all. Find yourself a nice beta who'll remember your name and buy you flowers or whatever the fuck it is you're looking for."

And he wasn't lying, not even a little. Despite the fact that this omega—Melissa, definitely not Marina or whatever the fuck he'd been calling her—could do things with her tongue that would make a Catholic priest renounce his vows and had a laugh like wind chimes in a summer breeze, Minho simply didn't keep dead weight in his deck. Melissa was nothing but a two of clubs in a hand that needed aces.

It was like a game of Kemps, the same one he played on Sunday afternoons with his friends drunk on soju in Chan's apartment. In the game, four players formed two pairs, each receiving four cards from the French deck. The objective? Get four matching cards before the opponent, discreetly signaling your partner to shout "Kemps!"—a wink, absently scratching your nose. If you were wrong and shouted without your partner having four matching cards? You lost points, just like in real life you lost your sanity. If you missed your partner's signal? More points lost, like the nights of sleep he lost thinking about persistent ex-lovers. It was a game of observation, timing, and strategy.

In the game, as in life, Minho was an expert at this. A pair of toned legs here, full lips there, a cheeky smile elsewhere—he picked up the cards that caught his attention and handed useless ones to the other players. Players like Hyunjin, with his preference for frustrated betas with colored hair, or Felix, who had a thing for alpha literature students who wore thick-framed glasses and quoted Bukowski between one orgasm and another. Minho had been doing this with men and women for years, receiving his cards—their sweaty bodies writhing beneath him, their moans, their phone numbers saved as "NEVER answer"—and discarding those that never made sense with his game. Simple. Quick. Practical. Avoided hysterical screaming at three in the morning, endless crying, ex-lover sex fueled by regret, pathetic relapses fueled by cheap vodka.

But then, on some October night, with the smell of burnt caramel not so characteristic of an alpha and jazz playing softly, there was his jack, the highest card in the deck after the ace. The jack that passed from hand to hand each round like a curse, disrupting the flow of the game until the next round started and the card kept circulating, destroying strategies and ruining plays that seemed perfect on paper. Everyone had to deal with it eventually, but no one wanted to play that card.

That night, as you moved above him with the precision of a hunting feline—hips undulating like waves breaking on the beach, slender fingers tightening around his throat until he saw stars—you had become his jack. The card he held so tightly that the corners were starting to crease, even when he should have discarded it long ago.

Serious relationships and monogamy were never his style. How could he be? His mother taught him that lesson at 8 years old, after swallowing an entire box of Rivotril and writing an apology, not to him, but to her ex. He still remembered the sound her nails made scratching the wooden floor while she convulsed, glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling as he screamed for help. But for you? For you he had tried. Really tried.

"Stay," he whispered, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his fingers traced meaningless patterns on the condensation-slick window. His reflection looked pathetically hopeful. "Just... stay for breakfast this time." A pause. "I make decent scrambled eggs."

You shifted on the bed. "Define 'decent.'"

"Edible enough not to kill you," he replied with a laugh that sounded too raw, too honest. "Maybe even good enough to convince you to come back for seconds."

It turned into months of domestic bliss—or his twisted version of it. Months of biting back territorial growls whenever you walked in carrying traces of other wolves' scents. "Just work," you'd say with that infuriating half-smile, and he'd nod like the lovesick fool he'd become. He ignored Chan's concerned glances over soju shots, Changbin's muttered warnings about alpha-alpha relationships being psychological warfare. Tried playing the reformed playboy even when some omega calling herself @sexygirl22 slid into his DMs with explicit photos and "Remember last week's quickie in the club bathroom?" while you danced barefoot in his kitchen, humming "Somebody to Love" and making condensed milk pudding like some domestic deity.

"This pudding..." His finger traced the edge of the mold, stealing a taste of caramel. The gesture was so childlike, so unguarded, you had to suppress a fond smile. "Tastes exactly like my grandmother's."

"Your grandmother made pudding?" Like a flower in bloom, your legs opened naturally as you leaned over the counter. A few centimeters up, the hem of your shirt—it was actually his, stolen a week ago—rode up, exposing that constellation of freckles on your hip that he loved mapping with his tongue.

"Every Sunday after lunch," he answered, eyes fixed on the exposed bit of skin. "She used to say that sweets made with love tasted different."

It's that in the beginning it was simple: you rode him like you were born for it, scratching his chest and whispering obscenities in his ear that would make even a demon blush. It was about smoking a joint on the balcony at three in the morning, your skilled fingers rolling the joint while he kissed your thighs still trembling from orgasm, waiting for the knot to deflate. "I'm getting addicted," he would murmur against your skin, and you both knew he wasn't talking about the weed. It was about the sacred ritual of watching you dress in the morning: first the black lace panties, then the bra that made your breasts look like works of art, the thigh-high stockings he loved to remove with his teeth, the jeans that hugged your curves like a possessive lover. It was about how you never asked about the scars on his left wrist but kissed them with such reverence that sometimes he found himself crying after you left.

"Why do you do that?" he asked one night, voice thick, his fingers digging into the sheets.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me... like that. Like they're not scars. Like they're not..." he swallowed hard, "ugly."

"Because they're not just scars. They're part of you."

Until it became something different: he stopped you from running out after sex one Sunday morning, pulling you by the waist for another round in the jacuzzi. That's when he discovered you were a teacher at a school in the south zone and taught literature to rebellious teenagers, while he was heir to a chain of five-star hotels spread across Asia. That you loved Seoul with its violence and chaos, the underground bars and narrow streets full of people, while he longed for the peace of Jeju, with its deserted beaches and the smell of tangerines in the air. That you had three rescue cats—Sylvia, Virginia, and Edgar, all named after dead writers—who were your fur children and that, surprisingly, he developed a genuine affection for these creatures, even when Sylvia vomited hairballs on his shoes.

It happened when you stopped being a scheduled fuck and started pulling out, one by one, his fingers from the little bag he always kept next to his heart. You never even said anything, never stopped him from leaving and always left the door ajar, because you hated trapping people and making them feel obligated to stay.

"You can go, if you want," you would always say, wrapped in messy sheets. "You don't have to stay."

And maybe it was exactly that—that frightening freedom, that lack of demands—that made him want to stay. Until he didn't want to anymore.

That's why he bailed.

With your makeup all over the bathroom counter and your underwear discovered beneath the bed like evidence from a crime scene, he couldn't stand you taking up space like a terminal illness. Couldn't stand your caramel perfume and alpha pheromones impregnated in the pillows, your toothbrush next to his, you parading naked through the 300 m² penthouse as if you owned the place. Hated you burying your face in his neck when he woke up screaming at 3:47 in the morning.

"Shh, I'm here," you would murmur, running your fingers through his damp hair, your lips brushing his temple. "It was just a nightmare."

But the real nightmare was the dangerous glimmer of hope he began to see reflected in his own eyes every time he shaved while you played in the bathtub, humming "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles.

One day, his hand froze mid-stroke with the razor, watching your reflection dance in the fogged mirror as soap bubbles crowned your head. With the sun creeping through the window and painting your eyelashes gold, Minho's fingers twitched around the razor handle. His phone buzzed in the counter (probably that cute bellboy from the Peninsula Hotel confirming their afternoon rendezvous, or maybe the yoga instructor sending another photo of her impossibly flexible poses). He should check it. Should definitely not be watching you emerge from the water like some fucking deity, all glistening skin and grace.

His thumb hovered over the screen, already pulling up his contacts list. Delete them all. Ask you to be his. Only his. The thought made his stomach turn even as his pulse quickened and he gave up.

At the sound of his loafers, you lifted your head while he perched on the edge of the tub like some lovesick fool, watching droplets trace paths he'd memorized with his tongue.

"Keep staring like that and I might start charging admission," you drawled, reaching for the shampoo.

"You're going to make me deaf with that caterwauling, little alpha," he shot back. "And since when did you become such a Beatles fanatic? Thought you were more of a 'We Will Rock You' kind of bitch."

"First of all," you said, pointing the shampoo bottle at him like a weapon, "the Beatles are fucking transcendent, you philistine. Second," your lips curved into that infuriating smirk that made him want to bite them bloody, "you were the one moaning 'Yesterday' in your sleep last night. Right after you called me 'baby' and tried to spoon me."

"That's bullshit and you know it," he snarled, but his ears burned red at the tips. "I don't fucking cuddle."

"Oh really?" You stretched languorously, water sloshing against the tub sides. Wet toes brushed his thigh, leaving wet prints on his expensive slacks. "Because I distinctly remember you nuzzling my neck and whimpering when I tried to move away. Face it, Min," you purred, and the nickname sent a jolt straight to his groin, "you're going soft on me."

"Keep dreaming, sweetheart," he managed, even as his throat closed around the lie. "I just needed something warm to stick my knot in."

"Mhmm," you hummed, unconvinced. Your foot slid higher up his thigh. "That's why you sent flowers to my work last week? Because you needed somewhere to stick your knot?"

It was like watching an orange tree growing in the middle of his chest: first just a timid sprout, then branches spreading between his ribs, until the roots began to intertwine with his veins and arteries. And when the first white flowers bloomed, perfuming his entire circulatory system with possibilities, he knew he needed to cut it at the root before the fruits ripened and he found himself addicted to the bittersweet taste of your presence.

"Minho! What the actual fuck? It's four in the fucking morning, and you're here smelling like a distillery had an orgy with a perfume store."

"Still looking like a snack, my little alpha. Even with all these..." His hand made a vague gesture at your new appearance, "changes."

You watched as he staggered slightly, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on a fixed point. Fragmented memories of a yellow taxi and questionable decisions in dark alleys flashed through his mind like a silent film. That you were different—unrecognizable, maybe—was the only thing that was certain. Your hair, now long and sprinkled with platinum highlights, framed your face in a profane halo. The thorny tattoo serpentined down your neck, disappearing beneath the loose collar. Beneath the typical caramel, you had a masculine, woodsy scent that made him sick to his stomach.

"You know what's funnier? I always knew you would do this. Always knew you'd leave me and then show up at my door wanting to stick your knot in some hole. It was just a matter of time, wasn't it, Lee Minho?"

Sylvia, that four-legged traitor who had always preferred him to you, was now rubbing against his ankles while trying to reach her favorite human. You pushed her away with your foot.

"Let's... let's talk properly, love. Smoke a joint, whatever. Like the old days, remember?" His hands were shaking so badly he had to shove them in his jeans pockets. "We always solved everything after..." A laugh escaped his lips. "Fuck, why is it so hard to talk about feelings without being high? Must be... dunno, must be the age, right?" The taste of blood in his mouth intensified. This time, he had bitten his tongue.

You let out a scoff—a sound that seemed to have been torn from the depths of your throat with a rusty hook. "Age?" Your head tilted to the side, and for a moment, Minho saw his mother in that same movement—moments before she swallowed the pills. "You were twenty-fucking-seven when you stood in the middle of Changbin's birthday party, so wasted you couldn't even spell your own name, and announced to everyone that I was, what was it again? Oh right! 'just another desperate hole begging for your premium alpha cock.' All because I had the audacity to ask if we could try being exclusive. Remember that night, Minho? Or did you drink that memory away too?"

As you eventually allowed Sylvia to come closer, he saw the cat rubbing her muzzle against your ankles as though she was aware of the precise location of the pain.

Love should heal, shouldn't it? Should stitch together the parts that were never united, fill the voids that echoed inside the chest like empty rooms from childhood. Minho knew this better than anyone—he had been sexualized his whole life, used and discarded like a broken toy.

"You don't have that right," you continued. "You don't have the right to show up here reeking of whiskey and..." Your hands gestured in the air, searching for words. "And talk about 'old times.'"

Minho swallowed hard, watching how your fingers now trembled against the doorframe—not from nervousness, but from contained rage that made your knuckles turn white.

Until his lungs pleaded for air, he had tried everything to fill the void you left: cigarettes. Strange bodies in his bed that never reached the right places, hands that tried to stitch him back together but always using the wrong thread. Like thieves in the dark, all stealing pieces from each other, but never finding what they were really looking for.

"Just let me in, yeah?"

A sob escaped his throat before he could contain it, words tangling in his mouth. Sylvia was now sitting between the two of you, her tail moving in a hypnotic rhythm.

You had been the only one to see through the cracks, the only one who didn't try to fix him like he was a puzzle to be solved. The only one who understood that sometimes a cat's rough tongue on the heels could mean more than a thousand empty words of comfort.

But he wouldn't, couldn't show you how much he loved you. Sex and dirty words were safer territory, familiar ground where he could pretend this was just another meaningless encounter.

"Do you still have that purple vibrator?" The words slurred out as his alcohol-heavy tongue caught on his canines. "You could use it on me today, yeah? Make me beg like I used to?"

Like a desperate merchant hawking counterfeit goods in some back alley, it was pitiful how he still attempted to use sex as currency. As if his body, marked with the fingerprints and teeth marks of countless strangers, was the only thing of value he had left to barter with. As if you still wanted that particular damaged merchandise. You had long since learned that his empty promises and fleeting affections were not worth the price.

"I guess old habits die hard, huh? Still the same horny kitten as always, Minho-yah."

At the sound of that old endearment, Minho's narrow hips jerked forward involuntarily, his lean body betraying him like a puppet with tangled strings. A bead of sweat traced the sharp line of his jaw as the lavender scent of his arousal began to saturate the air, mixing with the sour notes of whiskey and desperation.

"Just... just one more time," he begged. "I promise I'll disappear after. I swear on my mother's grave..." A sob ripped from his throat, more wolf than man. "I just need to feel you one more time. Need to remember what it felt like when someone actually gave a fuck about me."

It was almost poetic, you thought. The way Lee Minho could transform desire into pathology, how his lust manifested in muscle spasms and empty promises whispered through teeth that probably cost more than your yearly salary. His eyes, usually a warm chocolate brown, had taken on a reddish tinge that reminded you of blood diluted in water.

"Get out of here, Minho." You clutched Sylvia closer, her warm body and steady purring acting as a shield against the tsunami of alpha pheromones he was trying to drown you in. Her claws pricked your skin through your thin shirt. "Before I call the police."

"You'd never. You care too much; that's always been your problem."

"Try me." Your fingers found your phone in your pocket. "The last bus passes in ten minutes. But I think you'd prefer if I called your private driver. What was his name again? The one who always brought you aspirin and clean clothes after your... episodes?"

Minho's hand flew to the collar of his leather jacket, adjusting it with trembling fingers. "I don't need your fucking pity."

"I know you don't, Minho." You sighed, watching his shoulders hunch forward like a wounded animal. "But I also know you probably left another black credit card in the lost and found of whatever overpriced bar you were drowning in tonight. I bet you left without any cash. Again. Just like that time at The Rose, when you tried to pay for your cab with your Rolex."

"How the fuck..."

"Love, everything okay?" A sleepy voice emerged from the shadows of the apartment, warm and rough like honey mixed with gravel. The powerful scent of freshly ground cinnamon and handcrafted coffee filled your apartment and permeated the door, causing Minho's nostrils to uncontrollably twitch.

"Fucking hell," Minho muttered under his breath, watching as a figure emerged from the shadows.

Dyed an impossible shade of midnight blue that seemed to swallow what little light remained in the hallway, the man's hair stuck up in wild tufts, as if he'd been wrestling with insomnia rather than sleeping. A thin, silvery scar bisected his right eyebrow. Despite his cherubic cheeks and full lips, there was something lethal in the way he held himself, the casual violence of a loaded gun left on safety.

"Who the actual fuck are you supposed to be?" Minho's words slurred together.

The stranger's bare feet made no sound as he crossed the distance between them. Silver rings caught the fluorescent light as his hand found your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your hip.

"Han Jisung," the man's voice was deceptively soft. His tongue flicked out to play with the silver ring in his lower lip, a gesture that drew Minho's attention despite himself. "And you must be the infamous Lee Minho. The one who thinks it's acceptable to harass people at four in the morning because his wolf is feeling lonely."

The air grew thick with competing pheromones, your caramel sweetness, Minho's lavender, and Han's cinnamon colliding and transforming into something acrid and metallic, like blood left to oxidize. Minho's temple throbbed visibly, and he chewed the inside of his cheek until copper flooded his mouth.

"Christ, is this what you're into now?" Minho's eyes raked over Han's form--the scattered tattoos visible beneath his thin tank top, the messy blue hair, the multiple piercings. "Trading in a pure-bred for some street mutt with a DIY paint job?"

Han's scent soured, turning sharp enough to make your eyes water. "Babe," he addressed you without taking his eyes off Minho. "Should I call the cops, or would you like to watch me teach this trust fund pup some manners? Because I'm really curious if he's as tough when he's not marinading in scotch."

"Oh, sweetheart," Minho purred, stepping close enough that his breath ghosted over Han's face. His fingers played with the collar of Han's shirt, twisting the fabric like he was testing its breaking point. "You've got quite the mouth on you. Makes me wonder what other tricks you know." His gaze flicked to you over Han's shoulder, lips curling into something cruel. "Always did have a weakness for strays with attitude problems, didn't you, love? Tell me, does this one beg as prettily as I used to?"

Han didn't back down, but you saw how his fingers contorted—not into fists, but like claws ready to tear apart.

"Get. Your. Hands. Off." Gripping Minho's wrist, Jisung twisted it until he heard the gratifying sound of tendons being stretched to their breaking point.

What happened next made your breath catch in your throat. Minho—proud, arrogant, never-submissive Minho, who once told an alpha CEO to go fuck himself with a golden spoon—let out a sound that was pure, instinctual submission. His head tilted, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat where fading hickeys told stories of nights you didn't want to imagine. 

The gesture was so fundamentally wrong, so against everything you knew about him, that for a moment you thought the expensive whisky had finally corroded something essential inside him. But then his eyes found yours across the space between you—wide, confused, and terrified—and you saw it: his alpha, for only the second time since you'd known him, recognising another as superior. It had been with you the first time. Normally curled in that angry smirk, his lips quivered.

"What the actual fuck..." With surprise, Jisung's eyes grew wide, and the scar through his eyebrow stretched taut. His grip loosened fractionally, more from shock than mercy. "Did you just..."

"Ah," Minho's voice cracked, desperation bleeding through as he fought to regain control. As he attempted to balance himself against the wall, his hands trembled. "So the puppy has fangs after all. Want to show me how to use them properly, Han Jisung-ssi?"

It played out like a slow-motion car crash, stunning in its destruction. Jisung slammed Minho against the wall with enough force to make the cheap prints rattle in their frames. Something dark and broken slipped out of Minho's lips as his forearm pressed against his throat.

"So fucking predictable," Minho rasped around the pressure on his windpipe, his pupils blown so wide the brown was almost swallowed by black. "All you baby alphas..." His fingers found Jisung's bicep, nails, leaving crescent moons in the flesh. "So easy to provoke. So desperate to prove yourselves. Tell me, blueberry, how many others have you pinned like this?"

"I said," Han snarled, pressing harder until Minho's breath came in wheezing gasps, "shut that pretty mouth before I shut it for you. You reek of spoiled lavender and mommy issues, street pup. Did she not hug you enough? Is that why you're here, trying to ruin what isn't yours anymore?"

Following that, there was too much movement to follow—a haze of tattoos and high-end clothing. Suddenly Minho had reversed their positions, pinning Jisung against the wall. Han grunted in surprise at the impact, his teeth clicking together so forcefully that you winced with pity. 

In an attempt to humiliate the wolf who had dared to assert its superiority, Minho's thigh pushed upward between Han's legs and degraded him. Trembling but determined, his fingers tangled themselves into Han's blue strands.

"Who's the street pup now?" Minho tilted his head, letting his lips brush the shell of Jisung's ear. "So docile suddenly. Where's all that protective alpha posturing? Or does it only work when you're trying to impress my leftovers?"

What tore from Jisung's throat wasn't anything you'd heard before—not in your years of teaching children, not in nature documentaries about wolves, not even in your darkest nightmares. Kind of sound that made your bone marrow freeze and your hindbrain scream danger. At a frequency that made your teeth hurt, the cheap metal numbers on your door vibrated. A picture frame crashed to the floor.

Your own alpha stirred beneath your skin like a serpent uncoiling, recognising the precipice of violence you were all balanced on. 

Sylvia pressed herself against your arms. Her tail lashed the air like a whip, pupils blown so wide the green was just a thin ring. You knew, with the bone-deep certainty of prey watching predators circle, that this wouldn't end with just bruised egos and wounded pride. The territory—you, this hallway, perhaps even this entire narrative—had already been marked with invisible blood.

"That's enough! Both of you, stop this-"

But the words died in your throat as Jisung moved. One moment he was pinned against the wall; the next he was pure kinetic energy unleashed. His body curved like a question mark before springing forward, teeth finding the vulnerable juncture where Minho's neck met.

The sound that followed would haunt your dreams for months: wet, obscene, like overripe fruit being crushed under combat boots. Blood, startlingly bright against Minho's shirt, bloomed like a macabre watercolor.

—-----------

As soon as Minho stepped out of the rehabilitation center, his fingers began the routine dance of coffee, lighter, and cigarette. His eyes, still heavy from group therapy, focused on the cracks in the concrete while he tried to juggle the cheap coffee cup and red Marlboro. A curse that reverberated throughout the alley was evoked by the hot liquid that trickled down his hand.

"Fuck's sake, I can't even do this right," he muttered, licking the coffee that dripped between his fingers.

It was a total and utter catastrophe for him. First, Seungmin had shown up at his apartment at 6 AM with some green tea mixed with ginger and honey that looked more like rat poison. "For detoxing," he'd said, pushing the steaming cup into his hands. Then, Bang Chan practically broke down his door, dragging him out of bed while yelling something about "corporate responsibility" and how the shareholders were concerned about his erratic behavior. As if he didn't know the hotel franchise was crumbling under his fingers since you left him.

To top it all off? Jisung was the embodiment of his headache. An irritatingly attractive alpha who had the gift of making his blood boil—and not necessarily in a good way.

Since the incident that led them to the police station (and subsequently to the emergency room, where Minho needed five stitches in his neck and had to pray the bite hadn't been right on his scent gland, linking Jisung to him in a way that gave him chills just thinking about it), the judge had sentenced them to five months of group therapy. Two hours per week sitting in a circle with other "violence-prone individuals," as Dr. Park—a beta who always smelled like old socks—liked to call them.

And now, to make matters worse, whenever he had the chance, Jisung liked to rub his scent gland against yours right in the middle of the room, masking your natural scent. It was as if he wanted Minho to witness firsthand how you had moved on—the way he adjusted his motorcycle helmet every night after the session, his fingers lingering on your nape; how he whispered stupid jokes in your ear that made you laugh in that way that used to be reserved just for Minho; how he made sure to leave visible marks on your neck, transforming everything that once screamed "Minho" into cinnamon and a blue-haired alpha.

"Hey, princess, still haven't learned how to drink coffee without making a mess? Or do you need me to teach you how adults do it?"

Eyelids fluttering, Minho closed his eyes. After four months in this therapeutic hell, his fingers, now bitten down to raw flesh, involuntarily contracted, imprinting his palms with tiny crescents.

"Jisung, I thought we'd agreed to keep our distance outside of sessions. Or is your memory as short as your self-control?"

"Yeah, but then I saw you here alone," Jisung approached. The smell of cinnamon and coffee invaded Minho's personal space like an unwanted heat wave. "And I thought: 'What a waste.' All this drama, all this tension... for what?"

Carelessly, Minho propped one foot on a crushed trash can and leaned against the filthy alley wall. The cigarette hung loose between his chapped lips, smoke dancing in lazy spirals around his face.

"Go fuck yourself, Han."

"Your ex 'little alpha' is doing that quite well," Jisung responded, running his tongue over the piercing in his lower lip provocatively. "Thanks for asking."

Minho clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The taste of cheap coffee still burned his tongue when he raised his eyes to face Jisung. There was something there, hidden in the shadows of those puppy eyes, that almost made Minho choke on the smoke—something hungry, dangerous, electric. Jisung seemed to be planning something behind those long eyelashes, and Minho recognized the familiar crossroads: run or face it.

He should run, of course. Especially after Han had made his alpha behave like a submissive puppy with a simple touch to the wrist. But Minho never had a sense of self-preservation, and if he was going to die today—if Jisung decided to finish what he started that night, now that you weren't here to stop him—well, maybe it would be an appropriate end to all this mess.

"What do you want?"

Old combat boots scuffing the concrete, Han stepped forward. Gently, he reached for the cigarette trapped between Minho's lips. The touch was brief, but it sent electric shocks down his spine, as if someone had connected his nerves to a car battery. Han's eyes, dark as spilled coffee, never left Minho's as he twirled the cigarette between his fingers before crushing it under his sole.

"Sleep with us," Han said simply. "One night."

Time seemed to freeze. Minho felt his toes curl inside his shoes, as if searching for something to grip onto. Like a bird in a cage, his heart pounded against his ribs, and his tongue felt too heavy for his mouth.

"What the fuck?" The laugh that escaped his throat sounded hysterical even to his own ears. "After all that shit at the police station? After the stitches?" Unconsciously, his fingers brushed the scar on his neck.

Han shrugged. "You think I don't notice?" He moved closer. "How your eyes follow her during sessions? And how you stare at me when you think I'm not paying attention? How your pheromones change when I'm around?"

Minho knew your story with Jisung—it was impossible not to know. In the corridors of the rehabilitation center, the whispers reverberated like poisonous snakes. How you, the beloved suburban teacher, had started frequenting Han's studio to cover old scars. How the tattoo sessions turned into confessions, then into coffees shared in paper cups, then into stolen kisses against walls covered in faded flash tattoos. How Han had restored each broken piece of you—not with empty words or grandiose promises, but with small gestures: americanos left in paper cups with your name always intentionally misspelled, colorful post-its hidden with silly cat drawings, nights spent simply holding you while the world collapsed around you. How he spoke of you with a kind of reverent love that made Minho want to vomit—because he only knew how to express affection through bruises and cutting words.

But if Han loves you so much, why is he here offering you up like a piece of meat?

"You're sick."

Han tilted his head. "Maybe. But so are you. And her..." He paused, letting the word hang in the air like smoke. "She wants us. Both of us."

"Spare me this bullshit," Minho spat the words. "You talk like she's your property. Like you can just throw me into your bed like a new toy and expect me to..."

"Don't be naive," Jisung interrupted, taking another step forward. Tattooed fingers found Minho's chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "She has more free will than both of us combined. And knows exactly what she wants." His thumb traced Minho's lower lip, collecting a drop of blood where he had bitten too hard before bringing the same finger to his mouth. Minho almost moaned at the sight. "Just like I know exactly what you need. What all three of us need."

"You don't know shit about what I need."

"No?" Han teased, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Then why are you trembling?" His fingers moved up to Minho's nape, playing with the short strands there. "Why is your heart beating so fast I can feel it from here?"

"Tell me then," Minho challenged. "What does someone as fucked up as you think I need?"

"Mutual destruction," Jisung murmured against his ear. The cold piercing made Minho's earlobe twitch. "The kind that burns everything to the ground and rebuilds something better from the ashes. The kind that only three equally broken people can create."

A sound escaped Minho's throat. His hands found Jisung's chest. He didn't know if he wanted to push or pull, if he wanted to punch that irritating smile or taste it.

"You're poison," Minho whispered, his nails digging into Jisung's chest through the thin shirt. "The kind that kills slowly."

"And you," Han smiled against his skin, "are too thirsty to care about the antidote."

-----------------------------

Your diaphragm fluttered like a moth stuck to your ribs as you let out a deep breath. Main focus? Not choking on the saliva accumulated behind the gag.

There you were, tied and exposed like an avant-garde artwork on Minho's carpet. With the city lights watching your debauchery like voyeuristic stars, the floor-to-ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of Seoul's horizon.

A muscle in your left thigh spasmodically contracted, making the rope sink deeper into your flesh. It was a map of knots—legs folded and bound in a way that made you think of the origami cranes Minho used to fold when he was nervous. The hemp rope bit at two precise points: just above the ankles, where the bone slightly protruded, and at the top of the thighs, where the flesh was softest.

The metal spreader bar kept your legs open. Your pussy was exposed to the cold air of the penthouse and to the hungry gazes of both men.

From this height, you could almost convince yourself that the entire city was watching. Your wrists were bound with soft leather cuffs (Minho's contribution, always valuing luxury when it came to his house and sex toys), connected to the bar in a way that made your shoulders project backward, presenting your chest.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

It all started on one of those nights when the air conditioning failed intermittently, making an irritating noise that competed with the sounds of the city outside. A casual observation escaped your lips while you watched the shadows dance on the ceiling, alcohol uninhibiting your tongue and bringing up memories of Minho in therapy sessions—the way he would shrink in his chair, fingers drumming nervously against his knee, eyes jumping between you and Jisung like an anxious pendulum.

That specific night, you were sprawled on the Italian leather couch that Jisung so hated ("Who the hell spends so much money on furniture that sticks to your skin in summer?"), one leg hanging off the edge while the other rested on the back of the couch. The ice in your whiskey glass had long since melted, diluting the amber liquid into something more palatable.

Sitting on the Persian rug, Jisung's restless fingers were causing the strategically placed tears in his black jeans to further fray. The smell of caramel and cinnamon mixed with the residual aroma of cigarettes he had smoked earlier on the balcony.

"Jesus," you murmured, running your tongue over your dry lips. "Do you remember how he trembled? Standing there against the wall, with your hands on his neck..." Your voice failed for a moment. "Like a damn kitten lost in the rain. God, in all these years, I never saw Minho crawl back to anyone like that. Not once. I always... always gave him space to run when he needed it." A bitter laugh escaped your throat. "Never thought that after a whole year he'd still believe the door would be open, you know? That he'd still find..." You gestured vaguely with your free hand, searching for the right words. "...warm milk waiting."

Jisung tilted his head to the side, and he had that glint behind his eyes—that same look you saw when he was about to do a particularly painful tattoo on someone. "A kitten? What an... interesting choice of words, love."

You propped yourself up on your elbows so quickly that your head spun, alcohol and adrenaline making your heart stumble. Every vertebra in your spine screamed in unison as warning signals crackled through it. Shit. Shit. Shit."Ji, fuck, that's not what I—"

"Is that what you used to call him?" He interrupted while crawling towards you like a predator. "When he was between those thighs of yours?"

When Jisung's fingers found your ankle, your throat became parched. Just enough to remind you that he could, but not enough to cause pain, his thumb pressed the pulse point there.

"I bet it was." His other hand slid up to grab your knee, spreading your legs, "I bet you whispered 'kitten' when he had his tongue buried in that pussy of yours. That you told him what a good boy he was while he tasted you like you were the last drop of water in hell."

Since then, after each group therapy session, Jisung would extract your confessions like venom from a wound. Methodically deconstructed your sanity while fucking you against any available surface—the bathroom wall, the car's backseat, the kitchen table where you were supposedly meant to dine like normal people. He fed that part of you that you tried to keep locked away, the bitter and vindictive part that yearned to see Minho undone by both your hands. The words poured from your mouth unfiltered—how Minho's arrogant alpha became docile under your touch, the way his spine arched when you squeezed his throat ("Harder, please, harder"), how he begged for more when you fucked him with that ridiculously large purple dildo hidden in the second drawer of the dresser. How he moaned your name when you forced him to cum for the third time in a row, his muscular thighs trembling.

"Tell me more. How did he sound? How did he squirm? I want every dirty detail."

You swallowed hard. "He... he trembled. His whole body shook when he was too close. And he bit his lips until they bled, trying to hold back his moans. Sometimes... he cried."

"And when you tied him up?" Jisung played with the elastic of your panties, making small circles that made you squirm. "Did he fight against the ropes?"

"No," you answered, your voice breaking into a moan when he suddenly sank two fingers inside you. His thumb found your clit, making your thighs shake involuntarily. "He... God, Ji... he stayed completely still." Your nails dug into the leather couch when he curled his fingers inside you, easily finding that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fascinating," Jisung laughed, the low sound reverberating against your skin while he felt you getting even wetter around his fingers. "The great alpha Minho, reduced to a submissive and desperate kitten. I can almost see him now, tied up and begging." His fingers sped up their rhythm, making you arch your back. "Do you think he'd do the same for me?"

"Ji..." You arched against him, your fingers burying in his dark hair, pulling slightly. "Please!"

His smile was pure sin against your skin. "Please what, love? Use your words."

Out of your mouth came the thoughts in a torrent of desperation. "Can we... Can we fuck him? It's just sex! One night!" Your voice trembled, betraying the desperation you tried to hide under a facade of casualness. "Just... just once. Please! I need to feel him again. I need to see you destroying him too."

"Shh..." His fingers continued their merciless assault inside you while his other hand rose to squeeze your neck lightly. "It's okay, baby. I thought you'd never ask. We'll make our kitten meow so pretty for us."

---------------------------------------------------

Minho didn't bother with his belt, fingers trembling slightly as he unzipped his trousers. He reached in, fabric rustling against skin as he freed himself from the confines of his designer boxers.

"You remember how she's good with her mouth, right?" Jisung's voice was honey-thick with anticipation as he sprawled on the sofa, legs spread wide, one hand absently tracing patterns on the armrest.

"God, yes." Minho's throat bobbed as he swallowed, kneeling beside your head. His fingertips ghosted over your temple, barely touching. "She doesn't just do it—she worships. Makes you feel like you're her whole fucking world." The muscles in his thighs twitched as he shifted closer. "You have no idea how I missed seeing such a pretty alpha like this."

"Show him then, darling.” Jisung commanded. "Show him what that mouth can do."

Minho's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the gag. The buckle clinked softly as he worked it loose, his breath catching when your lips parted automatically.

Honestly, Minho wasn't in the right headspace to think. After a terrible day at the hotels, he was thinking about how he would cherish every moment of this one night ever since he got home and was counting down the minutes until you and Jisung arrived. This last relapse. This final chance to have the duke in his hands before handing him over to Jisung definitively.

Due to the ball gag, your lips were red and swollen and glistening with saliva.

"There's that pretty little mouth," Minho breathed, tossing the gag aside. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, spreading the wetness there. "Fuck, I missed this view."

He still kept some photos of you on your knees in front of him, lips stretched around his cock. Most were carefully cropped, faceless and anonymous—they could be anyone's lips, anyone's throat. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the reality of you here, now, looking up at him with those eyes that seemed to strip away every layer of his. He slipped his thumb between your parted lips, a soft groan escaping when you immediately began to suck, your tongue swirling around the digit the way you knew drove him mad.

"Open that pretty little mouth for me," Minho purred.

Without thinking, you opened your mouth and offered a silent sacrifice. As Minho pulled his thumb away, the velvet-steel heat of his cock replaced the metallic tang of the freshly removed gag, leaving your taste buds free of its lingering effect. A single drop of precum pearled at the tip, and your tongue darted out to catch it, earning a sharp intake of breath from above.

Minho was longer than memory served, thick enough that your jaw already ached. The familiar weight of him filled your mouth inch by devastating inch, while his hand cradled your cheek with deceptive tenderness. Your eyes watered as he paused halfway, not from discomfort but from the overwhelming sensation of having him here again, real and solid and trembling ever so slightly.

A groan tore free from his throat as his head fell back.

"Fuck..."

Jisung laughed from where he sat, drinking his whiskey. "Yeah, well, wait until you feel her tight cunt again."

The crude words sent a bolt of electricity straight to your core, making you clench helplessly around nothing but want.

When Minho drew back, his cock dragged against your tongue in a slow withdrawal that had your toes curling against the carpet. He thrust forward with the same measure, but you could see the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his abdominal muscles jumped beneath smooth skin. His gaze raked down your body like physical touch, lingering on the slick folds. The sight alone made his cock twitch against your tongue.

He couldn't remember any of the times when he was the one who dominated—it was always you who reduced him to incoherent pleas against the silk sheets. It was always you who destroyed and rebuilt him as you wished, piece by piece, moan by moan, until nothing remained but a broken alpha begging for more. It was always you who made his wolf—the same one that growled at anyone who dared challenge him in the hotel corridors—wag its tail and lower its ears, submissive as a newborn pup. But now, with the ropes biting into your wrists and Jisung commanding your every breath, he couldn't deny that this was more exciting than any fantasy his feverish brain could have conjured during the long nights without you.

As his hips started to move more purposefully and each thrust struck deeper than the last, his fingers became more taut in your hair. The wet sounds of your throat working around him filled the room, punctuated by his increasingly ragged breathing. Your nose brushed against the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel with each forward motion, inhaling the musky scent of arousal and expensive cologne that was uniquely Minho.

"Look at how well she takes it," Jisung observed. The ice in his glass clinked as he took another sip. "Such a good little cocksucker. Always knew exactly how to make you fall apart, didn't she?"

Minho's response was lost in a choked moan as you hollowed your cheeks, tongue pressing firmly against the sensitive underside of his cock.

Words slipped out between clenched teeth as he cursed in Korean due to the slight constriction that caused him to hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, fuck, I can't—" His voice cracked as you swallowed deliberately around him again. "She's still so-nghh... So fucking good."

Just before heat filled your mouth, you felt him pulse against your tongue. With a broken sound that could have been your name, he came with fingers that squirmed in your hair, gripping you almost painfully. Oversensitive and quivering, you forced him through it, draining every last drop from his dick until he had to back off.

"Jesus Christ," he staggered back a little and panted. Between your lips and his softening cock, a thin strand of cum-infused saliva stretched before shattering. "I forgot how fucking good you are at that."

Jisung's low chuckle made Minho’s vertebrae tingle in anticipation. "Oh, we're just getting started, aren't we, kitten?" Approaching from behind Minho, his footsteps reverberated on the hardwood floor. "Now scoot."

Minho obliged with the grace of a chastised cat, crawling a few paces away on hands and knees, his designer slacks dragging slightly against the floor. Only then, through the post-orgasmic haze that clouded his vision like morning mist, did he notice Han had undressed. Perhaps he'd blacked out for a moment and lost track of time.

"You doing okay, baby?”

As Jisung pushed deeper than Minho had ventured, you nodded enthusiastically around his cock, your eyes watering. Hissing through gritted teeth, your throat tightened around him. Minho watched in awe as the music sent chills down his spine.

"Fuck yes, look at her take it." Jisung's voice was rough with pleasure as he gripped your hair tighter, the slight pain making your cunt clench. "Such a good little slut for us, aren't you?"

Minho couldn't tear his eyes away from where Jisung's cock disappeared between your swollen lips. A drop of your arousal slid down your inner thigh, and his own spent cock twitched with curiosity. Your hips moved restlessly, searching for friction that wasn't there, and the diamond plug caught the light.

Unable to resist any longer, Minho crawled between your spread legs. Your scent hit him like a physical force—familiar yet somehow more intoxicating than he remembered. His tongue darted out to catch that glistening drop of wetness, tracing it back to its source.

Both men shuddered at the moan you uttered around Jisung's dick. Jisung looked back over his shoulder, pupils blown wide with lust as he watched Minho worship your dripping cunt. That wasn't the damn plan, but you were making such beautiful sounds that it made him reconsider.

"Well, well," Jisung purred, rolling his hips forward until you gagged slightly. "Looks like someone's eager to taste what's mine." His free hand reached back to tangle in Minho's hair, forcing his face closer to your heat. "Go ahead then, kitten. Show me how badly you've missed this pussy."

Minho needed no further encouragement. His tongue delved deep, gathering your wetness like a man dying of thirst. Above him, Jisung's thrusts grew more erratic as your moans vibrated around his length.

"That's it," Jisung groaned, his grip tightening painfully in both your hair and Minho's. "Make her cum on your tongue while I fuck that pretty throat raw."

You clenched again as you gagged. The sight made both men groan in unison.

While two fingers twisted inside you, locating that secret place that caused lightning to dance behind your eyelids, his expert mouth plunged deeper. Legs shaking as they clamped around his head, your spine arched off the floor like a bow being drawn. The tendons in your neck strained against skin as you fought for breath around Jisung's length.

Minho's free hand traced idle patterns on your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there as if to anchor you to earth. He remembered how you used to fight this—how your alpha pride would make you bite your lip bloody rather than surrender. But tonight was different. Tonight, you were lost in a haze of sensation, caught between Jisung stretching your throat and Minho's wicked tongue.

"I missed those little sounds you make," Minho whispered against your inner thigh while his fingers never stopped their relentless assault inside you. "Remember how you used to fight it? All that alpha pride... But look at you now, dripping all over my chin like the prettiest little slut."

Your only response was a desperate whimper around Jisung the vibrations making him curse and grip your hair tighter. Minho's palm spread across your lower belly, feeling the muscles there coiling tight as a spring. He could read the signs in your body like a familiar book - the flutter of your walls around his fingers, the way your toes curled against the carpet, the endless slick that coated his chin and neck.

It should be impossible, actually. You were an alpha, technically more prepared to lubricate less than omegas and less sensitive, but that was never an obstacle for Lee Minho. He had a talent and he was going to rub it in the blue one's face.

"There we go," he purred, voice rough with want as his fingers found that perfect rhythm. His tongue flicked rapidly against your clit. "Show Jisung what he's been missing. Show him how pretty you look when you fall apart for us. Bet he's never seen an alpha gush like this before."

Unstoppable and overwhelming, the pressure increased like a tsunami. As Minho's tongue pounded viciously against you and his fingers struck that spot with devastating accuracy, your thighs trembled uncontrollably. Above you, Jisung's grip tightened in your hair as he felt your throat contracting around him, your gag reflex working overtime.

"Holy shit," Jisung groaned, watching transfixed as Minho buried his face deeper between your thighs, his nose grinding against your button while his tongue worked magic. "Is she actually going to—?"

“Yeah. Just watch, blue.”

Your muffled scream cut him off as the dam finally broke. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the saliva on your chin as you came hard around Minho's fingers. He moaned against your pussy, the vibrations prolonging your pleasure as you gushed over his hand and face. You thrashing beneath him, totally undone and beautiful in your surrender, made his own cock harden once more. He didn't stop, though, working you through each aftershock until you were sobbing around Jisung's length, your whole body trembling.

"Such a good girl," Minho praised, his tongue darting out to catch another drop of your arousal from his bottom lip. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he swallowed, savoring your taste like a man starved. "Always so fucking perfect for us. Still tastes like honey and sin."

"You okay, baby?" Han's voice was velvet-soft as he ran a loving hand down the center of your chest, fingers trailing fire under your tied arms and over the plane of your stomach. "You never let me see you like this before."

"Never saw her absolutely drenched like this before, did you?" Minho wiped his chin with the back of his hand, though his face remained gloriously debauched. A drop of your arousal caught the light as it rolled down the column of his throat, disappearing beneath his collar. "Takes someone who knows exactly what buttons to push."

“Funny how you think you know her better after abandoning her for two fucking years, kitten."

Minho's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, catching the light like a cat's in the darkness.

"I may have left." A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But at least I knew how to make her fall apart properly when I was here. Every." His tongue clicked against his teeth. "Single." Another click. "Time." His head tilted to one side, challenging. "Can you say the same, blue boy?"

Han’s scent turned sharp enough to burn, filling the room like smoke. "Continue running your mouth like that," his fingers traced patterns on your hip, but his eyes were fixed on Minho's throat. "And I'll show you exactly how I can reduce your precious wolf to a whimpering mutt while I spank that pretty ass of yours until it matches your fucking pride."

Your throat burned deliciously as you swallowed, tasting the remnants of both men on your tongue. Both of them turned back to you as you shifted, the ropes biting into your wrists. "For fuck's sake," you managed to rasp. "Shut up, both of you. Less alpha posturing, more fucking. I didn't get on my knees and let you both use my throat just to watch you measure dicks like teenagers."

"Uhm... Sorry, baby." Jisung's chuckle reverberated through his chest. His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, thumb pressing against your swollen bottom lip. "Since it's this dumb alpha's special day," he shot Minho a look that made the older alpha blush, "I'll let him decide if he wants his knot in your tight little ass or that pretty cunt. Okay?"

With eyes darting between your dripping core and the jeweled plug that winked teasingly between your cheeks, Minho's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"I want..." his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. "Both." His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to touch Jisung but not daring. "Please, I need both."

One sharp look from Jisung—just a slight narrowing—and a disapproving click of his tongue was all it took. It was like watching a proud statue fall apart—the change happened instantly. Minho's shoulders curved inward, the proud line of his spine melting into something more pliant. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Almost apparent, the aroma of cinnamon, lavender, and caramel wrapped itself around Minho like silk strands.

"Cunt," he finally whispered. "Please... I choose her pussy. Want to feel her squeeze around my knot like she used to."

A slow smile spread across Jisung's face. "Good kitten," he purred. His fingers tangled in Minho's dark hair, tugging just hard enough to sting. "Pussy it is. What do you say now?”

“T-Thank you.”

“There you go.”

Jisung's hands were surprisingly gentle as he worked at the knots, each brush of his fingers against your sensitized skin making you shiver. With a whisper, the rope slipped away and gathered on the ground like discarded snake skin.

"Up you go, pretty thing," Jisung whispered as he assisted you in standing up, his palm extending over the small of your back.

Your legs trembled like a newborn fawn's, muscles still quivering from the aftershocks. The room swayed and tilted like a ship in a storm, reality blurring at the edges until Jisung's bruising grip on your hip became your only anchor to consciousness.

Leather greeted your heated skin with a shock of cold that drew a hiss from between your teeth. Jisung's knee pressed insistently between your thighs, spreading you wide enough that the muscles burned. Behind you, Minho's breath hitched in his throat—a sound caught between a whimper and a growl that made your inner walls clench with need. The jeweled plug shifted inside you as Jisung toyed with it.

"Such a greedy little thing," Jisung worked the plug in torturous circles. "Look at how she's clenching around it, Minho-yah. Both holes just begging to be stuffed full, aren't they?" The metal caught the dim light as he finally eased it free, your body fluttering helplessly around the sudden emptiness.

Cool liquid dripped between your cheeks in a meandering trail that made you arch and whine. Jisung's fingers followed, spreading it with the patience of a man who knew exactly how to drive you mad. His knuckles brushed against your entrance with each pass, a teasing promise that had your thighs trembling.

"Here." The single word carried enough command to make both you and Minho shiver.

You heard rather than saw Minho scramble to take the offered bottle, his desperate pants filling the room like a prayer.

"Such a good boy for me," Jisung praised, and you could feel the way Minho's entire being seemed to light up at the words, his scent sweetening with pleasure. "Now get that pretty cock ready. Our girl's been so patient, hasn't she? Look how she's dripping for us both."

With a roughness that sent thrills down your spine—because this was still Han Jisung, still your beautiful, commanding alpha—he manhandled you onto the couch. Your back hit his chest with enough force to drive the air from your lungs, his heartbeat a rapid drum against your shoulder blades. Slick and burning hot, he nudged at your entrance with an insistence that bordered on desperation.

"Gonna split you open so pretty," he growled against the shell of your ear, teeth catching the lobe hard enough to sting as he lined up. "Show our little kitty exactly how an alpha takes care of what's his."

A broken sound escaped your throat as he breached you, the stretch bordering on too much. Sweat gathered at your temples, rolling down to pool in the hollow of your throat where your pulse fluttered.

"Holy fuck," Minho whimpered, his fingers twitching against his thigh as he watched you take Jisung to the root.

As Jisung tipped the last of the whiskey to your lips, the amber liquid burned a trail down your throat, and the crystal tumbler clinked against your teeth. "Gorgeous, isn't she?" His hips rolled experimentally, the new angle making your vision blur at the edges. "But we're not done yet, are we, kitten? Show me just how badly you want to wreck her."

Minho's hands shook as they settled on your thighs, fingertips leaving crescent-shaped marks as he spread you impossibly wider. Already slippery and swollen from his previous attention, the head of his dick pressed against your folds, a string of precum binding him to your heated flesh.

"Please," your voice cracked around the word as your fingers dipped between your legs, spreading yourself. "Need you both. Need to be filled completely." You crooked your fingers, showing him exactly where you wanted him, clenching around nothing. "Show me you haven't forgotten how to make me scream, Min."

What was left of his control was destroyed by the use of his nickname.

As if he had run for miles, Minho's chest heaved as his breath came in tattered pants that muddled the air between you. In an attempt to resist the urge to simply pop a knot in midair, the muscles in his forearms tensed up.

"Such a needy little thing.”

Behind you, Jisung's hands slid up your ribcage, leaving trails of fire in their wake before cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked. "Stop teasing her. Unless you want me to take over completely and show you how it's done."

The threat in his voice made Minho's hips snap forward, the head of his cock finally breaching you. The stretch was exquisite—too much and not enough all at once, burning and perfect. Your walls fluttered around both men as they filled you completely, the dual sensation making your toes curl against the leather.

"Fuck," Minho choked out, his forehead dropping to rest against your sternum. "So tight. So perfect. Can feel you both. Can feel how well you take us."

Your fingers found their way into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as you felt him tremble. The touch made him shudder violently, his hips stuttering forward another inch as a broken moan escaped his throat. "Move, kitty," you commanded softly, tugging at his hair just the way you remembered he liked.

Minho's eyes devoured every inch of you with an almost feverish intensity, pupils blown wide as his hips snapped forward with urgency.

"Please," he rasped, voice cracking like autumn leaves underfoot. "Need to—shit, need to mark you. Make you mine again." His canines lengthened visibly, pressing against his bottom lip until tiny droplets of blood welled up. His inner wolf screamed for possession as it thrashed against its chains—you ought to be writhing beneath him in his bedroom, your scent blending with the remnants that, two years later, still clung obstinately to his sheets, taking his knot until the memory of any other touch vanished.

"Such pretty begging," Jisung purred, his breath hot against your ear. His free hand snaked around to grip Minho's throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to make the older alpha's breath hitch. "But you forgot something important, didn't you?"

No kissing, no claiming.

The movement caught Minho's attention, drawing his gaze up to where Jisung watched them both with predatory focus. Something molten pooled in Minho's stomach as the younger alpha's lips twisted into that devastating half-smile.

Slowly, Jisung brought the crystal tumbler to his own lips, throat working as he swallowed. A single drop of amber liquid escaped, meandering down the sharp line of his jaw. Minho's tongue darted out unconsciously to wet his lips.

The realization hit him like lightning—Han Jisung, with his ocean-deep hair, lip piercing and cruel kindness, would slot perfectly into the empty spaces in his bedroom too.

What the fuck? No, this shouldn't be happening! The metallic taste of blood invaded his mouth as he bit his lip hard enough to hurt, ignoring how your eyes opened to stare at him when you smelled it.

Fuck! He already has a jack in his hands; he doesn't need another one! The thought burned like acid in his throat. Minho needs to think about other omegas and whores—the girl from Midnight Club with purple hair and tongue piercings, the bartender from Red Light with tribal tattoos running down his tanned neck, the cat-eyed dancer from Velvet Underground. He needs to fuck women and men until the scent of cinnamon and caramel is replaced by sweat and cheap sex, until every memory of you is buried under a pile of nameless bodies, until he erases you from the system, erases Jisung and that damn smile.

He needed to fuck.

"Open that pretty mouth for me, kitten," Jisung commanded, pressing the cool rim of the glass to Minho's lips. His other hand remained firm around the older alpha's throat.

Whiskey flooded Minho's mouth, burning sweetly as it mixed with your lingering taste on his tongue. His eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the dual sensation of your walls clenching around him and Jisung's possessive grip on his throat. The familiar pressure began building at the base of his cock, his knot threatening to swell—breed mate claim mine mine mine.

"Eyes on me," Jisung growled, his fingers tightening until crimson starbursts exploded behind Minho's eyelids. "Show me what a good boy you can be. Match my rhythm—yeah, just like that." His thumb ghosted over Minho's bottom lip, collecting the bitter cocktail of whiskey and copper.

The muscles in Minho's throat worked convulsively beneath Jisung's grip, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against calloused fingers. Sweat-stained skin caused his shoulder blades to shift beneath his curved spine as he struggled to keep up with Jisung's vicious pace.

"I'm sorry, sorry, baby." Minho choked out, his rhythm growing erratic as his knot began to swell, balls hitting your rim with all his might. "Please, Alpha, I can't—need to—"

"Not yet." Jisung's voice was sin incarnate, dark honey and broken glass. His fingers found your clit, drawing tight circles that had your vision blurring at the edges. "Our girl cums first. Show her what those pretty fingers can do and then you are allowed."

When you felt the stretch of both cocks filling you completely, Jisung's teeth at your throat, and Minho's deft fingers joining Jisung's at your clit, the world shrank to pure sensation. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, vision whiting out as pleasure crashed through your system. You could feel yourself clenching rhythmically around them both, drawing them deeper as your body demanded to be bred.

"Holy fuck," Minho choked out, his hips stuttering as your walls milked his cock. "Can't—alpha, please—"

Jisung's growl vibrated through your back, possessive and commanding. "Cum for us, kitten. Breed her nice and deep."

As Minho emptied himself inside of you with a broken cry, the command in Jisung's voice caused his entire body to tremble, his knot to fully swell. You could feel him pulsing, filling you alongside Jisung's still-hard length. Your oversensitive walls fluttered around them both, and the sensation was almost too much, almost painful.

"Such a good boy," Jisung praised, his voice rough as gravel as his hips snapped up harder. His fingers twisted in Minho's hair, yanking his head back to expose the column of his throat. "Look at how well you take my commands, how perfectly you fill our alpha."

Minho whimpered, high and desperate, as Jisung's teeth scraped over his scent gland. His hips jerked helplessly, locked inside you by his knot as aftershocks of pleasure wracked his frame.

"Please," you gasped, writhing between them as Jisung's pace grew brutal. "Too much! I can't! Stop!"

Jisung's laugh was dark honey against your skin. "Yes, you can. One more for us, pretty thing. Show our kitty how good we make you feel."

His fingers found your clit again while Minho latched onto your breast. The dual sensation of his tongue laving over your nipple and Jisung's cock dragging against your g-spot had you almost screaming.

Minho's teeth grazed your nipple as he moaned around the sensitive flesh, his own oversensitivity evident in the way his thighs trembled. You could feel his knot pulsing inside you with each thrust of Jisung's hips, stretching you impossibly wider.

"That's it," Jisung growled, his rhythm growing erratic as his own knot began to swell. "Take it all, every fucking drop."

As pleasure verged on pain, your second orgasm struck like lightning, causing tears to fall down your cheeks. Jisung followed with a snarl, his knot locking inside you alongside Minho's as he marked you from the inside out.

For a moment, Minho allowed himself to collapse against your chest, his forehead pressed against your sternum as his breath came in ragged gasps. The steady thrum of your heartbeat beneath his ear was a siren song, beckoning him towards dangerous waters where dreams of permanence lurked like sharks beneath still waters.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word barely audible as his fingers traced meaningless patterns across your ribs. His tongue darted out to taste the salt of your skin, cataloging the way Jisung's and his scent had mixed with your natural sweetness to create something entirely new.

Behind you, Jisung's fingers carded through Minho's sweat-dampened hair, the gentle touch at odds with the possessive grip he maintained on your hip. "Stay still for me, both of you," he murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your shoulder. "Let me take care of you while we're tied."

Minho's eyelashes fluttered against your skin as he fought back the surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted to memorize this moment—the weight of you both, the way Jisung's fingers felt against his scalp, the lingering taste of whiskey and blood on his tongue. Wanted to bottle it up and keep it safe, hidden away with all the other pieces of himself he couldn't bear to examine too closely.

But he couldn't. Wouldn't. The rules were clear—no staying, no claiming, no letting himself believe this could be anything more than what it was. Even as his body betrayed him, cock still pulsing inside you as his knot kept you locked together, his mind was already calculating the fastest way to get you out of his house. Already planning his escape.

"Your heart's racing," you observed softly, fingers trailing down his spine in a touch so gentle it made him want to scream. Or sob. Or both.

Minho said nothing, but his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise.

It was like a game of Kemps, Minho thought hazily, watching the way moonlight painted silver stripes across your skin through his half-closed Venetian blinds. Just like those drunken Sunday afternoons in Chan's apartment. But now he had two jacks in his hand. Two cards that could ruin everything he'd built, destroy the fortress around his heart.

He could already imagine it—lazy Sunday mornings with the scent of condensed milk pudding filling his apartment, the sweet aroma mingling with fresh coffee and Jisung's scent. Jisung's steady hands marking his skin with permanent promises in black ink while vinyl records crackled in the background. You in the bathtub singing "Here Comes The Sun" off-key, bubbles clinging to your shoulders while Jisung lounged behind you reading his worn copy of Murakami, occasionally glancing up from the pages to watch him shave. Movie nights with takeout containers scattered across his coffee table, your head in his lap and Jisung's fingers absently playing with both your hair. The three of you tangled together in his Egyptian cotton sheets, no need for rushed goodbyes or careful distance, just the steady rhythm of shared breaths and intertwined heartbeats.

The domesticity of these visions felt like a noose around his neck, tightening with each passing second. Like his mother's pearls scattered across the bathroom floor, like the bitter taste of failure that had lived on his tongue since that day. The thought terrified him more than any business deal or angry investor ever could.

"When will I see you again?"

For the first time, he was the one that asked this question. His fingers trembled as he considered keeping his jacks instead of discarding them, letting them destroy his perfect game.

After all, sometimes the best strategy was letting your walls crumble, brick by carefully constructed brick, until nothing remained but the raw, beating heart beneath.

Kemps!

[splatashahowlett]

missing piece

logan (james) howlett x reader

the record player was playing One piece at a time, your favorite song, occasionally letting out a soft sound of scratching against the vinyl. the bar was crowded and everybody seemed to have a good time. the 70's may become your favorite decade. you've been alive for over a hundred years now but you liked everything about this era; the music, the clothes and the recklessness of it.

you were currently seated at the bar, drinking whatever the bartender had offered you. the guy had been hitting on you all evening, and you figured that free drinks couldn't hurt since your healing factor would keep you from getting drugged. you liked the attention anyway, your ex lover had disappeared on a random tuesday and never came back home. it had been four years since you had last seen him, you weren't mad at him anymore, but more at yourself for thinking a man could keep his promises. so some compliments were always welcomed.

you were watching people dance, the festive atmoshpere filling a void in your chest. whenever you felt alone you would go to a bar, or a pub just to feel something. in those places, time seemed to stop, you could be invisible. nobody cared about you or asked anything from you. sometimes you would dance with a random girl or guy and end up in their motel room just to sneak out the second they fell alseep. you were conscious that this lifestyle wasn't for everybody. in fact, you didn't enjoy it in the slightest. but you didn't have a choice. you didn't have any family anymore, and the only person that counted took off 4 years ago. you didn't work and your only hobby was drinking. you weren't living, but barely surviving. but with time you get used to it, right?

right as when you were about to get up to dance, someone sat next to you. too close for your liking. you turned your head and were met with a drunk looking guy, staring at you like you were some piece of meat. you gave him a look that meant "get the fuck out of here and leave me alone" but he didn't seem to want to comply.

"hello pretty girl, need some company?" he said, or at least that's what you understood. his breath hit your nose and you almost threw up; your heightened senses could really be a pain in the ass sometimes.

"go fuck yourself" you said, walking toward the back door. the guy following you.

"I think I'll need some help with that, my girl" he said, trying to catch up with you. you ignored him, or at least he thought so, and went through the back door, making sure he was still behind you. once you found yourself in a small alley, you grabbed him by the collar and pushed him brutally against the wall.

"I am not your girl" you threatened. the dickhead tried to answer but with your hands on his throat the task seemed more difficult than usual. you hated this petname, it reminded you of things you wanted to forget. you let go of him, letting him fall to the ground and kicked him in the stomach. that wasn't necessary but he deserved it.

you went back inside, planning on gathering your things and then finding a place to sleep. you folded your jacket on your arm and put your pack of cigarettes in your pocket. but as you turned toward the door, your heart stopped. a familiar face looking at you from the crowd. at first you thought you were hallucinating, the fucker was dead. you hoped he would be. it would hurt less. but when he started coming closer you scoffed.

you couldn't do it without a drink, so you sat back and asked for straight tequila. you missed this vanishing feeling the night procured you.

logan sat next to you and asked for a drink. you refused to look at him. you wanted to punch him in the face, alright maybe you were still a little mad at him. seeing him here, and so close to you made you mad. you wanted to kill and kiss him.

"I missed you" he said, looking afar. out of all the things he could have said you weren't expecting this. you scoffed and tightened your grip on your drink.

"shut your damn mouth" you gritted through your teeth, still holding onto your drink for dear life. you had imagined what it would be like to see him again and promised to yourself that you would tell him you moved on and leave him speechless. you never thought you still loved him so deeply. you hated how he made you feel, you hated feeling weak. but you loved everything else about him, and if feeling vulnerable was the price to pay to be with him then you wouldn't think twice about it.

"I didn't have a choice" he added, this made your blood boil. you knew he was telling the truth and you had already forgave him, you just needed to hear him say it. you didn't say anything, didn't ask about the reason of his departure. you kept your mouth shut, hoping he would take the hint and leave. no you didn't want him to leave, you wanted him to think that you wanted him to leave.

"I’m sorry” he muttered. this was your last straw, your glass broke between you fingers, shards of glass flying all over the counter and cutting into your hand. you jumped, startled at your own doing. logan reached for your hand immediately but you moved it away before he could even brush it.

"fuck you" was the last thing you said before running to the bathroom. your healing factor was already pushing the glass out of your flesh but it still hurt as hell.

“let me help you” you hadn’t even hear him coming in. you smiled, amused at the situation. you terribly wanted to give him your hand but your pride told you otherwise.

“why are you here?” you whispered, almost scared that if you spoke louder he would disappear.

“I told you, I miss you”.

“of course you do, that's why you came back so quickly” you said, washing the blood off your hand. “I just know you were bored to death without me" you joked, trying to ease the tension.

logan approached and slowly put his hands on your waist, your back facing him. he then delicately planted his chin on your shoulder. “I know you won’t believe me when I tell you I did this to protect you and that’s fair but I need you by my side, I need my girl” you swore you heard a sob in his voice. you looked up, staring at your reflection in the mirror, you could see logan’s head next to yours he was looking at you. this was the first time you’ve look into his eyes since he left. and they felt like home.

you turned around slowly, facing him. you hands claimed back their place on either side of his face. wiping his tears. seeing logan cry was rare, extremely rare. you felt your heart broke at the sight. he put his hands on yours and closed his eyes, enjoying how your touch felt like after so many years. nothing changed, not his love for you nor what he felt around you.

“let me take you home” he begged

“where?”

“doesn’t matter, home is whenever I’m with you”

you knew that your james was telling the truth, and you knew that you still loved each other.

"I need time, james" you answered, even if your mind was already made you had some self respect. you were about to say something else but logan beat you to it:

“I love you” he breathed.

you kissed him passionately, making up for all the lost kisses.

"I love you most"

you were still upset about what he did, but at the end of the day, you knew he did it for a good reason and that it hurt him maybe even more than it did you, and you certainly couldn’t imagine life without him.

you both cried into the kiss, silently promising to always be on each other's side.

"come on, let's get out of here"

[vampkittyxoxo]

HII i love your blog, i was hoping i could request draco x reader hcs (how he'd be as a bf and nsfw hcs because hes so hot im sorry) thanks!! 💕

Thank you!! Hehe I agree, Draco is like the hottest brawler (besides the loml Gray)

Gender wasn't specified, so neutral pronouns were used + varied headcanons dependent on gender

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ*:.*:..*:...｡o○　　○o｡..:*..:*..:*Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ*:.*:..*:...｡o○　　○o｡..:*..:*..:*Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Draco x reader - Romantic + NSFW headcanons

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Romantic

~ Although I already made a post about this, I'll add some new ones :)

~ Draco loves having nights where you two just sit in bed, turn on some music (even if it isn't his style... he will begrudgingly listen), and talk and laugh about the silliest things. Quality time!

~ He likes seeing you wear his performance outfit. He gets so flustered!

~ Draco probably loves playing games intended for kids on Roblox with you and gets sad when you don't want to play them. Like, what do you mean you don't want to play [NEW UPDATE!] SUPER SNAKE CLICKER [40M VISITS] ???

~ He bugs you nonstop to get you to try to play his guitar. If you don't know how to play, he'll teach you (as best as he can...), and if you do, Draco will be competitive about it-- always trying to one-up you and make himself seem like the better player (even if he isn't).

~ Draco loves scaring you at any opportunity he gets. Bonus points if you're a very jumpy person.

~ If you have stuffed animals, he will create backstories for all of them, give them names and personalities, all just to play with them for five minutes.

-----------------

NSFW

~ He's not very good at foreplay... Since he's so easy to turn on, he thinks it won't take much to get you going either. And if that's true, then he really is in luck. But otherwise, you may have to guide him and tell him to slow it down.

~ Draco is amazing at giving head, boy or girl. Just be careful, his canines are a little sharp. He adores feeling you squirm beneath him while he holds onto your legs.

~ He lovesss it when you give him head. He literally melts at the sight of you going down on him, even to the point he may let a whimper escape...

~ Draco just loves it when you call him 'Master'... I mean, he is the master of the dragons and whatnot. Call him that while he's going down on you and he'll have to resist every urge to fuck you right then and there.

~ He can get pretty rough, and if you’re into that he will make it amazing. If not, he’ll do everything to make sure you’re comfy.

~ As far as kinks go, I’d imagine stuff such as choking, knife play, perhaps some s/m as well (he likes receiving pain more than giving, like you scratching him, but also enjoys giving if that’s your thing).

~ He is primarily a top/dominant, but admittedly loves it when he’s submissive. Even if your fem-aligned, he has plenty of money to get a strap on.

~ Draco has a pretty decent stamina from jerking off every day as a teen. Around 15 minutes usually, but can go up to an hour before he’s crying and begging to finally finish.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ*:.*:..*:...｡o○　　○o｡..:*..:*..:*Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

First actual post in a while! So sorry, life has been lifing… lots of college prep and a terrible situationship… at least I have brawl stars

[not-quite-ran]

Let's get married

(a dreamnoblade one-shot)

"Let's get married" Dream almost laugh, no, he did laugh, because he thought he was joking, because who would propose in the middle of the artic, just outside a secret base of an anti government organization that had just finished a meeting, besides it didn't even sound as a proposal, so he just laugh.

But Techno didn't laugh with him. In fact, when Dream turn to look his way, Techno was holding a circular object that was also very shiny that happened to look exactly like an engagement ring.

"Oh"

-----

Life after prision break wasn't easy, but Techno was there. 

Techno was there when Dream was physically able to hold a sword again.

Techno was there when he succeeded in hold a pen properly, and do readable orations instead of his usual cat scratches.

Techno hold him when the night terrors were unbearable and he live sleepless for a couple of weeks.

Techno was there when he had to empty his guts in the bathroom when he had a little too much food when his stomach wasn't able to handle it yet.

Techno was there, and even better, Techno was there for him.

So when Techno offered him a place at the syndicate table, Dream was euphoric.

Not everybody was exited to meet him at the syndicate table, but a couple of years had passed and he was unbothered, besides, the syndicate wasn't really busy, so it really was just an excuse to reunite in a calm place to chat and have some of the pastry Nikki always bake for them

It was nice.

Dream could get use to this.

And he did.

--

Dream wasn't a man of formalities in his personal life, and honestly after all the "no attachments" thing in his past he was kind of lost in the topic now. So when he and Techno past from foreign touches, to cuddles, to kisses, to straight up make out sessions and ,,, other stuff, they really didn't say much, it felt natural, maybe not really talk about it wasn't ideal, but it work for them and no one really never cuestion it, so, no need.

Dream had already sense the subtle change in their routine, they were entering a very domestic routine (more domestic that it already was), Dream could feel it, and it was nice, it was peaceful, and warm, and Dream was tired. Recovery was a very tiring process, and Dream wasn't complete heal.

He didn't think he would never be.

But it was fine.

He had Techno.

And it was very obvious right now.

Techno wasn't in his knees, Dream didn't think he could stand it if Techno kneel, but he didn't need to, because Dream was already in his horse and even if Techno was a fucking giant, Dream have to look slightly downwards to look at him from his place at the top of his horse.

Techno also wasn't offering the ring per se, he was handing it over, like it was anything but a fucking engagement ring-

"Okay, rude, you could had just say no instead of laughing at my face, but okay" Techno was teasing, Dream could hear it in his voice, but he also could hear the slight wavering, like he was insecure.

Techno was never insecure.

"N-No, wait ,,, what?" Dream tried, he did, but his brain refuse to catch up with all that was happening.

"I said, we should ,,," Techno bring the ring closer to Dream's face, again, like he was presenting anything but a ring. "We should get married"

Dream blinked,

Once,,

Twice-

"That it's the most horrible proposal I ever heard, and I have heard a few." Dream couldn't help but laugh, again, and Techno was about to retreat his hand when he lean in and put his hand over Techno's. Techno smiled.

"Okey, nerd, leave me alone, this is a full player thing I have zero knowledge about this kinda stuff in players culture." Dream couldn't help but smile

"Then you should try and do it in a way you understand it." Despite everything, Dream took the ring from Techno's hand and put it in his finger, and took his time to admire it, it was truly beautiful, Techno has put a lot of thought in it. He smile, "It's really beautiful Tech." 

"I'm glad you like it" Techno took Dream's hand, and he also admire the ring in his finger, he look proud. "And now that you accept my courting, it's the first of various ornaments that I should give to you, mate." It wasn't a question,  but it also wasn't a affirmation.

"Well, I think I would like to get married to you, mate."

Dream swore he had never seen Techno smile wider.

Yeah, he will be fine.

Because he had Techno.

And Techno had him.

[sirensdollesque]

"my girl isn't gonna limp in pain"

waterpoloplayer!reader & lacrosseplayer!chris

"good game," the last high-five of the line of the opposing team, you dropped the smile you'd been forcing and walked towards the tent with all your stuff, the game had gone absolutely horrible today, mainly for you, stuck with one of the one of the most dirty playing girls on the team you had been put through the ringer with her if it wasn't her pushing you under or scratching you it was her tugging on your suit. That wasn't even the worse thing, not by a long shot, it was the full force kick directly to your crotch she'd purposely landed during 2rd quarter, you've taken kicks and scratches but never one to the crotch, you couldn't do anything but curse under your breath when it happened and call her out for it just to get a "dont hate the player, hate the game," in return, you were petty though and made sure that for the rest of the game you got your hits too, before you asked to sub out, the pain would linger and had you limping afterwards.

chris walked over to you, he could see the limp in your walk, he'd seen the shift in your performance in the water after 2nd quarter, your slowed pace and you starting to be more dirty with the way you played, he smiled softly at you and kissed your forehead, helping you taking your swim cap off for you. you sighed into relief the pressure from your head fading away, "you killed it out there today. loss or not you're still the biggest winner in my book," he wrapped his arms around your waist kneading small circles, "think i got like a portfolio of scratch marks on me" "a bit, they're getting red already," he kissed the scratch mark on your shoulder and hummed "you feelin' okay?" you sighed the exhustion and annoyence radiating off of you, "that girl was a fucking bitch, she was just playing dirty the whole time and ref didn't do shit," he sighed softly rubbing your back, "you still killed out there, and it was kinda funny seeing you pull her under and tug her suit after she kicked you."

you laughed into his chest, "i felt that kick she gave me in my soul" "I figured since you're still limping, but how about you go get dressed and we go get food and then I'll drop you off at home yea?" he grabbed your bag and lifted you up, walking you to the bathroom and let you change.

the beatings and annoyance you felt didn't seem to matter anymore as you two giggled walking out the school, or better yet as chris carried you out insisting "my girl isn't gonna limp in pain after being kicked where the sun don't shine."

torispeaks🌾- mildly based on real events :pp

version1

tags- @secretlocket @wildfluer @sturns-mermaid @freshloveee @zebonos @ch6rm / @st6ined @chrisissobabygirl @immaqulate @strnilolover @submattsgf @joces-wrld @throatgoat4u @jensturnss @sweetshuga @oopsiedaisydeer

[spencersmopbucket]

Dating Oliver Wood !

Pairing: Oliver Wood x Reader Summary: What is it like to date Hogwarts' best Quidditch player?

Oliver first notices you while you're in the stands at his Quidditch game.

He normally was focused, he really was. But today, for some odd reason, he just couldn't. Maybe it was pre game jitters. Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was some fucking hex. But the boy simply could not focus on warm-ups. His eyes kept wandering, studying the people on the stands, studying the other team, studying anything but the warm-up. He was frustrated. That was, until he saw you. You were beautiful. Your hair was messy in the wind, scarf thrown clumsily over your shoulder. You laughed loudly with a friend, hardly paying attention to the game in front of you. He tried to pull his eyes away. Of course, the bloody idiot couldn't do it before you glanced back at him. Your eyes locked. A pathetic blush spread across his cheeks. Then, he sped away on his broom, muttering to himself. “Oi, Wood, you sure you’re not more interested in the stands than the pitch?” "Shut yer bloody mouth, Weasley!"

He could've smacked himself with how awkward your first conversation was. Thankfully, you found awkwardness charming. In the Great Hall, he finally found the guts to approach you.

Oliver had been rehearsing what he was going to say for days. It was stupid, really, considering how he could lead the Gryffindor Quidditch team to victory, but talking to you? That was a whole different ballgame. Every time he thought about it, his palms would get sweaty, and his heart would start racing. But now, sitting across from Fred and George at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Oliver knew he had to do something about it. His mind was going a hundred miles an hour, but when he saw you across the room, laughing with Ginny Weasley, he stood up, adjusted his sleeves (as though that would help), and tried to calm himself down. He walked over, trying to look casual, but the closer he got, the more nervous he became. You looked up, catching his eye before he even had a chance to say anything. "Oi," he started, and his thick Scottish accent sounded a bit more ragged than usual, “Didn’t think I’d be seeing ye here. Was hopin’ I’d have a wee chat wi' ye at some point." You raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips. "You didn't think you'd be seeing me in the Great Hall?" You tease, snorting. Oliver froze for a second, caught completely off guard by the playful teasing in your voice. His cheeks burned a deep shade of red, and he mentally cursed himself for sounding like a bloody idiot. But the sound of your laugh, light and teasing, made his nerves twist in a way he couldn't describe. “Ah, well,” he stammered, scratching the back of his neck with an awkward grin, “Aye, didn’t expect ye to be sittin’ right here, but… that’s a good thing, innit

Eventually, the poor lad’s nerves calmed more and more with every conversation you had. It became easy to talk to you. You got closer, until finally, he asked you out.

The library was quiet, besides the scratching of quills on paper and flipping of pages. You and Oliver sat side by side at a table, both looking at transformations homework. Or you thought you both were. Oliver's hazel eyes were focused on you, looking at how your long eyelashes kissed your skin every time you looked down or blinked. He watched your delicate hands flip pages and scribble notes. You were just so genuinely pretty. He couldn't help it. Besides, homework wasn't that important anyway. You seemed to pick up on his distracted behavior, looking up at him with e/c eyes. "You okay, Ollie?" You asked sweetly. God. He almost passed out on the table. Oliver blinked a few times, trying to pull himself out of his trance. He hadn’t realized how hard he was staring at you until you caught his gaze. The warmth in your eyes only made the pounding in his chest worse. His mouth went dry, and for a split second, he couldn’t even remember how to form words. "Aye, uh.. Fine." He muttered quickly, shaking his head to clear the fog. "Jus' thinking about homework." He added, his eyes darting away. He cursed himself in his brain. He wouldn't even have believed him. Oliver tried to focus on the textbook in front of him, but his mind was far away, lost in the way you looked at him, the way your fingers delicately held the quill, the way your hair framed your face in the soft light of the library. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, his accent thickening with his nerves. “I know I’m probably actin' like a right twit, but…” He paused, licking his lips as if he was trying to find the right words, but they just weren’t coming.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this. Nervous, unsure. But around you, everything felt different, and it was scary in the best way possible. He looked at you again, the words finally tumbling out in a rush.

“I’ve been wantin' to ask ye somethin' for a while, but I don’t know if it’s—if it’s daft or—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Would ye—would ye go out with me? Properly, like. Not just studyin’ or talkin’ Quidditch, but… y’know. A date.”

Your first kiss made Oliver realize just how hooked on you he was.

The breeze was cool, blowing your hair into your face. You and Oliver sat below the railing of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling. You were wrapped in a Gryffindor blanket, sharing it with him, your shoulders and backs covered in warmth. The stars twinkled above you, grey clouds scarce but swirling around the openness of the sky. The silence was comfortable and peaceful. "I love the sky," You broke the silence, nudging Oliver's shoulder. "It's so pretty. And peaceful. Dont'cha think?" Oliver turned his head to look at you, his gaze softening as the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile. The way the stars reflected in your eyes, the quiet sound of your voice — it was all a kind of magic he couldn’t put into words. “Aye, it’s beautiful. Almost as beautiful as you,” he said without thinking, his thick Scottish accent thickening as he spoke, the words slipping out naturally. He immediately felt his cheeks flush as he realized what he'd said, but he didn’t take it back. Not when it felt so true. Your face flushed as red as his was, but a smile curled onto your lips. You pulled the blanket tighter to your body. His hand brushed against yours under the blanket, and despite the slight chill in the air, he felt warmth spreading through him. The moment felt so perfect, so right, and in that quiet, shared space, he realized just how close you were to him. He swallowed, his heart pounding. This was a side of Oliver that not many got to see—the side that wasn’t just the determined Quidditch captain or the goofy lad with his friends. With you, it was different. He felt like he could finally breathe “I’ve never felt more at peace than this, with you, here,” he added quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "'M not much of a tender bloke, but.. You make me soft." You nudged him again, and this time, your eyes met his in a way that made the space between you feel even smaller. The silence wrapped around you both, but it wasn’t awkward—it was the kind of silence that made everything feel like it was exactly where it needed to be. The space between you was almost nonexistent now. Oliver could feel your breath on his lips, and despite the cool breeze outside, there was an intense heat building between the two of you. Without thinking, he reached out slowly, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered there for a moment, his touch warm and tender, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the yearning feeling building up inside him. And then, before either of you could second-guess it, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. The kiss was deep, filled with the emotions that had been building up since the moment he first noticed you on the Quidditch pitch. He kissed you as if he was pouring all of his feelings into that one, perfect moment — passion, affection, fear of losing you, and the absolute certainty that he’d never been more at home than in your arms. When the kiss finally broke, Oliver rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath. Yep, he thought as he looked into your e/c eyes. 'M proper fucked. A shaky laugh left his lips.

Oliver's friends realize what's going on — a girl finally has Oliver in her grip. He's fallen for someone.

Fred and George, Oliver's best friends, seemed to be seeing less and less of the lad these days. Usually, they drink butterbeer until they're sick after quidditch practice, ignoring their homework and watching dumb Muggle shows instead. But lately, Oliver had been sneaking off the pitch immediately, changing clothes in a hurry, and disappearing somewhere they couldn't find him. “Next time he sneaks off,” Fred said, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face, “we should follow him. See just what he’s up to. I bet you anything it’s that lass.” "What lass?" George questioned, raising a ginger eyebrow. "The one from the pitch. He was staring at her during the match against Ravenclaw, remember?" Finally, they catch him sneaking away from class. They even catch him slipping into a Quidditch closet, a wide grin on his face. And 30 seconds later, after one little Alohomora, they catch him snogging the girl from the pitch. Real snogging. Hands in hair, rumpled clothes, against the wall snogging. George releases a playful gasp. "Are we interrupting something?" Fred asks, leaning against the wall with a massive shit-eating grin on his face. Oliver froze, his heart racing as he pulled back from the kiss, eyes wide in shock. The sight of Fred and George standing in the doorway, smirking like they'd just discovered the greatest secret in the world, made him want to disappear into the floor. The girl beside him laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, clearly unfazed by the intrusion. But Oliver? He was mortified. "What on Earth are you doing here, you right imbeciles?" He finally speaks, his face red. George's grin only widened as he leaned closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, nothing, mate. Just checking in. You know, making sure you’re not too busy to spend time with your best mates." He cast a teasing glance at Oliver and then at the girl. "But I see you’ve got… other priorities." Oliver muttered something under his breath, his face still buried in his hands. "Jeez, could ye leave me be? I’m tryin' to have a moment here." "Sure thing, Ollie," Fred said, giving him one last look before they both turned to leave. "But we’ll be expectin’ a story. And we’ll want all the juicy bits." Once the door clicked shut behind them, Oliver leaned back against the wall, letting out a deep sigh. "Bloody hell," he muttered, shaking his head as he looked at the girl beside him. "They’re enough to make a man lose his will to live, they are." She laughed, her hand gently resting on his. "I don’t know," she said with a smile, "I think they’ve got a point." Oliver smirked, his thumb tracing circles over the back of her hand. "Aye, they’re right about one thing," he said with a chuckle. "I’m proper screwed. But I've never been jollier about it." She leaned in for another kiss, and for the first time in ages, Oliver didn’t care who was watching.

You can’t be in a relationship with Oliver Wood without a fair helping of jealousy. Oh well — Oliver knows how to assert himself. He also scares the shit out of most blokes at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall was buzzing. For once, Ollie was actually with his mates instead of by your side. You didn’t mind — you liked a little bit of time with your girls too. They sat at the other side of the table, laughing and joking. You sat on the other end, with Ginny on one side and Parvati on the other, whispering and giggling. The only issue was the fact that the group of you tended to attract boys. And you weren’t exactly public with Oliver right now. You were taking it slow, waiting for the right moment to officialize things. You knew shit was going to hit the fan as soon as the three Hufflepuff boys, definitely on the Quidditch team, approached you. They had huge charming smiles on their faces — Cedric Diggory led them. You inwardly sighed, crossing your arms to look unapproachable, but it didn't work. "Ladies," Cedric smiled kindly. "How's it going?" You smiled back out of politeness, but you winced in your head. You knew your boyfriend (or almost boyfriend) was going to have a field day with this shit. Speaking of, Oliver and his friends seemed to quiet down slightly, their voices less easy to tune into. They had definitely noticed what was going on — you could tell without even looking in that direction. "So, Name," the third Hufflepuff boy addressed you. "Do you have a travel partner for Hogsmeade next weekend?" Your jaw dropped. You closed it. Then it dropped again. "Um—" You hear a loud laugh, definitely Oliver’s. Then, you feel a strong arm wrap around your waist, lifting you up next to him. The scent of broom polish and his cologne filled your nose. “Well, well, well,” he snorted, in his loud and proud Oliver Wood fashion. “What have we here? A little attempt to pick up some girls, lads? How cute, innit?” Oliver pressed a kiss to your head, partly as a greeting, partly as a way to conduct his show. The Hufflepuff boys all looked at each other, clearing their throats awkwardly. They were trying to find ways to diffuse the situation, not wanting it to get any tenser, but Oliver wasn't having it. If he had an issue, he 100% opted to intimidate and embarrass before he let it go. “I really hope ye aren’t makin’ a pass at a lad’s girl,” Oliver said, his voice light but his grip tightening just slightly around your waist. His Scottish brogue thickened with his irritation, something that somehow made him even more intimidating. “That would be extremely stupid of youse.” You hid your face in his shoulder, trying not to laugh. You could feel the tension radiating off him like heat, but to you, it was almost…adorable. Protective, jealous Oliver was your favorite flavor. Cedric, to his credit, raised his hands in surrender, offering an easy smile. “He didn’t know, mate. No offense meant.” Oliver's smile was broad, but there was something undeniably smug behind it. He knew damn well Cedric wasn’t usually afraid of anything. But Oliver Wood, furious and in love, was something else entirely. “No harm done,” Oliver said breezily, though his hand slid possessively up and down your arm, staking a silent claim in front of everyone. “Just remember next time — she’s already spoken for, aye?” You could hear the cackles of Fred and George from the other end of the table, obviously poking fun at the shocked and embarrassed faces painted onto the Hufflepuff crew. Cedric and the other Hufflepuffs backed off quickly, murmuring awkward goodbyes, and as soon as they were gone, Oliver leaned down, his voice quieter and warmer just for you. “Ye’ll be stayin’ right next to me from now on, yeah?” he murmured, nose brushing your temple. “Can’t have the whole bloody school thinkin’ you're free for the takin’.” You smiled into his chest. “Were you jealous?” He huffed, the sound both grumpy and affectionate. “Jealous? Naw. Just remindin’ everyone who ye belong to.” "Don't worry," you giggled. "I'm all yours." “Good,” he muttered, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “Would’ve hated to start a fight before lunch.”

He used to only be proud of Quidditch related things. However, you are his favorite achievement now. Lord forbid you do anything worth bragging about — Oliver won't shut up about it for a week.

You finally got your N.E.W.T scores back. You almost broke a cold sweat out of nervousness. Your knees struggled not to buckle as you plopped down onto the Gryffindor common room couch, your boyfriend waiting anxiously beside you. "I know ye did just bloody perfect, lass," he reassured. "Take a breath, aye?" Your hands shook slightly as you opened the envelope, heart hammering so hard you were sure Oliver could hear it. He scooted closer, his thigh pressed against yours, one hand rubbing slow, grounding circles along your back. The moment your eyes scanned the parchment, you blinked once. Twice. And then, like the air had been punched out of you, you let out a soft, disbelieving noise. “Well?” Oliver demanded, nearly bouncing on the couch like a bloody first year. "Out with it, woman!" You handed him the letter wordlessly, your hands still trembling. He snatched it up, his eyes darting over the scores — and then his mouth dropped open. “Merlin’s beard, Name,” he breathed. “Ye smashed it! Look at this! Outstanding, Outstanding, bloody Outstanding — ye're a genius! I knew it!” You laughed weakly, the anxiety still bleeding out of you. “I didn’t think I’d do that well…” Oliver launched himself up off the couch so fast that you startled. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you into the air and spinning you around like you weighed nothing. “That’s my girl!” he shouted proudly, loud enough that the entire bloody common room turned to stare. "Look at her, lads and lasses — smartest witch in Hogwarts, and she’s mine!" Your cheeks burned as you clutched at his shoulders, giggling. "Ollie, put me down!" He did — but only to immediately pepper your face with kisses, muttering in between each one: “So proud…so bloody brilliant…bet no one else's girlfriend's got scores like this…” For the next week — maybe longer — Oliver made it his personal mission to tell everyone about your results. Fred, George, even bloody McGonagall got an earful about how you were not only the prettiest girl in the castle, but the smartest too. At first, you tried to hide your embarrassment. After all, Oliver was worse than a proud mum at a Quidditch final. But seeing the pure, unfiltered pride in his warm brown eyes — the way he looked at you like you hung the stars — made it impossible not to melt every time. At lunch one day, you and Oliver sat with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny. Hermione proudly held her N.E.W.T scores, flashing them for everyone to see. You leaned over to get a look, genuinely thrilled for her — Hermione had worked harder than anyone else you knew, and she deserved to bask in it. “Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron said, eyes wide as he read over her parchment. "You’re a right genius." Fred and George even gave her a dramatic standing ovation, clapping obnoxiously and bowing like she’d just won the Triwizard Tournament. But before you could even properly join in the congratulations, Oliver’s arm slung around your shoulders, tugging you into his side with a beaming grin. "All due respect, Granger," he said, voice lilting with that unmistakable Scottish lilt, "ye’re brilliant, truly — but no one’s touching my girl." You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands as Fred and George immediately perked up like bloodhounds catching a scent. "Oi, Ollie," George teased, a wicked glint in his eye, "ye're worse than Mum when Percy got Head Boy." Fred snickered, elbowing Oliver. "Think we’ve heard about Name’s scores about, what, a hundred times this week?" "Aye, and ye’ll hear about it a hundred more," Oliver said cheerfully, without a shred of shame. He turned to look at you, his expression softening. "She worked her arse off. I’m bloody proud. 'Course I’m gonna shout it from the rooftops." Ginny laughed around a sip of pumpkin juice, Hermione smiled in amusement, and Ron looked openly horrified at the show of affection. You tried to glare at Oliver, but it didn't stick. Especially when he pressed a warm kiss to your forehead, whispering, "Love ye, clever girl."

You're normally a rule abiding student, you really are. But once Oliver gets a taste of cuddling, he can't help himself.

Oliver Wood is absolutely whipped for you, no question about it. If anyone were to ask, he’d deny it, but the way he looks at you, the way he dotes on you, and how he’d do anything to make you smile… it’s painfully obvious to anyone who’s watching. He’s the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, a strong, confident leader on the pitch—but the moment he’s with you, that whole tough exterior just melts. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, and he knows it. He doesn’t care, though. Not one bit. When he finally finds out how absolutely relieving and fantastic cuddling is, you're on the Gryffindor common room couch. He's exhausted after a Quidditch match, his body tight and sore. The celebratory party they'd had was still evident around the common room, cups everywhere, absolute destruction and mess. Oliver is still slightly tipsy. You are too. He slumped himself in the middle of your body, arms wrapped around your middle. His head is tilted to the side, cheek pressed to your chest. Every once and a while, he leans up and presses a gentle kiss to your face. He could almost turn into a puddle, he could. Your manicured fingers scratch his scalp, running through his messy head of hair. It borderline makes him shiver. It was getting late. You glanced at the clock, sighing, and your hand stilled. "I should really be going, honey." "Nooo." He whined, his arms tightening around you. "I'll miss ya too much if you leave now. Come up to my bed for a lil'. Not too long, I won't get ye in trouble." You pursed your lips, looking down at him. His soft eyes were taking a toll on your resolve. "Please, baby?" He asked, his voice sleepy. Shit. When you reached his dormitory, you were greeted by the familiar chaos of clothes and Quidditch gear scattered across the floor, but none of it seemed to matter when you saw the look in Oliver's eyes — soft, a little vulnerable. You both curled up in his bed under the covers, your bodies fitting perfectly together. The warmth of his embrace was like a blanket of security, and the rhythmic sound of his breathing made you feel more relaxed than you’d ever been. But as you lay there, sleep starting to take over, you remembered the rule: no girls in the boys’ dorms. You weren’t supposed to be here. You sighed quietly, gently shifting in his arms. “Ollie… I should go,” you whispered, brushing a few strands of hair away from his face. Oliver’s eyes shot open, the sleepiness fading as soon as he heard you. He immediately whined, his voice soft but filled with that familiar Scottish drawl. “Nah, c’mon, ye cannae leave now,” he mumbled, pulling you closer with surprising strength. “It’s too late for that, lass. Stay. Just… stay a little longer, please?” You chuckled softly, but his grip around you tightened. “You’re not supposed to have me here, Ollie,” you teased, knowing full well he wasn’t going to let you go easily. “It’s against the rules.” His response was an almost pouty whine, and you could feel his breath tickling your ear. “Rules don’t matter right now,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. “I don’t care about the rules when it comes to you. Just stay with me, yeah? Please?” His arms wrapped even tighter around your waist, and you could feel his warm cheek pressed against your shoulder as he nestled further into you, his body like a comforting weight. “Oliver…” you said softly, but it was hard to stay firm when he was being so cute, sounding so sleepy and helpless.

“Just… a little more time,” he mumbled, his voice still slightly whiny but laced with affection. “I won’t let ye go. I swear I won’t be able to sleep without ye here now.”| You could feel his strong arms starting to become more insistent, trapping you against him as he nuzzled into your neck, his hair messy from a long day. He wasn’t letting you go. Not tonight. “C’mon, lass,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve got me all worked up now… Just stay with me.” You sighed softly, feeling your resolve begin to crumble. With him holding you like this, you couldn’t help but feel safe, and a little part of you wanted to stay too, just to be close to him, to feel the way he cared. “Fine,” you finally whispered, “I’ll stay. But only if you promise you won’t get me in trouble.” “I promise,” he replied almost immediately, his arms tightening even more around you as if to prove his point. And with that, you both drifted off to sleep, his soft, sleepy whines and tight grip keeping you right where you needed to be, and you knew, in that moment, there was nowhere else you'd rather be than in his arms.

Oliver was unflinchingly loyal. Sometimes a little too much.

Oliver was obviously an attractive guy. Six foot two, muscles meant for Quidditch, tousled brown hair, hazel eyes. Chiseled jawline, always smelled amazing, straight white teeth, pink, hydrated lips, and clear skin. He was a Hogwarts heartthrob, right next to Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory. He didn't care. Matter of fact, he didn't even notice. He was all too happy being your heartthrob to pay attention to what other girls thought of him. As long as you held his hand and smiled at him, he was perfectly happy and didn't look elsewhere. However, that didn't mean elsewhere didn't look at him. You weren't insecure. You knew Oliver would ignore it or shut it down. It truly didn't bother you that other girls found Oliver attractive, simply because he was. And he was all yours, which made you the proudest. It bothered Oliver, though. When it started coming out into the open, it appalled him. It was almost comical. It started innocently enough — a few lingering looks in the hallways, girls whispering to each other as he passed by, some even daring to approach him when you weren't around. Oliver never paid them any mind, his focus always on you. But it was when one of those girls, a Ravenclaw who was a bit too bold for Oliver’s taste, decided to go the extra mile that things started to get… interesting. Oliver’s usual cocky swagger had turned into a rare, but thoroughly entertaining, brand of genuine offense. The moment the Ravenclaw girl’s words reached his ears, he went from looking relaxed to looking like he had just been slapped with an unholy betrayal. She stood there, smiling a little too sweetly, her tone oozing charm, as she asked, “So, Oliver... maybe we could grab a drink sometime? Just the two of us?” Oliver blinked at her, clearly processing the audacity of her question. His brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of what she had just said. When it finally clicked, he let out a small, almost incredulous snort. “Oh, ye must be joking.” The girl smiled back, clearly not getting the hint. “I’m serious! You’re so talented on the pitch, I thought we might—” He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “Ye must be daft if ye think I’m gonna go for a drink with ye.” His voice carried a mixture of disbelief and a hint of hurt, like she’d just asked him to abandon all his principles and common sense. She didn’t seem to take offense. In fact, she raised an eyebrow as if challenging him. “Really? You don’t think you’d have a good time?” Oliver looked her dead in the eyes, his expression morphing into a mix of confusion and complete bafflement. “Och, lass, I don’t need to go on a drinkin’ date when I’ve already got the best bloody lass in all of Hogwarts,” he declared, his voice getting louder and prouder with every word. “And, no offence, but you’re not her.” He let out a small, exaggerated sigh, like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain himself. “I mean, honestly, can ye not see I’m already taken? I’m not a one-man show now, yeah? My whole heart’s already tied up. And it’s not just my heart, it’s my bloody soul, too.” The girl blinked, looking mildly taken aback as though she hadn’t expected such an intense response. She mumbled something that sounded like, “Okay, didn’t mean to upset you…” Oliver, however, was already not paying attention to her. He turned on his heel, muttering under his breath as he walked off, clearly too offended to even waste another moment on the girl. “Some people, I swear,” he grumbled to himself. “Not even a lick of decency to know when a bloke’s already taken. It’s bloody disrespectful.”

To make a long story short, dating Oliver Wood... is a whirlwind of everything. It’s a lot of loud laughs, intense passion, and a bit of jealousy that’s as fierce as it is endearing. You never know when he’s going to show up with a new surprise, whether it’s a grand gesture (because he’s so proud of you) or an embarrassing display of affection in front of his mates. He’ll claim it’s all about protecting what’s his, but deep down, you know it’s because he’s just head-over-heels in love.

It’s a constant ride of feeling like the luckiest person in the world, while also knowing that no one—and I mean no one—better even look at you the wrong way. He’s fiercely loyal, as if it’s his personal mission to make sure you know you’re his one and only. But, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way. Because when it comes to Oliver Wood, you’re not just his girlfriend—you’re his whole bloody world.

You get an equal mix of sweet moments where he’s overly proud of you (even for the smallest achievements), and the occasional dose of “I can’t believe you’re mine” vibes. And sure, sometimes he gets a little too overprotective, but it’s all because he can’t stand the thought of someone else taking what he knows is his, in the most possessive-yet-charming way possible.

In short, dating Oliver Wood is like winning the Quidditch Cup every day—chaotic, thrilling, and full of pride—but it's your team, and your heart, that he’s ultimately fighting for.

[peachhcs]

https://www.tumblr.com/peachhcs/768315021606469633/httpswwwtumblrcompeachhcs768260981215330304

oh my god. i love them so much and im so glad they are doing better!

mack is so fucking funny… wait till he sees all the scratch and hickeys all over will…

part 12/slight bonus! writing macklin's dialogue and banter is my favorite thing to do bc he obviously loves will and samy and loves to poke fun at will about every single thing

au masterlist

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11

"sooo, tell us about your weekend," thomas asked as soon as he got the chance once practice was over for the day on monday. the others circled in around him and the blonde just as curious to know too.

will flushed from where he sat at his stall cleaning himself up and preparing for a shower, "it was really good. we had a lot of fun."

"you gotta bring her to one of our parties. we're dying to meet her after hearing so much," eklund cut in with a little smirk.

the sharks players had been itching to meet samy since they found out she was their rookie's longtime best friend and girlfriend. they'd only heard stories and seen the photos.

"yeah, maybe next time or when she comes to a game," will hummed, glad his teammates were eager to meet her. it reminded him of boston and his linemates who were also just as excited to meet samy when they moved to plymouth.

"how much fun did you guys really have?" thomas poked some more obviously just in good fun, but also to tease the blonde.

"let's just say will's passenger seat was not in the right position when i got into it," macklin cut in before will could answer.

the bonde's face quickly burned in embarrassment as he eyed his friend to shut up.

"woah..did you guys go at it?" thomas continued along with a few snickers from the others around them.

"maybe," will tried playing it off. he didn't mind the teasing, but he did kind of mind telling them about his sex life because obviously, that was a pretty intimate and private topic that he wasn't going to willingly share with everyone.

"aw, come on. don't be shy. you totally did," ecklund roughed up will's arm in a teasing manner. all the hockey player did was shake his head slightly and play it off with a smile.

they seemed to lay off for now which will was grateful for. he escaped back into the showers to clean himself off and get out of the rink before anyone else wanted to poke at him about his weekend.

by the time him and macklin got back into his car, most of the guys were gone already so the blonde evaded any more questions they had. the two threw their stuff into the back and then got themselves situated in the front seats.

as will messed around with some things before starting the car, he didn't realize his shirt had ridden up and exposed a bit of his back. macklin was adjusting himself and snapping his seatbelt into place when his eyes caught sight of will's exposed skin and then the slight red.

"woah, you take too hot of a shower or something?" the brunette wondered to which will grew confused.

"huh?"

"your back is like red. you good?"

still, will was confused so he reached around to touch his back where the skin was exposed. he felt around, not feeling anything tender, but his fingers did brush over a line of raised skin.

"just let me see for a second," macklin offered, wanting to make sure his friend was okay. he helped will lift his shirt up more and that's when he saw more red marks running up and down will's back like someone attacked him.

"holy fuck, why is your back all scratched up?"

as soon as the question left his lips, macklin immediately knew and will remembered at the same time. the brunette scrunched his nose up, "dude, what the fuck. this too? jesus, how hard did you go this weekend?"

the blonde's face flushed in more embarrassment as he quickly pulled his shirt all the way down. "what? we didn't go that hard," will defended himself.

"how many times did you even fuck? i know the car was 1," macklin raised his eyebrow and will seriously couldn't believe he was having this conversation again.

"i guess 3. the other 2 were in my room," he admitted a bit sheepishly.

"oh my god. you're disgusting. remind me to never be in the same house as you two.," macklin shook his head like he was some disappointed dad hearing all of this.

"hey. if you had a girlfriend right now, i know you'd be the exact same, so i don't wanna hear it," will rolled his eyes.

"please tell me that's it. please tell me i'm not gonna discover anything else remaining from this weekend that has to do with that," macklin made a circular motion with his hand towards will, a look of disgust still on his features.

"there's hickeys on my chest, but that's it. swear it," will watched macklin roll his eyes hearing that.

"jesus christ, smitty. you guys are hornyyy, wow. i gotta go home and drink bleach so i never think of this again," the brunette shook his head which earned him the middle finger as will finally pulled out of the parking lot.

"you're so over dramatic. what happens when you get a girlfriend?"

"we won't be as horny as you two," macklin shot right back without mssing a beat.

"and what happens if you guys end up having to do long distance and don't see one another for weeks on end?" will raised his eyebrow.

"that will be none of your business," the younger boy crossed his arms.

"right. can't wait to see the hickeys on you then. i'll tease you all about it," the blonde grinned and macklin shoved him.

it was safe to say neither of them talked about the occurrences in will's car ever again. or at least until samy came back to visit. the younger brunette made sure to stay far, far away while she was in town again.

[lingeriae]

THE MORNING AFTER

warnings - very suggestive, reader is black and female, cursing, ass slapping, takes place in college, reader and aran are aged up to 21+

aran ojiro, one of the most popular and handsome man on the volleyball team and the whole entire campus. he stands six feet tall, and his skin was smooth to the touch, with no blemishes are no marks, only a bit of hair below his chin and above his top lip that had women and men feeling weak in the knees. his muscles had boyfriends feeling insecure, and his ass had girlfriends envious with it's round and plumpy look. full lips were always pulled into a pretty, panty-dropping smile, the white teeth—sometimes adorning gold—that flashed with it didn't even help the case. to put it simply, everyone, their mother—and fathers wanted aran ojiro, and you were no exception to that.

maybe that's why he was in your bed. naked back moving up and down as he breathed, the scratches you had no doubt left on his back causing you to cringe as you looked at him from your position on the bed. you gripped the sheets to your chest tighter as you watched him shift for a minute, exhaling deeply when he didn't seem to be awake.

"damn." you muttered quietly, eyes raking up and down his brownskin with amazement, bottom lip now between your teeth as you lifted up your covers and nodding in understanding when you saw his ass, women had a right to be jealous. with a deep breath you slowly slid yourself off the bed, trying your best not to wake the man beside you, smiling big when you suceeded before running off into your bathroom.

you had to take a minute to actually convince yourself that you actually slept with the aran ojiro. now, no insecure shit, of course you thought highly of yourself, with a face and body like that why wouldn't you! but unlike some of the other players, aran didn't fool around with girls like that, you'd be lucky if he even smiled at you, let alone pound you all the way into next week. your hands worked to tie your braids into a ponytail before taking up your toothbrush, cursing under your breath at the fact that you forgot to put on a bonnet, but who could blame you when you were getting fucked by one of the sexiest men on campus?

smiling, you spat the foam out of your mouth, rinsing your mouth which had you bending over the sink and no longer looking in the mirror, if you were looking in the mirror you would notice the naked figure walking towards you, eyes on your ass and pussy that peaked from the material of your towel. he licked his lips before pressing against you, slightly smirking at the way you jumped and immediately straightened up, eyes wide as you meet his in the mirror.

"oh..." you said, averting your gaze from his to the toothbrush in your hand, moving to put it in the cup, your breath hitching when aran's hands drag up your towel to rest against your waist, nibbling on your lower lip before meeting his eyes in the mirror. "hi?" it was said so softly, that if he wasn't so close to you he woulcn't have heard it, but he did and it caused his lips to tug up further.

"hey," the raspiness of his voice isn't unexpected, but it still causes you to shudder and look away fom him again, focusing on the veins that run along his arms. aran licks his lips, eyes on the hickey that sat prettily on the side of your neck, his grip on your hips loosens momentarily to spin you around so that your ass rests against the counter instead of his crotch and your towel presses against his muscular chest. not knowing where to put your hands, you rest them on his chest looking up at him through your wispy lashes. "got tired of starin’ at me?"

your face flushed with heat at his words, rolling your eyes at his words you place a hand on his chest. "you are not all that, relax." you lied, feeling his chest vibrate when he laughed.

it was quiet when he stopped, his eyes dragging down to your lips before slowly up to your face, the hand on your hips tightening their grip as he leans to press his lip against yours.

the action was quick, but it still had your knees slightly buckling and a lovesick smile to make its way unto your face. "you have any classes tomorrow?" he askes causing you to raise an eyebrow at him, fingers twisting the silver chain that rests against his naked chest.

"nah, why?"

he rolls his eyes. giving your hips a gentle squeeze, "cause I wanna take you out, duh. thought you were supposed to be smart?"

kissing your teeth, you remove your hands from his chest and fold them over yours. looking away from him you try your best not to smile, "ion know. another man might wanna—" giggling at the slap he gave your ass, eyebrows drawn together as he looked down at you with a blank expression, you gave him an innocent smile while your fingers traced the hair above his top lip.

"don't even play like that." he mumbled, pulling you against him so there was no space left between the two of you. he closed his eyes for a minute, taking in the comfortable silence that surrounded the both of you before your giggling interupted it.

"bae, why you tryna hug me with your dick out?" aran only opened on of his eyes, looking down at you with a serious expression.

"cause ima put it in you, duh."

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiebingo.

Climb You Like a (Christmas) Tree

12 Days of Christmas Prompt: Santa | Word Count: 2806 | Rating: E | CW: Monsterfucking | POV: Steve | Tags: Modern AU, Steve "Santa Claus" Harrington, Krampus Eddie Munson, Size Difference, Banter, Fluff and Smut, Is It Still Monsterfucking If They're Both Kind of Monsters?

This follows: Same Time Next Year?

Also here on ao3.

The same artist that did Krampus did a version of Santa and that had to be what I based Steve off. I wasn't even going to do Steve as Santa, but that made it a necessity. It honestly worked out nicely that I had both Krampus and Santa as bingo prompts.

"I'm getting fat," Steve says, looking in the mirror. None of his clothes fit. His pants won't even close enough to button anymore. Hell, he swears he's fucking getting taller. He can't get taller. He went through puberty a long, long time ago. 

"You're not fat," Eddie says, sharpening his claws in a way that hurts Steve's ears.

"Stop that," he snaps.

"Oh, your hearing is expanding, too?" Eddie asks.

"What about my hearing?" Steve demands, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're changing. Ahead of schedule. This usually takes longer. Immortality lasts a while, you know. Forever."

Eddie snaps his fingers, and suddenly he has a pair of red velvet pants in his hand. He tosses them to Steve. There are two big, solid gold jingle bells right in front.

"Very funny," Steve says, but he puts them on, because at least they fit.

In his hands they looked way too long, but now that they're on his body, they seem to be hitting him right where they should. 

He's fucking taller. 

"Am I seriously getting taller?!" Steve demands, but not really believing it. Because there's no way. He always wanted to be taller, but not like this. This had better not be some sort of delayed wish granting situation.

"By the day, I can hear your bones growing," Eddie says with glee, making a horrible creaking noise. "Music to my ears."

"Stop that," Steve says, it's like nails on a chalkboard, which Eddie would definitely be scratching his claws against if he had a chalkboard handy.

Steve can't believe this, though. Taller? He cannot be getting taller. Eddie never told him he was gonna Hulk Out to be Santa. Eddie didn't tell him a lot of things.

"You're Saint Nick," Eddie says, "that comes with height. And girth. Lots of girth. Everywhere."

Steve whips his head around, and Eddie is smiling, flicking his long tongue in and out of his mouth, like a menace.

Like a goddamn demon. 

And Steve's incredibly fond of him. 

Eddie's changing, too. His vocabulary is growing as fast as Steve's waistline. He's becoming more and more human under that Krampus skinsuit. 

"Well, you seem more human," Steve accuses, trying to dig at him a little bit in return.

Eddie's unbothered by that, apparently, "Well, I was human, once upon a time."

"Then why with all the gruff?" Steve asks. Eddie was barely grinding out single syllable words when they first met.

"Disuse," Eddie says, stroking his long goatee with his knobby fingers, "I didn't like the last Nick. We didn't see eye-to-eye, so I had no reason to speak to him for centuries."

"But me?" Steve asks.

"You I like," Eddie says, and Steve smiles, then frowns, as he looks back at himself in the mirror. He didn't know he was signing up to look like Santa Claus. 

"How big am I gonna get?" Steve asks, and he's a little scared of the answer.

"Big enough for me to climb you like a tree," Eddie says, and Steve isn't sure if he's joking or not.

He'd better be joking.

He wasn't joking.

Steve barely recognizes himself anymore. He feels like himself on the inside, but on the outside? He's definitely changed. 

Without making a single adjustment on his own, he's suddenly built like a brick shithouse. 

Solid muscle over an exaggeratedly large frame. He's not fat. Not really. But he's built as if the biggest NFL O-lineman, met the tallest NBA player, and then had a long-haired, long-bearded baby. All of it, white as the driven snow.

"Did the last Santa look like this?" Steve asks.

"Hell no. He was a feeble old man. Think a fat Dumbledore," Eddie says, and then adds. "The first one."

"You said I wasn't fat!" Steve argues.

"You aren't, he was. Use those big ears and listen," Eddie banters. He's funny. Evil, certainly. But funny. 

Then Steve thinks about what he'd actually said:

"You watch movies?!" Steve squawks, and he can't imagine the Krampus he met in the woods sitting in front of a television set. "Do you have HBO? Netflix?"

"Shut up," Eddie laughs, "it's a long time between Christmases."

Steve smiles.

"So, he looked like that, and I look like this?"

Eddie grins wickedly, "It's certainly been an improvement."

Steve's not the only one changing. 

"Dingus, look at my hair!" Robin yells, and Steve doesn't have to look to know exactly what's happened.

He turns and faces the music.

Oh. It's not that bad. In fact, it's pretty.

She hasn't grown, upward or outward, thank god, or he'd never hear the end of that, but her hair is now a sleek, white bob. 

"Wow, you're beautiful," he says, because she is. She isn't like any Mrs. Claus he's ever seen before. She's not old, or dowdy, in the slightest. 

"Be serious," she says, hands on her hips.

"I am," he says. "I really am."

"Steve," she says, as she runs her hand over her new hair, but she's smiling. Just a little. 

Good. She should. 

Walking over, he towers over her now, but he wraps her up in a hug, his huge biceps swallowing her around the shoulders, "Thanks for agreeing to spend forever with me."

"And me," comes the snarky voice, seemingly appearing behind Steve out of thin air, and Robin groans.

"You're not a selling point, you're literal hellspawn," Robin banters at Eddie, laying her cheek against Steve's soft, white Henley. He's Santa. But modern. So, it kind of makes sense that she'd be a modern Mrs. Claus, too.

Eddie and Robin might bicker, but he knows they like one another. They're both just jealous. He has the magic to know who's naughty, who's nice, and that doesn't exclude either of them. Eddie is naughty by nature, but that doesn't extend to what he feels for Steve, or Robin, because she's a beloved extension of Steve.

Steve doesn't tell either of them he knows all this, and just lets them continue to act like they aren't friends. 

It's easier that way, and more fun. 

"What in the fuck are you wearing?" Steve asks, taking in Eddie's current appearance.

"Tsk, tsk, Santa shouldn't use naughty language like that. Might get himself on a list for a spanking," Eddie says, from under some sort of pelt. 

"Did you skin a reindeer?" Steve asks, "That better not be Rudolph. He gets picked on enough."

"Because they never let him join in any reindeer games?" Eddie asks, then laughs like the demon he is from under his fur cloak.

Steve puts his hands on his hips. That's not an answer.

"Baby, it's cold outside, and I'm meant for a warmer climate," Eddie says, pointing downward. 

Steve grins, just a little. He knows it was a sacrifice — and not the kind Eddie likes — to spend the year in the North Pole instead of in the underworld. But, Eddie wants to be with him, and Steve needs to be here.

It's a compromise. And Steve thinks more humans should be capable of making those, too, if even Krampus can do it.

"I like it, it looks warm," Steve says, but he really does hope it's not one of the reindeer. At least not one of the main nine. Maybe someone from the backup squad could be sacrificed for Eddie's warmth. Maybe. 

Eddie's been a good sport. Well, he's been a sport. Steve needed to learn the ropes, and wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of spending most of the year in hell, either. So, Eddie's here. 

Unfortunately, the elves hate that Eddie's decided to call the North Pole home. They call him Belsnickel behind his back, and it just makes Steve laugh and think of Dwight Schrute. He wonders if Eddie's seen The Office, or if he's just more of a fantasy film kind of creature.

"It's not a reindeer, calm your tits. Your big, burly tits."

Steve gives him a pretend disapproving look, because if he lets him run wild, they all suffer.

But, that's something at least. Steve won't ask any further questions. It is what it is, and it isn't what it isn't, and Steve's moral compass isn't exactly pointing towards true north these days, despite their current location.

Another day in Santa's workshop behind them, with the sign counting down the days to Christmas flipping lower, Steve lays in his big sleigh bed. It's a bit on the nose, with red, satin sheets, but it's sturdy, so he doesn't mind. 

Plus, Eddie's in it.

The first time they did this, Eddie towered over Steve. Now, the tables have turned as Eddie slides up Steve's solid belly, tightening his thighs down against Steve's bare skin.

The fur on them tickles, just a little. Eddie isn't a man, at least not all man, but he's so expressive that Steve sometimes forgets that. 

Now, rutting against his belly, he seems more animal-like.

Steve wraps his large hand around Eddie's cock, and grins wickedly, "Not so big now."

Eddie bares his teeth, sharp points that are all bark, no bite, at least when it comes to Steve.

Steve laughs, "Easy, tiger."

Eddie grabs a hold of his tail, and runs the tuft of hair on the end against Steve's ribs, making Steve twist with laughter, "Okay, okay, uncle!"

Appeased, Eddie lets it go, and gently scratches his claws down Steve's chest. It feels good. Really, really good. 

Steve rolls Eddie's heavy balls in his large palm. He doesn't know where they go. He should look like a squirrel with his nuts always prominently on display, but somehow doesn't. Must be magic. Or, they just retract into his body like his cock does when not in use.

Steve doesn't know. He should ask. He's sure Eddie would give him an explicit demonstration. 

Eddie grinds against Steve's rounded middle, and Steve can't believe this is life. He just went for a run. Now he's Santa Claus and Eddie is his demon companion. Light and dark, good and evil. 

Steve strokes him with a careful fist. 

He's cautious in a way he never had to be until recently. Eddie'd probably enjoy a little pain, but Steve is still getting used to all the changes his physical body has gone through. His hand feels like it's the size of a dinner plate. That might be an exaggeration. But he feels like that. 

Everything he touches feels smaller these days, and he thinks he looks like Shaq always looks holding a can of pop with everything he touches. Including Eddie.

Steve wonders if he's still the monsterfucker or if he's unwittingly became the monsterfuckee. 

He'll ask Robin. 

But Steve knows he still looks like a man, just a scaled-up version, so he'll keep his monsterfucker title. Eddie can be a Santafucker, if that jingles his bells. 

"Oh Satan, split me wide, send me to hell," Eddie says, and Steve laughs. There's dirty talk, and then there's…that. But he gets the sentiment. Everything grew with him proportionally, and that means his already above average dick is still impressive against his large frame. Eddie's bouncing up and down, working himself open on it, and if it wasn't obvious before, it's obvious now, that they aren't mere mortals anymore. 

"You've got it wrong. That's a synonym. I'm Santa not Satan," Steve banters.

Eddie groans, annoyed, "It's an anagram, not a synonym. No. Wait. Santa and Satan do mean the same thing, currently. Carry on."

Steve grins. Eddie talks and talks, but Steve has his number, and presses up into him in just the right way. Eddie howls as he comes all over Steve's belly. Still fisting his deep red cock, thumb pressing against every ridge, still chasing more, and he doesn't give up until he comes again, adding to the mess. 

Only then does Steve let go, coming inside him.

"Hot damn," Eddie says, stretching, arms above his head. 

Then he smiles down at Steve, wickedly. 

"Roll over, my tongue has places to be." 

And Steve's not gonna argue with that. 

Steve thinks Eddie is part demon, part goat. He never tells the truth, though, so he can't be sure. But laying against the red satin sheets, asleep, long hair fanned out, he's beautiful as far as Steve's concerned. He got lucky. Most probably wouldn't say getting fucked in the woods by a monster, and then being chosen to become his immortal companion, would be a win. 

Steve isn't most people. He wasn't before, and he definitely isn't now.

"What?" Eddie asks groggily.

"I see you when you're sleeping," Steve teases. 

"I'm glad your eyes still work, grandpa," Eddie banters back. 

Steve laughs. Yeah, he needs glasses now. And, yeah, his hair has gone long and white. But he's happy. Jolly, even.

He pulls up his velvet pants, the ones with the bells, and straps on his thick leather suspenders.

"Sleep, hellspawn. I have a workshop to run," Steve says, and Eddie closes his eyes again.

The elves are happy to see him, and even happier to not see Eddie at his side. They'll warm up to him. It's inevitable. 

Robin is giving directions, keeping the whole operation running, and he smiles at her.

"About time, old man," she says, and starts giving him the rundown of today's schedule. What they're making, how many, and what's already on the docket for tomorrow. It's a well-oiled machine here in Santa's workshop, he's just the figurehead.

But he still goes around, visiting each station, chatting with the elves that are the backbone of the place. 

When he goes back to his bedroom, Eddie is hunkered down in the corner near the fireplace chattering in a language Steve doesn't speak, probably communing with his minions. 

He finishes up, and Steve has settled near the window. The snow outside always makes everything look so bright. 

"Here, think fast," Steve says, and Eddie looks up just in time to catch the orange. Then he joins him at the table.

Eddie slides a claw through the thick skin, starting to peel it easily. Then he offers segments to Steve, and they share it sitting around the little table. They must look funny together. Steve, an oversized Santa, and Eddie, a still oversized, just less so, demon goatman. Eating an orange. At the North Pole.

Steve has a pile of letters to Santa to answer, and he slides half of them to Eddie, "Be nice. I'll know if you're naughty."

"What if they're naughty?"

"Then their letter isn't in this pile. You know that."

Eddie grumbles, but he'll do it, because Steve asked. Robin will double-check Eddie's work to make sure he didn't go off-script. It's happened before.

"I don't know why you insist on putting an orange in every kid's stocking," Eddie complains, but he keeps eating, so he's kind of answering his own question.

He picks up the pen, and it looks funny in his knobby fingers.

"It's tradition," Steve says. There was a handbook, and Steve read it. Then Robin read it, and made sure he understood it. 

There are different ways he can change things up, if he so chooses, but the oranges in the stockings don't seem to be optional.

"Sixty-nine days till Christmas," Steve says. 

"I'll get my paddling rod shined up." 

"I thought we talked about that," Steve says, a raised eyebrow. 

Eddie bares his teeth. 

Steve chuckles. 

"Maybe Santa will bring me a new one, then, if he's so selfish that he wants mine all to himself." 

"Maybe he will," Steve answers. "You'll just have to wait and see. Maybe write Santa a letter and ask real nice." 

Eddie glowers. 

"Or you could ask the elves." 

Eddie narrows his eyes, but not before they flash red. 

Steve pulls his sack closer, the one he still doesn't understand the bottomless magic on. It's like Hermione's bag, with the undetectable extension charm. 

He reaches in and pulls out something, squeezed in his fist. He turns his hand over, and opens it, offering it to Eddie.

It's a lump of coal. 

Eddie laughs, picks it up and puts it in his mouth, chewing. 

"My favorite," he says through blackened teeth. 

He's something else. 

But then Steve pulls out a brand new birchwood rod. It's carved, and has red ruby on the end of the handle. 

He hands it over, and Eddie smiles. 

"I guess I was a good boy this year." 

Steve laughs, "You were something, for sure." 

"Can I try it on you?" Eddie asks, a glint in his eye. 

"No, that is the whole point!" 

Eddie weighs it in his hand, and meets Steve's eyes, "Maybe there could be a third rod." 

Steve shakes his head, but he's already moving towards the bed, his hands working his belt, the bells on his pants jingling all the way as they hit the ground. 

You can see my updated cards and all my filled bingo prompts right here.

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and follow along with the fun! 🎅

Notes: I knew so very little about Krampus, that this became a rabbit hole. Man, I had fun, though. As soon as I saw he was a companion to St. Nick, it basically wrote itself.

When I wanted the elves to have a nickname for him, and googled "nicknames for Krampus" and saw that Belsnickel was one, so that had to happen. Like, there's a reference Steve will get, and be tickled by.

[deconstructthesoup]

Okay, everything about this finale made me ricochet through a thousand different emotions (and seeing the Cathilda art was just the icing on the cake), but what it did give me, first and foremost, is a concept for a season with the High 5 Heros.

It really is just the five of them now, and they're still processing Kipperlilly's betrayal and the lasting effects of the shatterstars. In an attempt to fully reconnect as friends and prove themselves as adventurers, they retake their spring break quest... and things spiral out from there.

Ruben (played by Raphael Chestang) doesn't remember anything from when he was shatterstared, but he still has all those fans who want to hear more of the emo music he wrote... and even though having attention is good for a bard, he's very upset about the fact that nobody wants to hear his real music. Ruben's starting to get a lot of self-confidence issues based on the fact that the guy that he doesn't even know but who he briefly was was so popular, and he's trying to be himself, but, well... it's hard.

Ivy (played by Mariah Rose Faith Callias) is... well, actually, the fact that she wasn't shown as often in the season means that her player can make up an arc from scratch for her, and I like that. Let's leave that up in the air. Maybe she's trying to reconcile her stint as a mean girl with her true self, or maybe her mean-girl self is closer to her true nature than we think.

Mary Ann (played by Katie Marovich) is still, at her core, Mary Ann, and I like the idea of her arc being less of an arc and more of a reassurance thing---this is who she is, she's not apologizing for it, and that doesn't mean that she doesn't deserve the same amount of respect. That'd be pretty cool to see.

Oisin (played by Joey Richter) is dealing with... a lot. Seeing as his actions led to getting his great-great-great-great-whatever grandmother killed, his family has not outright disowned him, but there's a lot of snide comments and clear disrespect being thrown his way. He's trying his hardest to prove that he's better than that, but, uh... yeah, I think it would end in a "fuck my rich asshole family" thing, much like Adaine's arc.

And lastly, Lucy (played by Ashley Johnson) is, of course, very shaken by the fact that she legit died, and spent a good chunk of her death in a hellish state. Her connection to her goddess has wavered after her experience, and she's very much in a space of doubt---maybe a space that's big enough for her to connect to Cassandra, and maybe share in Kristen's four-deity pantheon. Not to mention, it's still very hard to interact with her friends when she still remembers the night of her death, even though they were possessed.

So, uh... yeah!

[milksuu]

Imagine Yone having a wife, which the rest of Heartsteel doesn't know about, I mean they never asked, and then one day he brings a child to the bands apartment. Since his wife has to work late hours and the nursery is already closed, he has to take care of their child. What would the reaction of the band be? And how would they be with children? (Also the wife is the reader since I love self indulgence with Yone)

❥ prompt: Yone never talked about his personal life. The Heartsteel gang had a few assumptions, but they were just theories. Nothing proven. Until the gang found a toddler running around the apartment. ❥ content/warnings: fluffy fluff, gang shenanigans ❥ characters/pairings: v!Heartsteel & yonexreader!gn!kid

KAYN

"What the hell is that thing!? And since when did Yone spawn anything into existence!?"

Kayn isn't used to children being within a five-foot radius of his presence. He tends to not surround himself with booger eating, snot crying, whining little crotch gremlins. Even worse, their damn parents.

Kayn's chaotic nature in public can't be stifled. And he's met his fair share of parents trying to lecture him on his behavior. He always has two words ready for such an occasion: Fuck off. And then proceeds to flash both middle fingers in the air, and laugh when the child behind the fuming parents drops their ice-cream. Absolute poetry.

This was a little different. Scratch that—a lot different. Not only does he know the damn parent (Yone) but the child has managed to infiltrate his room, and infect everything with a thousand unnamed child born diseases. He's about ready to blow a casket. Until the kid accidentally starts playing his Pentakill vinyl album on the record player. That's when he saw a rockstar be born. The way that little tyke started headbanging would put a bunch of mosh pit psycho's to shame. And the screeching? A future screamo lead-singer, easily.

An all out heavy-metal concert ensued. With Kayn rifting his guitar with the song instrumentals, and the kid jumping and screaming into a cheap cordless mic he found under his bed. When the song ended, Kayn chanted "Jump! Jump!" into the mosh-pit of one. And you don't need to tell a child to launch themselves off of anything twice. The tater-tot squealed and laughed, being caught in Kayn's hands and praised into the air for a killer performance.

From the bedroom door, an audience member leaned cooly against the frame. Clapping at the spectacle. "Dada!" The kid raised their fists higher into the air. "I'm a rwockstar!"

Yone lifted a brow, crossing his arms in pure amusement. "I can see that."

"Y-Yeah. Next time, tell your kid not to barge into other people's rooms," Kayn coughed, quickly setting down the kid and patting them towards Yone. "Teach it some manners, o-or whatever. So that I don't have to deal with it."

Yone chuckled under his breath. Taking his child by the hand, he smiled. "Come with me. We should go before someone gets a little too attached."

Kayn huffed red. Slamming the door and shouting behind it, "WOULD NOT!"

APHELIOS

".........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?"

So, there was a child. An actual living, breathing one. Stumbling. Running around. Knocking things over. Yelling at the wall and ceilings like some deranged lunatic out on the city streets. What a disaster. What a nightmare. Aphelio's wasn't scared by most things; monsters, zombies, ghosts, spam mail. But children were terrifying creatures. Destructive and loud. The worst kind of combination in a singular human being. Kind of like Kayn.

He swore he broke out into a cold sweat when the child barged into his room. Not quietly at all. His heart pounded. His fingers turned cold. And his eyes trembled against his computer screen. He hoped the child would grow bored of terrorizing his room like some miniature version of Godzilla. He also hoped someone would see the calamity, take pity on him, and come to his aid. Someone like Sett.

He then heard a familiar note. He cursed himself twice. He shouldn't have left his electric portable keyboard out in the open. Aphelios turned cautiously in his chair. He swallowed hard and braced himself for a horrific sight. He thought he'd find the child bashing the keys in or trying to pluck the knobs right off. Instead, he saw a small round face filled with wonder at the sound. Carefully, the child pressed another. Smiling, delighted by the next note. Aphelio's eyes rounded. That's when he saw a little bit of himself.

It didn't take long for Apehlios to gather his spare headset and cord link. He plucked the kid up and placed him right on his lap at his desk. He was going to show this little one all the instruments in his digital toolbox. The workflow of an absolute musical genius. And they were going to make a mixed bite that would leave people speechless.

"Oh! Oh! Dat one. Dat one." The toddler tapped Aphelio's hand against his computer mouse. A few clicks and the instrument was spliced into the mix. When Aphelio's replayed the bit, the child kicked their legs back and forth, clapping their hands together. Wanting to gauge the tots overall opinion, he flipped between thumbs-up and thumbs-down. Back and forth. The little one took his hand, and kept it thumb-side-up with a cheeky grin. And they both nodded in agreement. This mix was a certified banger.

EZREAL

"Hey, guys. Has anyone seen my phone? Nevermind. Found it! Someone's totally random kid has it. Wait—HUH!?"

Ezreal doesn't mind kids so much. They could sometimes be a lot of fun. The only thing Ezreal can't handle is once a crying session starts, or a random tantrum erupts. He gets a little nervous when the meltdowns start. Because he has no freaking clue how to handle it. So for the most part, Ezreal does like kids—from a distance. Where he can smile and laugh at their antics, without having to actually deal with an emotional ticking time bomb. Kayn was bad enough already.

The other thing he can't deal with is someone messing with his phone! And unfortunately, his habit of misplacing it has caught up to him. Because now a toddler has it. Deleting and messing up his apps. Possibly trying to look for some silly game he doesn't even have installed. And if Ezreal thought he was fast, well, this kid took the crown. Call that tyke 'Lightning McQueen', because they were leaving sneaker marks on the floor.

But this game of chase had to come to an end. Ezreal caught up to the road-runner, and slipped the phone right out of those tiny fingers. Ezreal cheered himself thinking he won. Ezreal quickly figured out he was actually about to be the biggest loser. He witnessed those round eyes growing in watery magnitude. Face wrinkling with pure, unfiltered raw emotion. The hiccups increased in volume, and those puffed cheeks were getting more red by the minute.

"H-Hey! Don't cry. No, no. Shhh—Shhh! It's okay." Ezreal smacked his hands together, begging and pleading for mercy upon his sensitive soul. Ezreal sunk his top teeth into his bottom lip. He wasn't prepared for this at all. And if Yone ever found out he made his kid cry, then mostly likely, he'd make sure Ezreal was crying too (and bleeding) on the floor. Then forced to clean up his own murder scene!

A few quick taps and he knelt down with the hiccuping toddler. With the cat filter setup, Ezreal pretended to be a kitten; meowing and licking his paw and rubbing his cheeks to clean himself. The kiddo sniffed back their brimming tears, giggling when they saw they had their own whiskers and ears! After a couple of loud meows, the child hopped up and down. "Doggy next! Doggy next!" One tap and now they were puppies, barking and panting.

Many cute pictures were taken. Ezreal picked out a few and messaged them to Yone.

[Yone:] Thanks. The wife will be happy to have these. [Ezreal:] np! 😋 [Yone:] By the way. Have you finished cleaning the bathrooms? [Ezreal]:..............................................yes. 🤗 [Yone:] Finish the bathrooms. Now. Or I'll be confiscating your phone for a week.

Ezreal almost broke down in tears, falling to his knees. He was so close to having his own meltdown. Just from the sheer thought of losing his phone privilege's. Honestly, he should be off the hook for entertaining the kid and sending cute pictures. Life totally wasn't fair!

SETT

"Well, hello down there. You wanna play a game or—shoot. I didn't mean to scare ya'h off! I swear I'm a nice guy if ya'h give me a chance!"

There was no doubt about it. Sett really, really, liked children. There was something about them that brought him joy whenever they were around. All of his personal baggage and adult stress would simply melt away from a simple giggle or smile. And Sett had his fair share of babysitting other single-moms' and their children while growing up. It was one of his part-time jobs from middle to high school. All to help Ma' with paying the bills.

Unfortunately, kids didn't seem to like him too much (at first). With his overwhelming mass, they'd think he was some sort of monster. The one their parents told them would gobble them up if they didn't shower before bed. So, here he was, trying to entertain the little one. But anytime they caught sight of him, they'd cry in terror and scamper away. Sett had to think bigger. He tapped his chin a couple of times before a light bulb went off above his ears.

He laid out the scene in his room. He thanked his Ma' for one of the plushies she sent came with a tea set in the box. He went as far as to grab a few outfits and materials he stitched up as small replicas of larger projects him and K'Sante worked on. Him and the surrounding stuff toys were dressed appropriately for the most exquisite tea-party. Dress, hats, neck pearls and all!

Curiosity always got the best of any child. When the tater-tot heard the laughs and conversations, they had to sneak a peek. And once they entered the room, the child found Sett sitting on the ground, surrounded by his plushies, all served with tiny cups and plates.

"Oh! Quiet down everyone. The prince/princess has finally arrived. Mr. Chonk, please. Show our honored guest to their seat." He motioned his tea-cup to a free spot at the 'table'. The child glowed with excitement, scurrying to their designated placement. With a fancy tilt of their teacup, they took prim and proper sips of their tea. "More tea, Mr.Swett?" The toddler wiggled forward and picked up the teapot.

"Why, yes. I would love some more. Thank you." Sett raised his cup at the offer. The giggles and excitable conversation could be heard throughout the entire apartment. It wasn't long till the rest of the gang stuck their noses through a crack at the door. Opening the door, they couldn't help but burst with laughter at the display. Ezreal, of course, snapping pictures. Aphelios chuckling to himself behind his mask. Kayn roaring with laughter and tears. And K'Sante commenting on how he'd never expect some of his designed outfits would be used at a kid's tea party. "Nuh-Uh. You can't come in." The toddler hoped on their feet, pushing all of them all out the door. "Dis invitation onwy. No stinkers!"

"That's right, fellas. No stinkers." Sett laughed, raising his pinky into the air. "This is an exclusive tea-party. Better luck gettin' invited next year. Right?"

K'SANTE

"He-He. You think you have what it takes because you are Yone's kid? Show me and prove it."

K'Sante grew up with a large family. Brothers, sisters, first cousins, second cousins, the neighbors next door and their kids. Heck, even that laundromat lady his mom was friends with and her kids. Actually, just about everyone in the community. Seemed like it was always a party at his parents home. No matter the day or week, K'Sante had always dealt with a high-energy household. And when the adults pulled out the bottle of Akpeteshie, you knew it was going to be a rager. And at the kids table, K'Sante was in charge of watching over the parade of younger children.

Being a certified older sibling within his family unit, and apparently, Heartsteel as well, handling one little wasn't going to throw off his cool or cramp his style. In fact, he was more than prepared. If there was one thing he knew from growing up, kids loved to play dress up. And he had a full wardrobe of runway worthy outfits.

K'Sante busted out a long carpet down the hallway. Borrowed some plushies from Sett, and made them the audience and judges. Dimming most of the surrounded lights, the hallway bulbs illuminated the catwalk with intensity. Let the show begin!

"Higher energy! Yes, show them a 'ting or two about what fashion truly means." K'sante clapped his hands as the kiddo strutted down with dramatic sass. "That is it. Right there. Now, finish them off with the look." At the end of the carpet, the child titled their head back, and narrowed their eyes before sharply turning with a fling of the boa around their neck. K'Sante cheered, pushing one of the stuffed animals as if it passed out from sheer cut-throat fashion! He blew kisses into the air. "They can't even handle you right now. You are new, you are fresh, but also timeless. Molded by the hands of Gods. Your power is infinite."

Wardrobe changes were a must. K'Sante wasn't going to let such talent go to waste. His work of art and the tiny fashion model would display it all for the world to see. Well, the stuffed animal world, he had to remind himself. Seemed like a game of pretend was feeling like a real runway gig! And after the runway show was over, it actually wasn't truly over. K'Sante had pulled out a magazine from behind a display case. Showing the kiddo a picture of their father walking down a runway in an all black-attire event. "Dada," the kid placed a hand against the glossy page. "Supah cool."

"That's right." K'Sante said proudly, puffing his chest. "And your Dada looks cool because I am the one who designed his suite. But, I'll give him credit. He is a pretty cool guy all on his own."

an: this req was too cute to write omg. sorry if i just focused on the gang and the kid, rather than the yone x reader part you also requested. felt it was getting a bit long, and i wasn't sure if i could incorporate it well enough. very sorry about that. but don't worry! i have another yone x reader req. incoming.

[emmyrosee]

are u down 4 sum lil angst?? well, i'm just curious how would it be being the famous star volleyball player, Sakusa Kiyoomi's TOTGA?

YOU HAD N O RIGHT MATE

ok so fun emmy history, back when I was a wee child and before the miya twins were even a thing, i wrote a self insert that I’m still weirdly proud of today so congratulations, you scratched that memory HHEISBSOSN-

Hey! Future Emmy here. so... major tw; kiyoomi is very mean, extremely toxic, and i for sure went overboard, but there's a lot of blaming and yelling and just. ugh. this piece hurt my own heart smh.

-

But listen. You slipped into Sakusa Kiyoomi’s life surprisingly. He wasn’t expecting you or even just to date at all, you were just at the right places in the right times where he finally felt at ease in your presence. You just understood who he was beyond surface level, and he’d never had that in someone before.

You loved him before he was cool, before he was anyone other than a top ace in Japan. You were the first to tell him it was okay to mess up, do something other than eat drink and sleep volleyball, even if he wants it to take up most of his time.

Time, he no longer has, when he gets injured.

It wasn't like it was an inopportune time- though, as a college athlete, there really is no good time to get injured- if anything, it was spontaneous and had he not had dreams of making it big, he'd never think twice of it.

But he gets injured. Junior year of college, just as his name starts to grow in the industry, and he gets injured. Bad ankle, it’s actually a former injury from his childhood that apparently didn’t heal right.

There’s articles that spread about Bokuto Koutarou, how he’s climbing the ranks and how Miya Atsumu, the same little rat who bothered him in high school received an offer from god knows what team, and he’s fuming.

That should be him and his setter getting those offers and climbing that ladder, it’s been him and him alone for years, and he knows it's bitter to hate people for their successes, but its not fucking fair, he deserves more than this.

He deserves more than doctors trying to encourage surgery to heal at the sacrifice of volleyball, he deserves more than flowers and cards of best wishes, more than Miya Atsumu texting him to see if he's okay, he deserves more than any being on earth could give him.

And that includes you.

"Baby, did you finally call the surgeon?" You ask, coming in with a water bottle and a cup of his meds.

Apparently, that's more than enough to set him off.

"I don't need surgery."

He hears you sigh, "the doctor says the tear is too big just for physical therapy, you'll need the extra support-"

"In case you forgot, I was fucking there."

His breath becomes hot, and he can't peel his eyes from the commercials playing on the tv. The room suddenly feels suffocating, and of he could will himself to do it, he'd apologize and tell you he loves you, he's just tense and hurt, and he's grateful you're here, and-

"I'm the one who's life is going down the tubes. Fun fact."

The other thoughts in his mind are static. merely an incoherent buzz. You're his victim now, to his ugliest sides that therapy and his family prodded back years ago.

There's no one to prod it back now.

"I... I didn't mean any harm, I promise-"

"You really shouldn't talk to me right now," he snarls, rage bubbling and clawing away at his soul. There's a bubbling of tears that rip at his waterline in a demand to fall, but he's blinded to anything else.

He hates his life. He hates his ankle. He hates his doctors for telling him it may not heal right ever.

He hates you.

"Kiyoomi, please-"

He bears his teeth like a dog in an attack, and you flinch back slightly. "If you hadn't fucking distracted me, this never would've happened." He hears you whine in your throat.

he ignores it.

"I was fine," he barks. "I was happy before you. I was strong, I was powerful, I was a damned force to be reckoned with." He crawls closer to you on the couch, and when you cower to try and get away, he chases your body with his torso.

When you stand up, he does too. His leg lights every single nerve up in a blaze of agony, but he's too gone in his own rage to think about it.

"I... I know you're mad, but please, sit down Kiyoomi-"

You're right.

"Shut the hell up!"

Even on one foot, he towers over you threateningly. You bring your hands up to try and force distance between you both; your touch does ground him slightly, but not enough to stop his scorn.

You sniffle softly, clearly uncomfortable, "you're just mad... and that's okay. Please stop shouting at me, we can make this work, kiyoomi."

Now, his eyes are scalding with furious tears.

"I want this to work, oomi... please, stop shouting-"

“It doesn’t matter if you want it to work,” he snaps. “I’ve got a plan to stick to that’s already been screwed because of us, AND IT'S YOUR GODDAMNED FAULT!"

When you sob and crumple to your feet, there’s a small part of kiyoomi that comes to, the words suddenly sour on his tongue. He feels… confused, he doesn’t know where it came from inside of him, but the way your eyes water from his words snaps him back to reality.

“I’m… im ruining your plan?” You choke, and god kiyoomi wants the floor to engulf him whole. Because duh, of course now you’re not he’s just the scum of the earth, you’re all he can think of wanting in this shitty life, but he can’t say that, not when your hands cover your mouth in distress and horror, tears slipping over your fingers. He feels the blood leave his face when you take a step back, followed by another, then one as you turn on your heel to leave.

“Wait-“

“No, Kiyoomi,” you snap, and its his turn to feel your rage, your head whipping to look at him in betrayal. “No. I’m officially done waiting for you.”

And despite the fact that he wants to chase you, wants to gather you in his arms and pin you to the wall and demand you listen to him, listen to why his plan has changed and how you’ve completely ruined all of it in the best ways, he can’t. His leg throbs at the mere idea.

He just. Stands there, frozen for god knows how long, staring at the long slammed door, wondering if you’d come back for something you’d forgot in your exit. Something dumb, like a charger or a water bottle, something easily replaceable but you wanted from him just as a last chance makeup.

But you don’t. And once his good leg starts to cramp from standing there, he slowly moves his way to his bedroom.

And he’s fine. Honest!

Sitting by himself in the cold of night gives him more time to think about the future. The one without you, of course. Limping around the dorm on crutches makes his arms ache and knees weak, and the backpack on his shoulders making him fall forwards is plenty to make his elbows strengthen up (they’re withering away) and his breathing circulate (he’s breathing back tears of pain and frustration.)

He can’t… he can’t do this without you.

Call him selfish, but his life was not only easier with you around, it was better, it was fun to love you and have you scream his name from the stands, but now that seat is occupied by someone else when it should be yours and yours alone.

He’s tried to get over it. He’s tried to get everything in line, get you the hell out of his mind but he can’t.

You’re different. He hates you for it. There’s something about you that refused to leave his mind and soul. Every time someone is interested in him, he feels disgusted because every crush is based on appearances now; it never was with you. Every time someone laughs, his first thought is how much he misses yours. When one of those stupid fast food commercials comes on in the late hours of night, he smiles sadly as he remembers the way your eyes would meet his and you’d beg him for some fries at ungodly hours.

He has to move on. It’s been fucking years. Why hasn’t he moved on?

Any sane person by now would have moved on, passed through his heartbreak and try to find another, but he’s so emotionally unavailable at this point. Every thought and every reminder that plagues him continues to hit like a ton of bricks every time.

Maybe it's guilt.

No, its definitely guilt.

He loved you, more than you could imagine, he appreciated you more than he can express, and to show you how much you mean to him, he blamed you for his failures.

No wonder he deserves to be alone.

And just when his exhaustion can't grow, his self destruction and crumbling self worth can't get lower, he gets thrown in another circle of hell that he seems to find himself in; this time, in a coffee shop he frequents. Not too many familiar faces, just a couple blocks from the train, and up until that point, only having known him as an alias.

Until today, when the Gods decide to torture him a bit more.

“Name?”

“Sakusa,” he says, not even thinking as he scrolls on his phone. There’s a high pitched gasp from the girl, and it makes his eye twitch.

“NO WAY!!! Oh my gosh, you’re THE sakusa kiyoomi?! Oh my gosh, wait, hold on- can I get a picture? No, wait, you’re not into those- can I get an autograph? I knew you looked familiar, my sister and I watch you play all the time! I’m such a fan!-“

“Uh… thanks. Can I have my tea-“

The girl doesn’t answer, instead, she calls for her co-worker who barrels out in equal excitement.

On any normal day, kiyoomi would snap. He’d scold and snarl about how rude they were, how he’s still a fucking person who just so happens to be good at volleyball, but he’s like a deer in headlights. He’s too surprised at his own stupidity of not using his usual alias, how damn tired is he?

There’s a weight that feels like a ton of bricks that settles on his chest once he hears the line behind him complaining about how long it’s taking, then people behind the register flashing pictures that have him blinded and asking him questions he doesn’t want to answer, he just wants his tea for God’s sake and-

“HEY!” There’s a snap from someone at a table, and it breaks up the small, impromptu paparazzi at the front. “People are trying to work here, and not get a damn seizure from your damn pictures!” He feels all that anxiety break on his shoulders once they cower away. “And shame on you all!” They continue, the line slowly parting to let them continue shouting. “He may be famous but he’s still a damn person! Make the fucking drink and GO!”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to look. Even if he’s eternally grateful for them, he knows that scold and he knows that bravery to call out random people for their shiftiness.

Because it’s the same thing you used to do all those years ago.

He winced and pulls the mask higher on his nose to keep himself concealed- as if he’s not a 190.5 cm monster. But you don’t say anything about anything that just happened, you must be deep in your work to not process just exactly who you were defending.

He gets his tea with a quick apology from the baristas, and he heads to the door to leave.

….

…right?

He’s gone. He’s on the bus, headphones in and heading to practice, audiobook putting him in a new world where his only current connection is the hot tea in his hands.

Right?

There’s always been a table on the bus, a table he rudely stalks up to, where you’re sitting and typing away furiously at your laptop and massaging one of your temples, too engrossed in your work to notice the outside hitter standing just in front of you.

“Uh…” he chews his lip nervously. You don’t look up.

This is the chance Komori’s been talking about. If he doesn’t take it, he’s going to hate himself forever.

“Thank you for standing up for me back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

He sighs staggered, “can I… uhm… repay the favor?”

To his extreme relief, you offer him a small chuckle, “maybe you can recommend a coffee shop where random cele…” your voice drifts off when you look up at him, jaw frozen open and eyes wide and dancing all over his face. You’re both just staring at each other, breathing ragged and tense, and his brows furrowing to try and hide the guilt and absolute need he has for you to continue the conversation.

You clear your throat, “your uhm… your foot healed uh… well.”

He wants to, but can’t, fight the snort that sneaks past his lips because that’s about the last thing he thought you’d say. But he sees you crack a smile too, and it’s worth it.

“Yeah,” he says after he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m playing professionally now. Minor aches here and there, but nothing unusual.”

“So you got to stick with your plan,” you hum sadly, and his heart stops. “That’s wonderful, Sakusa. Im glad to hear it-“

“But my plan never felt complete,” he interrupts, and he sees your nostrils flare in annoyance. “I-I-I thought I knew what I wanted, but god, I didn’t. I don’t, I’ve always only wanted you.”

You offer him a shrug, “Kiyoomi, I was an intruder in your life; I can’t blame you for that, I shouldn’t have been there-“

“I wanted you there.”

“Clearly you didn’t,” you snip, and finally, he sighs in defeat. “You made it just fine without me in your plan.”

Fuck it.

If he’s here, he’s gonna lay all his cards, give you every last thought of his and leave you one more time to pick up your shattered pieces.

“I miss you.”

You freeze, but there’s a glazing of your waterline before you slowly, tensely, turn up to look at him.

“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t do this, Sakusa.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, own voice twinging raw. "I hate it too. I hate that I've had to carry this weight with me for all these years, years I should've been with you, kept you safe and happy, and I couldn't even do that."

"You shattered what we had. Don't ever forget that."

"I never have been able to."

There's another silence surrounding you both, suffocating and hot and thick, and he gets flashbacks of a scenario not too dissimilar, where you're looking up at him with those same, betrayed eyes.

But your gaze doesn't last. It crumbles before you let out the breath you'd been holding, a sign that you're not going to waste your energy on him anymore, "you're too late, Kiyoomi. You don't get to miss me anymore."

When your hands shift to close your laptop, he sees it. The massive, heavy rock on your finger, glimmering under the soft lights of the coffee shop.

Kiyoomi feels sick. He could faint right now if his pride would let him. Instead, he swallows the bile in his throat and grits his teeth, giving you a smile and a casual scratch of the back of his head, "that's... that's awesome! I'm happy for you."

"Don't be," you smile sadly.

"Why?"

You shurg, "you don’t have to be happy for me. I’m happy for me. He's a friend of Bokuto-San's. Set us up not long after we broke up." Then, you sigh shakily, "I'm just here for work, I won't taint your coffee shops for much longer." It was an attempt to break up the heavy silence.

He could puke right now if he didn't feel completely defeated. He could strangle Bokuto in devastation.

In his younger, naïve efforts to drive you away, he drove you straight to someone else's arms.

He nods and chokes out a small "alright," before spinning on his heel away from you

He makes move to leave the coffee shop, but before he does, but before he can, he turns back to face you, trying to get one final look at you, soaking in your presence and soul before you vanish from his life forever. He calls your name, and you look at him one more time with that big, beautiful gaze.

"Do you believe in the one that got away?" he asks, and you process his answer before slipping your computer in your bag.

"Yeah. And I believe I'm yours- but you were too worried about losing volleyball. Now, I guess we all got what we wanted."

His veins turn icy as he tries to blink back the hot tears searing his waterline, turning his head to dodge your knowing eyes.

Everyone got what they wanted.

Except for his broken heart, of course.

[ebongawk]

hii !! i hope you’re well - number 6 and hellcheer for the kissing thing when you have the time please 🫶🫶

6. A Kiss of Relief

Look. He hadn't gone into this whole thing with the expectation of dying. To say he had any expectations at all would be an absolutely asinine claim of which he'd never take ownership.

And yet, as he looked up at Dustin through the portal in the ceiling of the boys' locker room, all he could think was, it has to be me.

There isn't enough time. I won't let her die.

The knifepoint of his spear sliced so easily through the climbing rope they'd dug out of the school's storage locker. Dustin's shout of disdain mostly lost in the screaming bats that had broken through the gymnasium windows.

He'd ask himself when he became the sacrificial beacon of the group, but that, too, would be a stupid question.

Eddie remembered the exact fucking moment.

The group had poured in through the trailer door, exhausted not even beginning to encompass the weight of the entire world that rested on their weary shoulders. Everyone had all but collapsed onto the nearest soft surface, and Eddie gave up his bed so Nancy, Max and Chrissy might have somewhere to sleep. Promising to take first shift, to make sure the music kept playing.

Because it was music that kept Max and Chrissy from literally floating to their deaths.

He'd accidentally discovered that with his ass.

Mere days before, when Chrissy had come over to buy special K and had instead fallen under the lich's spell. When she'd risen off the ground, his pleading screams of her name lost to the impossible trance inflicted by her attempted murderer.

When he'd bumped into Wayne's shitty old record player in his retreat, the needle scratching against Rumours and Fleetwood Mac's Songbird starting up.

Rumours had a home now in Chrissy's Walkman, and Eddie offered to make sure Stevie Nicks kept up her soft lullaby for the first few hours.

He didn't wake anyone else. Instead, sat on the floor beside his bed, he absorbed the way Chrissy's hair spilled across his pillow like a sunrise. A firestorm quieted in the night, softness punctuated by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as notes and lyrics kept the nightmares at bay. She let out these tiny little sounds every now and then, a song pulled from the back of her throat as much needed rest finally fell through her bones. Maybe the thought shouldn't have felt so insane. But still, he took himself aback when he gazed at her and a new realization dawned across the horizon of his consciousness.

I would die for her.

Shocking, yeah. But, as it settled like creeping fog across the forest floor of his brain, it felt right, too. And Eddie, terrified of that ridiculous fucking implication, had written it off as exhaustion.

As he pedaled away from the school as quickly as he possibly could on that blackened bike, though, he realized just how true it was.

Goddamn it.

The bats swarmed, screeching their ear-splitting song as they dove and gnashed their nasty little teeth. They dove, sending the bike flying, and Eddie didn't remember the tumble. Only that he was on his feet again, spear and shield gripped in sweaty hands as he turned toward his reckoning.

He didn't even feel the first bite. Heart pumping adrenaline through his veins, time slowed down as he pushed his body to the limit. Spear swiping and stabbing, shield held aloft and flung.

But there were so many of them. And he was so fucking tired.

All it took was one slip. One wrong step of his boot. Suddenly, he was down on one knee, and the bats saw his partial collapse as the opening it was. Raining down on him like the most ridiculous fucking storm he had never known to expect experiencing.

Every subsequent bite after the first wasn't as easy to ignore. They dug into his ribs, his arms, his legs, tiny teeth like razor blades slipping past flesh. Eddie ripped them off of him, but for every one he managed to tear away, it seemed three more took their place.

Over the screeching victory of his tiny assassins, though, he heard another scream. Just before a firestorm erupted overhead, it pierced that rolling red thunder nearly close enough to touch. Sunrise. A fireball tore the sky asunder, the bats all shrieking in agony. Gross, paper-thin wings catching the flames and spreading like they'd been doused in kerosene, the little fucking monsters ran away from the heat pouring overhead. Eddie rolled to his knees, nearly gagging on pain as he looked up at his savior. Divinity in human form, Chrissy rushed to his side, a can of hairspray in one hand and his lighter in the other as she scorched his attackers with her homemade flamethrower. Finding some reserve of strength buried beneath his stomach, Eddie took his spear in hand again, standing at Chrissy's back and guarding her from anything that might get close enough to rip her weapon away. Throwing himself back into the fray, because now he needed to protect her as she protected him. It felt like a lifetime but was likely only a few seconds later when all of the bats squealed in unison, lifting up a dozen feet in the air before they all came falling like rocks to the ground. Eddie tucked Chrissy into his body, holding his shield above them to keep anything from hitting her.

Panting, it was as though, as soon as he stopped moving for longer than a moment, all of the pain rushed in at once, and Eddie collapsed to the ground. Barely catching himself on his hands and knees.

"Eddie!" Chrissy shouted, falling with him. Further dirtying the grimy pink pants she'd borrowed from Nancy as she carefully pulled him up to a kneeling position. "Oh my God, are you okay? You're-- You're bleeding, God, Eddie, why did you do that? Why didn't you run, you said you would run!"

Hardly able to breathe around the pain - Christ, it felt like his entire body was covered in fucking paper cuts - Eddie still managed a grin.

"You needed more time," he answered, groaning as he sat back on his heels. Jesus, it felt like those bastards had taken a chunk out of his ribs, but, after carefully poking around the area, he deduced that it wasn't as bad as it felt. "What, Cunningham, were you worried about me or something?"

"Yes!" she cried, cupping his jaw in her hands and forcing him to meet those insanely gorgeous storm cloud eyes. "God, Eddie, I-I came rushing back here because I had this insane feeling that you were going to do something stupid. And you did! Why would you do that?"

Did she really have to ask?

"Because you needed more time," he stressed, wrapping his hands loosely around her wrists. Holding her in place, holding the heat of her palms against his face like she alone was the balm to all those scrapes and bruises now littering his body. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and begged her to see. "And I wasn't gonna let him take you, Chrissy. I wasn't gonna let him kill you."

Not when I am fucking desperate to see you live.

Eyes searching his gaze, they danced over his face, his hands, his body, as though trying to find some hidden wound that would unravel him bit by bit beneath her fingers. Her lips parted, a single tear escaping from a duct, but Eddie didn't have a chance to wipe it away before her lips were on his.

Oh. Oh.

She pulled back way too fucking quickly, his name barely having a chance to drip off the tip of her tongue before he was yanking her back in. Swallowing down her little mewl of surprised appreciation, her tongue drifted along the swell of his bottom lip, and Eddie greeted her eagerly.

She tasted of hope. Of fucking belonging and sunrise and relief above all else. Eddie felt all of his pain fading away, and he realized that maybe they called it relief because it was so goddamn close to relive that he would've sworn he was coming back to life in her arms.

God. He needed her more than he needed air.

"Eddie," she whispered after finally pulling away with a gasp. His name spoken like she was tasting it for the first time, rolling it around on her tongue, before a smile broke from her cheeks to let him know how much she liked it.

"Chrissy," he responded with his favorite flavor.

Nothing more was said for a moment. Nothing more needed to be.

He just kissed her again.

kiss prompt!