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mournthebird · 7 months ago

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Silver and Garnet.

summary: Soldat hurts himself a lot.

a/n: I had another wip but I have no clue where I'm going with it so I started this one. Since someone commented the other day, I had to write another scenario specifically for this. I wrote something kinda touching this subject on my other blog but this one is exploring it better. Heed warnings, potentially triggering. Unedited. ;; wc: 4.3k

So many things to tackle with him.

You had done the hardest so far. That was good.

He was still wary around you. He avoided you.

He stayed locked in the bedroom you spared, hiding like a frightened animal. You hadn't seen him in a few days, the only evidence of his presence were the slightly eaten down bowls of broth and mashed potatoes you left for him. The untouched portions of these meals showed you just how fragile he still was, barely sustaining himself on the meager amounts he managed to consume.

His self-imposed isolation spoke volumes about the depth of his trauma, leaving you to wonder about the extent of his emotional wounds and the long road to recovery that lay ahead. You had never been a caregiver before, hell taking care of yourself proved to be hard sometimes. But now you had a responsibility for someone else, someone who really needs it.

Luckily, he had taken the opportunity to at least go to the bathroom without any sense of apprehension or unease. You often heard the shower running and he spent close to an hour in the shower at a time. You never went in to question him or why it took him so long to shower. Sometimes he'd let you wash him off, he did when he first arrived.

But for now, he liked having privacy, and you didn't blame him for wanting it.

You had been sitting on the couch and his shower had exceeded well over an hour, which was odd. Normally he only clocked close to an hour, just below sixty minutes. But he had been in the bathroom for much longer, and the shower had been running the entire time. You could spot steam peeking out from the cracks in the closed door, rising to the ceiling and fogging your apartment lightly.

Today, the shower had been running for an unusually long time, prompting you to check on him. Given his delicate health condition, you couldn't afford to be anything but vigilant. With a slight sense of concern, you gently pushed aside the warm, fuzzy blanket that had been draped over your legs. Rising from the comfortable embrace of the couch, you stretched your limbs briefly before padding across the room towards the bathroom door. The sound of running water grew louder as you approached, but there were no other noises coming from inside.

Reaching the door, you hesitated for a moment before raising your hand. You gently rapped your knuckles against the smooth surface of the door, being careful not to make too loud a sound. The last thing you wanted was to startle him in his potentially vulnerable state. "Soldat?" you called out softly, your voice barely audible over the steady stream of water, "Are you okay in there? It's perfectly fine if you're still showering, I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright. Is everything okay?"

Silence greeted you, save for the continuous patter of water against tile. The lack of response sent a small shiver of worry down your spine.

"Soldat?" you tried again, your voice a touch louder this time, tinged with growing concern. "Can I come in? Just to check on you?" You pressed your ear against the door, straining to hear any sound of movement or acknowledgment. Several long seconds ticked by, each one amplifying your unease. Still, there was no reply, not even the slightest indication that he had heard you. The silence stretched on, broken only by the relentless sound of running water, leaving you to grapple with mounting worry and indecision.

After a moment of hesitation, you decided to confront the situation head-on, pushing aside any thoughts of future repercussions. You reached out and gently grasped the cold metal of the door handle. Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you slowly turned the knob and eased the door open, the hinges creaking softly.

As the bathroom came into view, your eyes were immediately drawn to him, huddled in the corner of the shower. His form was hunched over, back pressed firmly against the tiled walls as if trying to disappear into them. The shower was running over him but instead of clear water, a steady stream of crimson flowed beneath him, swirling ominously before disappearing down the drain.

Your gaze was inevitably drawn to his right hand, it was covered in blood, fresh and glistening under the harsh bathroom lights. His nails were ragged and torn, thick chunks of flesh clung to them, the aftermath to the frenzied self-mutilation he had inflicted upon himself. The raw, exposed skin underneath looked so painful, the pieces of skin that he clearly had torn and tried to rip away from himself clear as day.

Your eyes slowly traced the contours of his body, lingering on the gleaming silver titanium that seamlessly merged with his flesh. The junction between metal and skin was marked by a vicious scar, a sight you had seen before during your previous bathing sessions. However, this time it appeared significantly more severe. The area was angry and inflamed, with fresh blood seeping from the edges, and the surrounding tissue looked far more mutilated than you recalled. The overall damage seemed to have intensified, leaving you with a sense of growing concern.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed straight ahead, as if seeing something beyond the confines of the room. The vacant stare sent a chill down your spine, he looked so empty and haunted there under the steady shower. His hand trembled visibly, betraying the depth of his distress very clearly, as if his wounds weren’t enough to go off of. Words couldn’t compare to this sight alone.

"Soldat..." You whispered, your voice barely audible as you gently closed the door behind you, careful not to startle him. The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the tense silence of the room, the shower had been muffled by now, your brain zoning the sound out in hopes he would speak. "What's going on, hm?" You asked carefully, your tone was slightly apprehensive, your approach had to be very careful. You remained rooted to the spot, instinctively knowing that approaching him too quickly might escalate the situation. Instead, you stayed put, your body language open and non-threatening. "Did you do that?"

He remained motionless, unresponsive to his surroundings, as if frozen in place. Despite the scalding temperature of the water cascading over him, he shivered uncontrollably, as if he were trapped in a blizzard. The relentless stream of hot water had turned his skin an angry, vivid red, resembling a freshly boiled lobster wherever it made contact. You slowly stepped closer, speaking up again. "Did you do that to your arm?" You repeated.

Soldat finally stirred, his trembling hand slowly reaching up to his bleeding shoulder. His nails dug deeply into the scar tissue as his gaze fixed upon the metallic surface of his prosthetic limb. Unbeknownst to you, his mind was awash with vivid, haunting memories of endless saws mercilessly cutting into his flesh. The loss of his arm hadn't been a clean, swift amputation. No, it had been a gradual, excruciating process that began around his elbow.

In the sterile confines of the laboratory, they had methodically removed the rest, piece by agonizing piece. Throughout the entire ordeal, Soldat remained horrifyingly conscious, forced to endure every moment as they systematically dismembered him, carving away at his body with the cold precision of butchers preparing a carcass.

The gruesome experience marked the beginning of his torment at the hands of HYDRA. It was merely the opening act in a long, nightmarish performance that would span decades. As hellish as this initial ordeal was, it paled in comparison to the tortures that would follow. The amputation of his arm, as brutal and inhumane as it had been, would come to be seen as almost merciful when juxtaposed against the relentless cruelty he would endure in the years to come.

The memory of the cold metal was seared into his consciousness. He could still vividly recall the sensation of the frigid prosthetic fused to his body, an unnatural extension of himself that felt more like an invasive parasite than a replacement limb. The cold was so intense it transcended mere discomfort, burning his flesh with its icy touch. In his desperation to be free of this foreign appendage, he had made numerous attempts to tear it from his body, clawing at the juncture where flesh met metal until his fingers were raw and bleeding.

HYDRA's response to these acts of defiance was characteristically brutal.

They forcibly removed his fingernails, not out of concern for his well-being, but to protect their valuable asset. In their eyes, Soldat was no longer a person, no longer human. He had been reduced to a mere object, a weapon to be wielded at their discretion, stripped of his humanity and autonomy.

They did this frequently, until he stopped clawing at himself.

He had nails now, and they served as desperate tools in his frantic attempt to extricate the metal embedded within his flesh. His prosthetic limb was a source of intense loathing; he yearned to be rid of it, to cast it off entirely. The sensations it produced were a maddening contradiction; simultaneously frigid and scorching, each moment bringing fresh waves of agony. The pain was all-encompassing, radiating from every point where flesh met metal, leaving him bewildered by its relentless intensity. Where was this torment originating from? How could this damn appendage cause such overwhelming suffering-

"Soldat, you're hurting yourself," you intervened, your voice cutting through the fog of his anguish and halting his downward spiral into self-destruction. Slowly, as if emerging from a trance, he lifted his gaze to meet yours. His fingers had burrowed beneath his skin like eager maggots, exposing the cold gleam of metal that had been forcibly inserted beneath layers of tissue and muscle. You reached out slowly, doing your best to avoid startling him. Carefully, you grasped his hand, applying just enough pressure to halt its destructive path, and gradually eased it away from his bloodied shoulder.

"There we go...oh, Soldat, look at you..." You whispered gently, watching the scalding water sear down on his wound, washing dark garnet into a watery pastel.

He whimpered softly in response, his body trembling with fear as he anticipated your reaction. You had caught him in the act, and he had been surreptitiously harming himself for some time now. His timid, apprehensive eyes slowly lifted to meet yours, filled with a mixture of dread and resignation. He fully expected you to unleash a torrent of angry words, to raise your hand against him, or to inflict some form of harsh punishment for the self-inflicted damage to his arm.

But to his surprise and confusion, you did none of those things. Unlike the cruel handlers from his past, you exhibited a gentle demeanor that was entirely foreign to him. Your actions spoke of kindness, a concept he struggled to comprehend.

"Ты не собираешься меня наказать?" He questioned hesitantly, his brow furrowed in a perplexed frown as he addressed you. His voice emerged as a barely audible whisper, weak and raspy from prolonged disuse. It sounded like he had swallowed broken glass, his throat utterly torn apart.

Prior to this moment, he had only uttered three single words on separate occasions: a tentative ‘thank you,’ a fearful ‘no,’ and a hesitant ‘yes.’ You found yourself grateful for your basic understanding of Russian, which allowed you to decipher his simple words, but full sentences would be trickier. He hadn't said a thing in English yet.

"Eh...I'm sorry, I don't understand, Soldat...but...I'm not mad." You reassured gently, your voice barely above a whisper. "Let's get you out of here and cleaned up, okay?" You spoke softly, reaching out with a steady hand towards the shower knob. With a twist, you halted the flow of water, the sudden silence amplifying the sound of his ragged breathing. His body began trembling more noticeably now, the loss of the near-boiling water leaving him exposed to the cooler air. You couldn't help but wince internally at the sight of his scalded skin, angry red compared to the rest of him. However, you forced yourself to push that concern aside for the moment. His bloody scars, still weeping and raw, demanded your immediate attention.

You allowed him to remain seated in the shower for a brief moment, giving him time to adjust. You moved towards the bathroom counter, your eyes scanning the contents of the cabinet as you opened it. Methodically, you began pulling out the necessary first aid supplies, arranging them neatly on the countertop. Your gaze flickered back to him, noting how his trembling had intensified. You carefully approached him once more with a large, soft towel draped over your arms.

“Here, I know you’re cold now.” You draped the towel over his shivering form, taking care to keep his injured shoulder exposed so you could tend to it properly. He flinched as the fabric settled around him, instinctively responding to the unusual action. You maintained your calm demeanor, choosing not to react to the flinching. “I’m going to clean this up a bit, okay? All you have to do is sit still. That’s pretty easy, right?” You tried your best to sound comforting, knowing his nerves were through the roof and he was especially fragile.

His shoulder was a gruesome sight, coated in a deep crimson layer of blood with ragged pieces of flesh hanging precariously from where he had been violently digging. You couldn't help but let out a soft, empathetic sigh as you reached for a substantial handful of sterile gauze. Kneeling beside him with careful movements, you noticed how he deliberately avoided your gaze, his eyes fixed intently on the intricate patterns of the tile floor beneath you both.

With precision, you reached up and began to gently dab at the blood-soaked area, allowing the pristine white gauze to gradually absorb the viscous red liquid, allowing the injury to become more visible to you to assess the proper kind of treatment.

The self-inflicted damage from his frantic clawing was even worse than you had initially feared. Deep, angry tears marred his shoulder, the surrounding scar tissue visibly swollen and undoubtedly hypersensitive to the touch. Despite the pain he must have been experiencing, Soldat remained remarkably still for you, permitting you to continue your ministrations as you meticulously dabbed away the excess blood.

Your heart ached at the sight, and you found yourself whispering softly, your voice barely audible in the quiet room, "Oh, Soldat…look at what you've done to yourself." Your tone was filled with compassion rather than judgment as you continued, "You must be in so much pain to have resorted to this. I wish I could take it all away."

He didn't reply, which was expected given his current state. He simply allowed you to continue dabbing at his wounds until the majority of the bleeding had subsided. The condition of his skin was a bit alarming, and you found yourself hesitating, unsure of how to properly treat such severe injuries. Your medical knowledge was limited, lacking the expertise required for advanced treatments such as suturing.

But, upon closer inspection, you felt a wave of relief wash over you as you realized the wounds, while serious, weren't as bad as you had initially feared. Not bad enough for stitches at least. A few carefully applied butterfly bandages and snug gauze wrapping would be sufficient to promote healing. Besides, you hoped his enhanced healing might help aid on this too.

"I'm going to start wrapping you up now, okay? I'll also need to apply some bandages over certain areas to help keep the skin together. You're being so brave and cooperative," you said, your words of encouragement causing his eyes to lift slightly, meeting yours. The subtle shift in his demeanor made your heart rate quicken, a warmth spreading through your chest as you sensed him beginning to trust you. "I need you to remain as still as possible while I do this. Can you manage that for me?"

After a moment of consideration, he responded with a soft, barely audible, "...да." The Russian affirmation, though brief, conveyed his understanding and compliance.

You offered him a warm, reassuring smile as you began the delicate process of tending to his wounds. You carefully cleaned each injury using soft cotton balls soaked in a mild antiseptic solution. You winced slightly as you dabbed the open wounds but he hadn’t flinched at all, despite knowing the antiseptic stung. Once the cleaning was complete, you applied bandages to the areas where his skin had been broken, taking extra care to position them for optimal healing. For the scar itself, you had a handful of things. First laying down a layer of soft, cushioning gauze to help with any bleeding that might occur, you then wrapped it with an adherent bandage to keep everything in place.

Throughout the entire process, he observed you intently, his gaze alternating between your focused expression and the various medical supplies you used. His eyes searched quickly for anything sharp, but he didn’t see anything like that. This experience was entirely new to him; never before had he been allowed to witness the ministrations performed on him.

The HYDRA scientists had preferred to keep him in the dark, relishing his startled reactions to unexpected pain or discomfort. It was so different to your approach. They liked watching him struggle against the bindings he was kept in, then used it as an excuse to hurt him more, as if his very valid reaction to being cut open with a scalpel or stabbed with a needle was unwarranted. But nothing you did hurt. You were so careful, like you were afraid to hurt him.

"There...all done." You hummed gently, a soft smile playing on your lips as you looked up to him once the bandages were securely fastened in place. Your eyes scanned over your handiwork, ensuring everything was just right. "Now, I want you to take it easy, okay? Don't push yourself too hard. But if it happens to come undone or feels uncomfortable, just let me know. I can always redo it for you." You reassured him, your voice warm and caring. Taking a small step back, you gave him some space, understanding that he might need a moment to adjust to the new sensation of the bandages.

Soldat, still silent, gripped the towel tighter and wrapped the damp fabric around himself, creating a cocoon of sorts. The quiet that enveloped the room was almost tangible, broken only by the soft dripping of water. You watched him carefully, noting how he seemed to be taking inventory of his newly bandaged body. In your mind, you surmised that he probably needed a few seconds to get accustomed to the feeling of the bandages against his skin, perhaps even testing their flexibility as he moved.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a minute or two, Soldat made a move to stand. His legs were a bit unsteady, trembling slightly under his weight as he rose. He took cautious steps out of the shower, leaving behind a trail of water droplets. He came to a stop directly in front of you, close enough that you could feel the residual warmth from his shower-heated skin. His still-wet hair continued to release tiny rivulets of water, the droplets trailing down his face and neck before disappearing into the towel.

Your eyes were drawn to his, those steel blue irises that always seemed to hold so much depth. As you gazed into them, trying to decipher his thoughts, you realized that while they were as inscrutable as ever, there was something there. A look, a silent request perhaps. He seemed to be seeking something more from you, though you couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

"Alright, let's get you properly dried off," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Your hands moved of their own accord, grasping the edges of the towel he held. "And then... well, I think we should get you settled comfortably in the living room. How does that sound?" As you spoke, you began to gently pat him dry, your movements careful and considerate, especially around the newly bandaged areas. The act felt intimate, you had done it before, but it felt different this time.

He was carefully dried off and dressed in clean, comfortable clothes before being gently guided to the living room. You led him to the spot where you had been sitting earlier, allowing him to sink into the warm impression left by your body. As you draped your thick, cozy blanket over his legs, he instinctively pulled it up higher, cocooning himself in its comforting weight. His tense muscles began to relax as he nestled deeper into the soft folds, finding a small measure of solace in the simple act of being warm and protected.

You settled yourself beside him, your eyes drawn to the bandages adorning his shoulder. You broached the subject that had been weighing on your mind, wondering about his habits, "Do you do that a lot, Soldat?" The question hung in the air, your tone carefully modulated to convey genuine concern rather than accusation or judgment.

For what felt like an eternity, he remained silent, his eyes fixed on some distant point. Just as you began to think he wouldn't respond at all, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Да." The single word, spoken so softly you almost missed it, carried the weight of countless untold stories.

"Why?" you pressed gently, hoping to coax him into opening up, to share even a fragment of the burden he carried. You yearned to understand, to offer whatever comfort or support you could. Your underground research on HYDRA had come up short, you hadn’t discovered much yet, and many of the released files the Black Widow had released were heavily encrypted. But as quickly as that tiny crack in his armor had appeared, it vanished. His lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line, and the brief, guarded glance he cast in your direction spoke louder than words.

Without uttering another word, he had made it abundantly clear that this line of inquiry would go no further. The wall between you, momentarily weakened, had been fortified once more.

"I understand... you don't want to talk about it right now. That's perfectly okay," you reassured gently, your voice filled with compassion. "I want you to know that if you ever feel the urge to hurt yourself again, you can come to me. I'm here for you, and I'll do everything in my power to help you through it." You offered this support sincerely, hoping that your words would resonate with him and provide some comfort. Your intention was to show him that there were alternative ways to cope with his pain, rather than resorting to self-harm. You wanted to be a source of safety and understanding he could turn to.

He remained silent, but you could see that your words were having an impact. His eyes, previously averted, briefly met yours, conveying a mix of vulnerability and gratitude. Then, he slowly shifted his position on the couch. He leaned closer to you, gradually lowering his head until it rested lightly on your leg. He was using your thigh as a makeshift pillow, a huge sign of the trust he was placing in you. It was an incredibly significant step forward in your relationship, a wordless acknowledgment of the connection between you.

You knew this was a big gesture, how much security he must feel for him to allow himself this closeness. Considering he never allowed himself to lay down around you, this was a big step in the right direction. As he settled, he pulled the blanket higher, adjusting it to cover himself more fully. He was positioned to lay on his uninjured flesh shoulder, seeking relief for the wounded one and to be covered by the blanket for some extra security, you knew he didn’t like feeling exposed.

Your hand, trembling slightly with the weight of the moment, slowly descended towards his damp hair. You were acutely aware of your own nervousness, not wanting to make any misstep that might shatter this fragile trust. This unexpected display of vulnerability had caught you by surprise, and you wanted to handle it carefully. Your fingers gently made contact with his hair, gently running through his chestnut locks in a soothing gesture. Your touch was light and tentative, massaging and lightly scratching at his scalp as he laid there.

Soldat permitted this rare moment of complete vulnerability. He was feeling particularly exposed and fragile, yet he felt secure enough in your presence to lay beside you. To lay on you. The comfort he found in your company was evident as you both settled in to watch television together.

The episode progressed, you noticed a gradual change in Soldat's subtle movements on your thigh. His breathing began to slow and deepen, becoming more rhythmic with each passing minute. Before long, the weight of his body pressed more heavily against you as he drifted off into a peaceful slumber. You looked down to make sure you weren’t just imagining things.

Soldat felt safe enough in your presence to completely let his guard down and fall asleep.

It was a clear indication to the trust he placed in you, a rare and precious gift from someone who typically kept the world at arm's length upon severe conditioning. The simple act of Soldat falling asleep beside you spoke volumes about the growing bond you had, your chest warming and swelling with warmth as you observed his sleeping form.

You couldn't help the smile that spread on your face.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Cover images from Pinterest

I had a few people inquire about being tagged for my fics, if anyone is still be interested in being on a tag list, please let me know.

#bucky barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #winter soldier x you #catws #captain america the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes one shot #blythewrites⛓

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bambiihee · 2 months ago

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facefucking w jay and after he makes you gag on his dick and swallow all of his cum he’s swiping up the rest that spilled from the corners of your mouth up and making you gag on his fingers next

@prkhaven : “ jay showing off his new rings and matching bracelet that came in the mail… “

📌 NSFW, MDNI! park jongseong x fem!reader • oral (m. rec), dom!jay, dirty talk, praise kink, lots of pet names, face fucking, finger sucking, hand and finger kink, spit kink, cum eating, cumplay

jay just wanted to show you the new jewelry he ordered. he loves to show off his new purchases, and he loves even more to hear how much you like them— all of the sterling silver he has wrapped around his wrists and fingers are all for you, anyway. he knows how much you like his hands.

but that was just the issue, when he reached out to you with expensive chunky rings adorning those long, veiny fingers; you liked his hands a little too much.

just the sight of them are enough to get you wet some days, the motions of his fingers plucking at his guitar reminding you of something else entirely. jay could work magic with his fingers, able to make you come undone before you can even register it, get you trembling and whimpering from your pink puffy pussy squirting over and over and over again. he’ll overstimulate you until you’re begging for him to stop, and only then will he even consider putting his cock inside of you.

you’re addicted to the pleasure his hands bring you. whining for his fingers in your cunt even when you’re out in public with the other members, keening into his ear about how badly you need him. and seeing those pretty hands adorned in jewelry… you weren’t any better than a rabid animal.

“fuck, yeah, princess, just like that~” he purrs, his rings cold against your skin as he guides your head up and down on his hard leaking cock, “taking this dick like such a good girl…~"

you moan is muffled around the hot swollen flesh that you swallow deeper down your throat, the fat bulbous tip of jay’s cock making you gag and splutter. filthy wet noises echo off the walls, a frothy mix of drool and precum dripping down your chin and onto your lap. jay’s hand caresses your cheek before moving to cup the back of your head, tugging you roughly down onto his cock until you choke loudly.

“that pussy’s dripping, isn’t it, princess?” he coos honey-sweet, his thumb swiping across your jaw comfortingly as you struggle to take his entire length in your mouth. “i know you want my fingers deep in that cunt, don’t you? answer me.”

you nod dumbly around his dick, raising your hand to wrap it around what you can’t fit— he swats it away effortlessly, wrapping a fist around himself instead to continue feeding his shaft down your tight throat. his girth makes a visible bulge in your throat, you can feel it, and the hand jay has on the back of your head slides down to press down on it with a sick smile. “make me cum and i’ll give you what you want, baby, okay? no hands, be a good girl.”

you relax completely, allowing him to fuck your throat with reckless abandon— he coos at the tears that begin to slide down your hollowed cheeks, the sight making his cock throb between your spit-slick lips. it doesn’t take him long to empty himself down your throat, throwing his head back with a beautiful groan buzzing deep in his chest; there’s so much you choke on it, hot and thick filling up your cheeks and spilling down your throat, nasty globs and bubbles of it dripping out from between the pulled back corners of your lips. he leaves you ruined and filthy, pulling his softening cock out to rub his fingers across your face, smearing his cum and your spit all over your chin and cheeks.

“nasty girl.” he chuckles breathlessly, sliding two long, thin fingers between your lips and curling them against the inside of your cheek. you suck them in just as you did his cock, gazing up at him with big wet eyes as he shoves them deeper and deeper until you gag. “i love it when you make a mess.”

#enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #jay x reader #jay smut #jay hard thoughts #jay hard hours #enhypen #jay enhypen

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straightouttherosebush · 2 months ago

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The Summoning

Character(s): Lilia Vanrouge

Synopsis: MegaMix™ of General/Romantic/NSFW headcanons (technically "x reader") for my unexpected fave from Twisted Wonderland! (Leona is still my goat but he's fighting this lil mf for first place.)

Content Warning: AFAB/Female! Reader, biting as a form of affection, NSFW themes (LOTS of oral (fem anatomy), vaginal sex, dick + cum talk, blood play, somnophilia, slight corruption kink, breeding, marking... maybe? This is all at the last half so if you're just here for the fluffy stuff then dw)

♡General Headcanons♡

He/Him (AMAB), Pansexual (heavy female lean), Bat Fae (as confirmed canon in Book 7 apparently.)

♡ Lilia Vanrouge, who is a bat fae, with behaviors reminiscent of fruit bats specifically. (I saw someone else make this headcanon and I fuck with it so I'm keeping it.)

♡ Lilia, who adores gothic lolita and punk/diy fashion. He would wear it on free days when school is out. Everything from bloomer shorts to corsets, he adores it all and loves putting his own personal touch on everything he owns <3

♡ Lilia, who has a wide range of music taste but mainly loves goth/post punk, and is also active in the subcultures.

♡ Peepaw Lilia, who finds it endlessly amusing embarrassing the shit out of his adopted sons (and will go and adopt more if you take your eyes off him for even 5 seconds)

♡ MILF Hunter Vanrouge™ (that's it, that's the headcanon. Idk if this is a joke headcanon made by the fandom or what, but it's funny :D)

♡Romantic Headcanons♡

Love Language: Quality Time

♡ Lilia, whose love language is quality time, loves sneaking up on and surprising his partner. Their scared expression then their look of relief when they realize it's him are something he finds utterly adorable. Will also kiss their partner's hand/lips if he happens to be upside down. HUGE fan of upside-down kisses. <3

♡ Lilia, who loves making things for his partner. Clothes, music, food (sadly,) anything.

♡ Lilia, who adores seeing you care for his adopted sons. Whether you're nursing Sebek back to health after barely beating a particularly formidable foe during sparring or encouraging Silver with maternal docility, he finds it endearing and loves to see it.

♡ Lilia, whose favorite part about a partner would be their legs or their neck. The tender, maybe even plush flesh of their thighs and their soft, small neck. Perfect for nibbling/biting. The legs also contribute to their partner towering over him, and oh boy is he absolutely set ablaze by the height difference.

♡ Lilia, who is shockingly dominant in romantic relationships. His possessive grip on your waist and the cheeky yet innocent seeming smile he gives to anyone who dares lay a lustful eye on you. The piercing glare as the walk away. He is quite subtle yet makes it very well known that you two are together and is not scared of showing you off.

♡ Lilia, the goofy eccentric goth boyfriend, who would bring home taxidermied creatures, teeth and bones, possibly haunted things, and new children (both animals and humans.) He is an avid collector and gifter of oddities from decades past.

♡ Lilia, who Is a forthcoming partner, anything from his needs to his past, he trusts you with. He sees no point in shame, as it's a hindrance and you might as well know about his past anyway.

♡ Lilia, who has made a habit of calling you dearest/my dear, accompanies it with a giggle or a lowered, more sultry tone.

♡NSFW Headcanons♡

Kinks: Blood play, somnophilia, slight corruption kink, breeding, marking...maybe?

♡ Lilia, who bites your neck hard enough to draw some gorgeous, scarlet blood. The intrigue from the sting and the relief when he laps up the blood sends a shiver down your spine and the pleasure immediately shoots to your pussy, making your hole gush more and more every time he does it.

♡ Lilia, who loves to whisper praises into your ear and giggles against you whenever you make any adorable noises for him.

♡ Lilia, who loves smeared black lipstick all over his body, especially on his cock. <3

♡ Lilia, who is unexpectedly big, growing from 6 when soft to 8.5 when hard.

♡ Lilia, whose cum tastes absolutely horrid (suuuuper bitter,) but because it's him, you'd still swallow. <3

♡ Lilia, whose pleasure it would be to teach you the ropes your first time. Just like that, love. Sevens, your wide, glassy, teary eyes staring up at him as you can barely fit his dick in your mouth. Boy, is he glad he got to you first.

♡ Lilia, who doesn't expect you to take all of it first try, so he spends HOURS prepping you. Leaving bites up and down your legs and abusing your clit, sucking then kitten-licking in an unpredictable pattern. Looking up at you with innocent-looking, wide eyes as he makes you arch your back, throw you head back, and buck up into his mouth.

♡ Lilia, who loves to wake you up with his tongue deep into your cunt while grinding his thumb into your clit, one arm reaching up and holding your hip in place. Sometimes, he even holds both of your thighs in place with his unexpected strength and devours you like a man starved. (consensually, of course, he is nothing if not a gentleman)

♡ Lilia, who can go round after round filling you up, better than anyone has or will. After all, he sees how well you deal with his boys so why not have his precious human bear a child of his own? He has your body tilted up as he jackhammers into you like no tomorrow, watching the way you look at him- panting, moaning, barely able to get any words out as he hits deep with every thrust. He finishes quickly, but you'll soon lose count of exactly how many times he filled you with his seed.

♡ Lilia, who loves seeing you fucked stupid and giggles about you not being able to speak and mocks you for it <3 "What was that? I'm afraid I couldn't understand you, dearest. keehee <3"

Took a break but now I'm back! Consider this a Valentine's gift ig. Hope you enjoyed!

So long baby bats, ROSEY ♡

Masterlist is HERE for everyone! See ya! <3

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sleepynoons · 8 months ago

Text

jing yuan x f!reader, nsfw, 18+, not beta read

cw: nudity, suggestive content

notes: pls lmk if i'm missing any tags or warnings. anyway, nothing explicit this time, experimenting more w/ pieces that heavily focus on sexual tension + build-up. anyway x2, not sure how to describe the setting of this piece. still uses some hrs concepts like aeons. jing yuan is rich, the reader is his maid, and both use more formal language. this was a fun exercise!

THERE ARE a lot of rumors surrounding your master. you hear them when you go grocery shopping, visit the tailor, pick up the dry cleaning, drop off lunches at the front desk on days that he’s busy. some of them are about you – who are you? his wife? mistress? there’s no way you’re just a friend, right?

you’re trained to maintain a stoic facade, but inside, you can’t help but be entertained. you are none of those things, and one can only dream of sharing such a bond with him. you’re content with simply being his maid – you mustn’t tread closer.

on a wooden tray, you neatly arrange a cup of chamomile tea, another cup of warm, honeyed milk, and a folded newspaper of today’s news. before you leave the kitchen, though, you make sure to drop a few treats into a feeding bowl and rub at mimi’s stomach, your master’s beloved dog.

“your father needs some time alone,” you say to the animal. seemingly able to understand your words, mimi’s ears droop at a slight angle and she licks at your fingertips, seeking consolation. “he’ll be out soon, i promise.”

you get back up, wash your hands, and pick up the tray, heading over to your master’s bathroom.

from the hallway, you can hear the sound of water splashing and sloshing. if you strain a bit more, you can arguably make out some humming, nonsensical and haphazard in melody. when you reach the door, you hear submerging, and you know you’re right on time.

you knock on the door twice. “master, may i come in?”

you hear a faint noise of affirmation, no doubt muffled by the wall, and carefully enter without spilling the contents of the tray.

you’re greeted with a dazzling smile and glimmering droplets of soap and water slipping down naked skin.

your master greets you, fine smile lines outlining his rosy lips and delicate nose. “how many times have i told you that just my name will suffice?”

“master jing yuan,” you say as you place his drinks and paper on a designated drawer beside the tub, “how many times have i told you that you shouldn’t ask me to join you when you’re in the bathroom?”

“but who else can help me with my unruly mane of silver?” he pouts, tone feigning innocence.

“your hair isn’t unruly.”

“did you not call it that last time?”

you click your tongue. your master chuckles and turns away from you to face the other end of the tub. you grab a stool, hand him his newspaper, and take your place behind him. with a brush in hand, you unravel the red ribbon tying his hair and, with quick, gentle strokes, run the brush through the thick layers. you didn’t mean to call his hair unruly before, but you think there’s quite a bit of truth to it anyway. you also note that his hair has gotten quite long.

“master jing yuan, perhaps it’s time for a trim?” you suggest.

your master hums and leans back so that your hands can reach the crown of his head. “you are right. i shall leave it to you, then?”

shaking your head, you respond, “you really ought to get it done at a professional salon. i can only do so much.”

“you are a woman of many talents. i am sure you will do just fine,” he reassures. you huff in protest.

as your master’s only taking a soak today, you plait his hair into a thick braid before tying it up into a bun. you hand him his cup of tea, which is no longer scalding, and stand up to leave.

“oh!” he suddenly exclaims. “i seem to have forgotten my bathrobe.” he looks up at you expectantly, and you nod in understanding.

“i’ll go grab it. i’ll be right back.” you bow quickly before closing the door behind you on the way out and heading towards the laundry room.

you take your time. really, you needed an excuse to leave the bathroom. you’re glad that your master’s such a big fan of bath bombs, or else you’d see everything… you pat harshly at your warm cheeks to break free from your reverie. don’t tread any closer. you’re behaving like a schoolgirl experiencing her first love, and you can only groan internally at yourself. but you can’t blame yourself either – anyone would fall in love with your master if they know him the way you do. he’s so irresistible, and having been his maid for so long has only enabled you to witness more of his charisma and charm. you sigh, sitting on the floor in front of the dryer as you wait for it to de-wrinkle your master’s robe.

you return ten minutes later, both for your own wellbeing and to also give your master some time to himself.

“master jing yuan, i’m back. may i come in?”

instead of a reply, though, the door cracks open, and your master, wearing nothing but a towel tied loosely around his hips, appears before you. you yelp and rush to cover your eyes. he simply laughs at your antics before grabbing you by the arm and leading you into the bathroom.

“what – what are you –“

“i hurt my arm today, so i will need your help putting my robe on. it is quite heavy, after all.”

you don’t know where to look. you certainly can’t look at the bathroom mirror that covers the top-half of one wall or the marble on the other that shines and reflects so clearly. you opt to close your eyes and hold the robe up by the collar.

“this is hardly appropriate,” you mutter, embarrassment and nervousness coloring your tone. as a result, you try to distract yourself with another subject. “besides, couldn’t you have told me earlier? i would’ve prepared something in advance had i known.”

“i just noticed the bruise as well. seems i was a little careless today.” he then chuckles – at himself or you, you’re not sure.

you remark, “you? careless? that hardly goes together.”

your master lets you know that he’s put on his sleeves, so you step away, eyes still closed.

immediately, he hums with obvious disapproval. “hm? why are you backing away?”

you sputter, “m-master jing yuan, i should not be here! if you could just – i don’t know – turn around or something, i can –“

“i have turned around.”

you sigh in relief, happy that he’s obedient for once. your master is often relentless in his teasing and tricks, and you’re grateful that he’s granting you mercy in this moment. so you open your eyes, ready to find your way to the door –

your master is standing dangerously close, so that you’re eye-to-eye with him. from this view, you can also see that his chest is barely covered, knot slowly slipping undone.

“master!” you gasp. the proximity, the surprise, the challenging look in his eyes – they’re all driving you mad.

he clears his throat. “jing yuan.”

“master jing yuan.”

“jing yuan.”

“oh, for aeons’ sake, jing yuan! you’re not wearing your robe properly!”

jing yuan gloats. he then says in a low, low whisper, “my hands have cramped up. can you do it for me instead?” he speaks directly into your ears, and you want to scream.

shaking, you stretch out your trembling hands and take the ends of the belt. you can feel jing yuan’s hot breaths fanning your cheek, and you can even smell the faint trace of lavender from the bath bomb. your fingers are too clumsy, though, and you fail multiple times in properly tying the belt. after a few more fruitless attempts, jing yuan reaches down, softly grabbing your hands, and gently guides them.

“and… like this,” he breathes. even when you’ve secured the knot, though, he doesn’t let go.

don’t tread any closer. “j-jing yuan,” you whimper. “please…”

his hands inch up, gliding from your palms to your forearms to your elbows. he does it so slowly, so seductively, so intentionally. he tugs you impossibly a little closer, and now you can feel the heat of his chest through your uniform. then, jing yuan rests his head on your shoulders, and his lips ghost the sensitive skin of your neck, causing you to shiver and shudder at the sensation. the two of you just stand there, him taking deep breaths, you holding yours.

finally, after a few minutes, jing yuan breaks the silence. “i can no longer employ you, my dearest.”

you feel faint. you’re never escaping the gossip now.

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hyuniemyunie · 25 days ago

Text

Instincts

experiencing..instincts! group edition!

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(Ф��Ф): gn!reader, all romantic, except tails.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

Behaviors: Silver fidgets a lot—his fingers twitch, his ears flick, and he sniffs things out of curiosity. He also has a tendency to hoard small objects he finds interesting, like a hedgehog stashing food.

Sounds: Soft little snuffling noises when he’s investigating something. When distressed, he makes a low, almost whining hum.

Mating Instincts: Silver is a nest-builder when in love. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first—he just starts organizing things in a way that makes a shared space feel comfortable and safe. He’s also extremely loyal—once he bonds with someone, it’s for life.

Silver hadn’t realized what he was doing until you pointed it out.

"Silver," you started, holding up a pile of blankets, pillows, and even some of your hoodies, "are you... nesting?"

He blinked, looking at the small fort he had unknowingly created in your living room. The blankets were carefully arranged, your clothes mixed in, and—oh, Chaos, he had done it again.

His ears flattened, and he let out a nervous little chitter. "Uh… maybe?"

You laughed, plopping into the pile. It was ridiculously comfortable. "This is adorable."

Silver hesitated, then sat beside you, fidgeting. "I—I guess I just feel better when things are… ours, y’know?"

Your heart melted. You leaned into him, and he made a soft little happy chuff.

"Then I guess we better make it extra cozy," you teased, pulling another blanket over the two of you. Silver practically purred.

Behaviors: Shadow is extremely quiet when he moves, almost like a predator stalking prey. He has a habit of going still and staring intently at things before acting, like a hunter calculating a strike. He also hates being touched unexpectedly—he'll jolt like a startled animal.

Sounds: When agitated, he makes low, almost growling sounds in his throat. It’s more subconscious than intentional. When comfortable, he lets out very soft clicking noises, almost like the hedgehog equivalent of a cat’s purring.

Mating Instincts: Hedgehogs court aggressively in the wild, with males chasing females for extended periods. Shadow isn’t that direct, but when interested in someone, he becomes relentless in keeping them near, challenging them (in battles, in conversation, in little ways). He’s not overly affectionate, but he guards fiercely, sticking close even in silence.

Shadow wasn’t good at expressing things.

But his instincts? They spoke for him.

You noticed it one night when you were walking together. He was silent as always, but his ears twitched constantly, flicking toward any sound that seemed off.

A car door slammed in the distance. He tensed, stepping slightly in front of you.

A group of people laughed loudly nearby. His hand brushed yours, as if making sure you were still close.

And then, when you stopped to sit on a ledge, he did something unexpected. He clicked.

It was a low, rhythmic sound—a subconscious noise, almost like a cat’s purr, but hedgehog-like.

"You’re comfortable," you realized aloud.

Shadow blinked, looking mildly offended at being called out. "…Hmph."

But when you rested against his shoulder, he let out another quiet click-click, leaning into you just enough to let you know—

You were safe.

Behaviors: Knuckles is deeply territorial. He doesn’t like people touching his things, and when stressed, he digs—whether it’s actual burrowing or just his fingers scratching at surfaces. He also huffs up when he feels threatened, standing taller and puffing out his chest.

Sounds: Low grumbles and deep, clicking sounds in his throat. If he’s truly angry, he makes a sharp, guttural bark, a warning.

Mating Instincts: Echidnas have strong nesting instincts, and Knuckles is no different. If he’s in love, he starts building something—making a safe place for his mate, reinforcing things, claiming space for them. He gets very protective, always staying close and glaring at anyone who gets too near.

Knuckles didn’t always realize when he was being territorial.

It wasn’t just about Angel Island. It was about you.

The first time you noticed was when someone got a little too close. Knuckles didn’t growl, didn’t shove them away—he simply stood taller, his chest puffing up slightly, eyes narrowed.

The second time, it was when you went off alone. You came back to find Knuckles pacing, his fingers scratching lightly at his palms—a telltale sign of stress.

"Where’d you go?" His voice was casual, but his ears were tilted forward, tense.

"Just a walk," you assured him. "I’m fine."

He exhaled hard. Then, without warning, he reached out—gripping your wrist, then your hand, then your forearm. Almost like he was making sure you were real.

Echidnas were territorial creatures. And right now?

Knuckles’ territory wasn’t just Angel Island.

It was you.

Behaviors: Bats use echolocation, and Rouge clicks her tongue when navigating dark areas or when she’s deep in thought. She also has a habit of hanging upside down when she’s truly relaxed, even sleeping that way.

Sounds: A mix of trills and soft chirps when amused or flirty. When she’s pissed, her voice gets lower, almost like a growl, but with a sharp edge—like a bat making a warning sound.

Mating Instincts: Bats are playful courters, and Rouge is no exception. She teases, flirts, and makes direct moves to gauge reactions. However, once she chooses someone, she sticks close—very close. Bats are social, and she thrives on being around her mate, touching them frequently (sometimes just to fluster them).

Rouge was relaxed in a way most people never saw. She hung upside down from a low-hanging beam, arms crossed, watching you with a lazy smirk.

"You’re staring," she teased.

You laughed. "You’re literally hanging upside down, Rouge."

She clicked her tongue—a playful, echolocating sound—before stretching her wings and flipping down gracefully, landing right in front of you. "And?"

"And it’s adorable," you admitted.

Rouge’s eyes gleamed. "Oh, honey, you’re so lucky I like you."

Then she leaned in, nuzzling your cheek in a way that was more animalistic than flirtatious. A bat’s way of scent-marking.

Your face burned. "Did you just—"

She grinned. "Maybe."

Rouge was always a flirt, but this? This felt different.

Like she wasn’t just playing around.

Like she had claimed you.

Behaviors: Sonic is incredibly twitchy and alert, like a real hedgehog. His ears flick toward sounds before his brain even registers them. He also has an odd habit of curling up when sleeping, tucking into himself almost like he's in a protective ball.

Sounds: He makes a lot of subtle chitters and snorts when comfortable. When annoyed or startled, he lets out sharp little huffs, like an irritated hedgehog.

Mating Instincts: Hedgehogs are solitary and very picky about mates, and Sonic is the same. He’s not one for settling down easily, and he needs someone who can keep up with his need for freedom. But once he chooses someone, he gets possessive in quiet ways—running his fingers along their arm, brushing against them frequently, staying very close even if he pretends it’s casual.

Sonic didn't like staying in one place for long.

But tonight—tonight was different.

You had fallen asleep outside, resting against a tree, and instead of speeding off, Sonic had stuck around. Guarding you.

Every little sound made his ears flick—crickets, rustling leaves, the distant hum of the city. He was still, unnaturally still for someone who was always in motion.

Then, you shifted in your sleep, unconsciously curling closer to him. His breath hitched. Instinct kicked in. He curled around you, arms resting lightly over your form, shielding you from the wind.

Hedgehogs were solitary by nature, but right now? Being curled up with you felt… right.

And so, for the first time in forever, Sonic stayed put.

Behaviors: Foxes are incredibly curious, and Tails is the same. He has a habit of tilting his head when thinking, just like a fox analyzing something. He also curls his tails around himself when he sleeps, using them for warmth.

Sounds: Yips, chatters, and soft whines. When truly excited, he makes little churring noises.

Instincts: Foxes are social and stick close to their chosen people. Tails is the same—if he considers you family, he follows you everywhere. He also has burrowing instincts, meaning he builds cozy, enclosed spaces where he feels safest.

Tails had a habit—one he didn’t even realize until you pointed it out. Every time you visited his workshop, he had a space just for you.

At first, it was subtle. A chair near his desk. A blanket draped over it. Then, a small storage box—filled with things you had left behind.

But today? Today you stepped inside and found an actual little corner set up, complete with a makeshift den.

A pile of cushions, a cozy blanket nest, and even a small table with snacks.

"Tails," you called, amused. "Are you… burrowing?"

He turned, ears perking. "Huh?"

You gestured at the den.

His twin tails flicked behind him. "Oh! I, uh…" He scratched his head. "Foxes burrow, y’know? I guess I just—thought you’d like it."

Your chest warmed.

You flopped into the nest, letting out a contented sigh. "You’re the best, Tails."

He beamed, his tails wagging just a little.

Maybe he was burrowing—but it wasn’t just for himself.

Behaviors: Amy’s movements are sudden and high-energy, just like a wild hedgehog startled into action. She has sharp reflexes and can go from sitting still to sprinting in a heartbeat. She also headbutts people playfully, something hedgehogs do when interacting.

Sounds: Quick little snorts when laughing, soft chittering noises when she’s really focused on something. When mad? A sharp huff.

Mating Instincts: Hedgehogs chase their mates, and Amy definitely has that energy. But once she truly falls in love, she calms down and becomes incredibly devoted. She has nesting instincts and starts making spaces feel like home when she’s serious about someone.

You had noticed something about Amy.

She wasn’t just physical with affection—she was instinctual about it.

It started small. A quick tap of her forehead against your shoulder when she was excited. A gentle nudge when she wanted attention.

Then one day, you were both sitting on the couch when, out of nowhere—

BOP.

Amy headbutted you.

Not hard—but enough to make you stare.

She pulled back, blinking. "What?"

"You just—headbutted me."

Amy grinned. "Yeah! Hedgehogs do that when they’re comfy with someone." She nudged you again—softer this time. "Means I like you."

Your heart fluttered, and you bumped your head against hers in return.

Amy beamed. "See? Now you’re learning."

And just like that, you had officially been claimed by a hedgehog.

#gender neutral reader #gn reader #gn!reader #shadow x you #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog #silver the hedgehog x reader #silver x reader #silver the hedgehog #knuckles x reader #knuckles the echidna #rouge the bat x reader #rouge the bat #rouge x reader #amy rose #amy x reader #amy rose x reader #tails miles prower

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charliemwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Post-nap warm up

(Edit: still not canon; sorry guys! This is more of an au to the au)

Content: Animal Injury (Non-Descriptive)

You wake up, as you do most days now, to two warm bodies sandwiching yours. Johnny on your left, practically curled around you with his big head on your chest, lightly snoring. On your right, with his body stretched along yours and chin on your head, is Ghost.

You had originally settled on Phantom, but in the course of calling him silly nicknames, you realized he responds to “Ghost” better.

You yawn, stretch as carefully as you can. Both dogs groan and huff. Johnny tries to snuggle in harder, while Ghost sits up with a drawn out sigh.

“Cmon, big baby,” you coo at Johnny’s sad eyes, smoothing your thumb in the silky fur between them, “it’s time to get up.”

He relents only when Ghost shoves his nose under Johnny’s chin and starts nudging him up. You chuckle as Johnny goes out of his way to sneeze on him, earning him a grumble. They two of them shake off while you sit up and stretch, adjusting your skewed tank top to hide your breasts.

The boys follow you into the bathroom for your morning pee, then into the kitchen while Johnny starts chugging from the water bowl while Ghost stations himself next to one of the cabinets, watching you futz with the coffeemaker.

You drop scratches on his head every time you pass, smiling a bit when he licks your palm in return. As your coffee in brewing, you pause to kneel in front of him, dropping kisses all over his face.

“You’ve been doing so well, honey bun,” you murmur, laying your cheek on his head. “I’m so proud. Such a good boy.”

He licks your neck - the only part of you he can reach without dislodging you. For as big and rough as he can be (especially with Johnny) Ghost has been oddly gentle with you since the beginning.

Oh, sure. He can be loud and grumbly - even showed you his teeth once. But he’s never snapped at you, knocked you over, or even really stepped on you while snuggling in. It’s incredibly endearing and you’re sure to encourage him every chance you get.

“I love you, ghost,” you croon as you pull away.

His ears go forward, then back, then forward again. You grin, drop one last kiss on his nose.

“I do,” you continue laughing, “you’re my big shy baby and I love you.”

He huffs. Johnny comes in then, barrels right into you with tail wagging, whining as he nuzzles up under your chin.

“I love you too, John Bon,” you chuckle, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. “My precious snuggle bug.”

He makes a little “ruff” noise that you like to imagine is agreement. You give him one last kiss as well before standing to make your coffee.

They pile onto the couch with you for morning shows, then follow you around the house as you do chores. Around midday you make yourself a little lunch and then say the magic words.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

Johnny is instantly bouncing and barking, causing a fuss. Ghost wags, plumed tail sweeping conservatively side to side. You have to wrestle Johnny into his harness, muttering at him under your breath the entire way.

Ghost isn’t much better. Getting him accustomed to the harness has been a work in progress. Apparently he’s not food or play motivated, so training him to even tolerate it has been a challenge. The first two or three times you nearly had to chase him down (thought you were going to get bit one or twice) and even needed Johnny to help.

It’s been better lately, though - even if you have to negotiate him coming over to get strapped in. The black and silver gear is gorgeous on his cream colored fur and you’re sure to tell him that as you clip him in.

Once the boys are geared up, you finish dressing yourself and then open the back door. Ghost charges ahead as usual, ears forward and eyes sharp. Johnny splits off, weaving amongst the trees but returning to your side every couple minutes.

You hit the usual hiking trail with both boys, humming to yourself as they orbit around you. They never stray far, always checking your position and circling back to get a check-in scritch.

Maybe half an hour passes before both boys, currently flanking you, suddenly go alert. You pause, watching their bodies tense, ears forward, eyes focused somewhere ahead, mouths closed.

Ghost barks low and rough. And then they bolt.

You curse, knowing they wouldn’t leave your side for just anything, and hurry to follow.

When you finally catch up, your boys have cornered two men on separate sides of a clearing. They’re crouched low, tense, snarling and growling like thunder.

And there, cowering in the center of the clearing, is perhaps the biggest dog you’ve ever seen. You take in the big stick on the ground, the scattered rocks - nearly gag when you see a couple drops of blood.

Fury burns through you.

“What the hell did you do?!” you shout.

“Call your fuckin’ dogs off!” one of them shouts.

“Fuck off,” you snap in return, Ghost barking roughly with you.

You tug your phone from your pocket. When one of them sees, he starts towards you, only for Johnny to snap viciously at his hand, even drawing blood. He shouts and grabs at his hand, going pale. The other one starts yelling, but you ignore him, knowing your boys will keep them in line.

You dial the police, explain the situation and give your location. While you wait, you turn your attention to the lump of fur in the middle of the forest.

You creep slowly closer, positioning yourself where he can see you coming. The dog’s ears are pinned flat to their skull, mouth pulled tight in fear and pain, eyes squinted.

“Hi gorgeous,” you murmur. An answering whine breaks your heart. “Oh honey, I know. I’m sorry. It’s okay now. I’m here. We’ll keep you safe.”

You inch closer and closer. Stop whenever they twitch like they’re going to run. You dig into a pocket of your coat and extract a treat, gently toss it close to their nose. A twitch, a wet-eyed blink, and then they finally seem to come to life, carefully sniffing at your offering.

“Good baby,” you coo, “so brave.”

The police arrive quicker than you expect, and the dog curls up tight again while you explain the situation. Johnny and Ghost are reluctant to be called off, but a sharp word has them back at your side while the two men are arrested for suspected animal cruelty.

You assure them that you’ll take care of the injured dog - Johnny and Ghost sat like guards at your sides. Once it’s just you and the pups, you turn back to the poor injured dog.

“I know that was scary, sweetie. It’s okay now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The dog’s ears flick, listening but not trusting. You sigh softly, inch a bit closer.

“Johnny?” you call. “Come here, come see if you can help.”

Johnny turns, follows your pointing. He sniffs at the other dog, licks their ears and forehead, coaxing them out of their tight, terrified curl. You guide Johnny down to his stomach, putting them at similar levels.

On your other side, Ghost leans into your side, watching with those too-sharp, too-intelligent eyes.

As the injured dog slowly starts to unwind, you offer your hand, let them sniff carefully at your palm and wrist.

“There we go,” you soothe as a nervous tongue flicks over your skin. “You’re doing so well, darling.”

Johnny starts wiggling with excitement, nudging at the other dog and whining quietly. Ghost joins, nosing gently at the other dog’s side until they finally shift and start crawling closer to you.

You stare at the size of their paws - nearly bigger than your own palm. They scoot closer and closer until nearly in your lap, snout inching beneath your shirt to press against your stomach.

You smooth your hand over their head, waiting until you see their tail wagging slow and cautious.

“Good baby,” you whisper. “You wanna come home with me, pretty baby?”

Main Story | Ghost | Konig pt. 2

Masterlist

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #woof woof au #au of an au

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oddlydescriptive · 18 days ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Twelve

Sorry for the delay- I started editing this on Friday night when I teased a special weekend chapter and... well. It turned into 30 pages. (basically a 2-for-1, ya greedy fucks). Love you guys.

Series Masterlist

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You slam the door so hard it echoes- cracks- down the corridor, reverberating off concrete and tile like mortar blast. It punches through the silence in the lobby, makes your teeth ache.

Half of you expects your mom to hear it from across the goddamn ocean- call you up with that slow, Southern drawl and chew your ass out like you just kicked a church pew. “Now, baby, was that really necessary?”

Yeah. Yeah, it fucking was.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to snap his smug little neck with your bare fucking hands and thank God for the opportunity.

The world goes narrow- sharp-edged and colorless. You don’t register the turn, the hallway, the silver plate on the bathroom door. Just that it opens. That it locks behind you. That the sink hisses to life beneath your hand like it knows you need something, anything, to drown this out.

White noise. Cold tile. One square meter of space that doesn’t belong to him.

You slide down the wall like your bones have liquefied. Hit the ground hard. Stay there.

Your skin is burning. Your lungs hitch and shake with breath that won’t land right. Your hands are still fists- useless, twitching things at your sides.

But you don’t cry. You won’t cry.

Something tight coils at the base of your throat, molten and sharp and too dense to sob. It’s not sadness. Not exactly. It’s closer to rage- raw and acidic, animal-driven and pressing up against the inside of your chest like it wants out.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Press your palms to your temples.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

That was so unprofessional. So loud. So stupid. You threw a stack of documents across the goddamn boardroom. At the world champion. You shouted- shouted- like he’d keyed your car or slapped your mother. In front of Christian. In front of GP. In front of the team that’s been pulling you into this world piece by piece for months now.

You gave him everything he’s been clawing for.

You broke.

Your head thuds back against the wall. The tile is cool, but it doesn’t help. Your pulse still screams in your ears.

Goddamn you, Max Verstappen.

The air smells like corporate soap and sterilized metal. There’s a balled-up towel in the corner, just under the sink. Not something the cleaning ladies would catch unless they threw themselves on the floor of the bathroom like an overgrown child. Like you. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in white. You stare up at them, eyelids flickering. Count backward from ten. Then again. It doesn’t help.

You pull your knees to your chest. Hands flat on the floor. Focus on the tile- cool, slick, clean. Everything you’re not.

Not anymore.

You’re probably fired.

The thought hits like a sucker punch. Of course you’re fired. You lost it. You walked out. You slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass. You screamed.

They have to fire you.

Because you were supposed to be above this. Better. Smarter. More composed. More polished. You were doing it. Threading the needle. Navigating every petty, simple-minded, middle-school bullshit trap he laid- every stolen document, every 3AM call, every twisted smile- with grace.

And then you broke. For what? One smug look? One pointed “thank you”? One final shove over the edge?

Your stomach twists. Your jaw locks. You breathe through your nose- hold- exhale. Again. Again. But the pressure doesn’t leave. Because you know the truth. You know it like scripture. He’s been trying to break you for weeks. And you let him win. You gave him that moment. Gift-wrapped and on a platter.

And he loved it. You saw it. That smile, slow and curling, like he’d just tasted something decadent. Like your rage was a long-awaited dessert. Like the punchline to a long, private joke. Like your fury wasn’t a meltdown, but a performance he’d been dying to see- front row, popcorn in hand. The glint in his eyes when you snapped- really snapped- like he’d been waiting for it, savoring it, and now, finally, he could relax.

It was delight. Pure, revolting delight.

As if your fury was the first honest thing you’d ever done. As if everything else- your work, your precision, your poise- had been a lie. But this? This meltdown? This was real enough to be worth something to him.

It boils your fucking bones. That you handed him that moment. That you gave him joy. Real joy. The kind that lit up his whole face like you'd handed him a second championship trophy and kissed it with your own damn mouth.

God, he reveled in it. Like your anger validated something for him. Like he'd won a private, personal war that only he was playing. And worse- he looked proud. Like he’d broken something that wasn’t meant to break. Like he’d pushed you, and he’d undone you, and now the universe had returned to its rightful fucking order.

You dig your nails into your palms. You feel the bite of it. The sting. But it’s nothing compared to the shame rippling under your skin. Not because you were wrong- but because he liked it. Because he won.

And you hate that he knows it.

You curl tighter, not broken, not crying. Just vibrating. Just hating.

Him. And maybe- just a little- yourself.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Silence.

The kind that hums. Heavy and humming, like something electrical is about to short. The kind that follows explosions- not shock, not awe, not the way it would for fireworks- but the skull-deep ring in your ears after a bomb goes off too close.

The papers are still settling. A few flutter to the floor in lazy spirals. One- an update on the dynamic braking for the upcoming RB19- skids in slow motion under the table, unread. Unacknowledged. The only sound is the soft shuffle of pages and the faint tick of the wall clock overhead.

Max leans back in his chair. Calm. Composed. Thrumming with something that feels suspiciously like triumph.

It’s not subtle. The way he stretches, arms loose over the back of the seat like a king at rest, watching the room from his perch. The slow, smug curl of his mouth. The faint glow in his eyes, like someone basking in the final, golden moments of a long-fought win.

Because that’s what this was. A win.

Weeks. Months, now, really. Pulling threads, pressing buttons, peeling back the armor one hairline crack at a time. And then finally- finally- you broke. Loud and bright and glorious. That rage, those words, the way your voice cracked at the end like something feral. Beautiful.

God, it was so fucking good.

"Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?" he announces, voice light. Not mocking. Not cold. Just… amused. As if your meltdown had been a curiosity. As if it were just one of those things- weather, traffic, women. As if he’s already decided how this’ll be remembered.

No one moves.

No one answers.

No one even looks at him. Nothing. Not even a cough. Not even a shift of weight.

Max shifts in his chair and glances toward GP first, expecting- what? A smirk? A shake of the head? Something that says good show, mate, or even just well, that happened.

But GP doesn’t look up.

He’s watching his pen roll slowly between his fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, and he’s not sure if letting it drop would be louder than speaking. His expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t lift. He just sits there, quiet and still, like maybe if he doesn’t move, he won’t have to say anything at all.

Max swallows. The thrill of the moment sours, just a little.

Across the table, Alessandro finally moves. Straightens. Collects his laptop with deliberate care- no rush, no flair, just control. Measured. His jaw flexes once as he slides his chair back, eyes flicking to Christian like he’s waiting for a green light he’s not sure will come. Ollie, his assistant developer, mirrors the movement a second later, snapping his tablet closed and stacking it neatly on top of his notes. Neither of them say a word. But the tension between their shoulders says plenty.

Max turns toward Christian now. Stone. Cold. Silent. His face gives away nothing. Not judgment. Not approval. Not strategy. Just... stillness.

Max holds his stare for a beat too long. Christian’s eyes don’t leave Max’s.

"Right," Christian says finally. Flat. Terse. “Let’s break here.”

No thank you for your time. No we’ll circle back with notes. Just those four words, and then- movement. Fast. Sudden. Urgent.

Max has never seen a boardroom clear that fast. Not for a fire drill. Not for a real fire, and Max has been here for more than one meeting interrupted by carbon tempering on the factory floor gone sideways. It’s like someone pulled the pin on a grenade and everyone’s racing to get out before it detonates.

And then- nothing.

Just him.

And Christian.

Still seated.

Still staring.

Max clocks it too late. That Christian didn’t stand when everyone else did. That he’s still sitting upright, still watching, still unmoved in that unblinking, strategic way that makes Max feel fifteen years old again.

Max shifts, just slightly, lowering his arms. The silence no longer feels like satisfaction. It feels like delay. Like coiling wire.

Christian doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks at him for a long, unreadable moment. Then, slowly, he closes the folder in front of him and rests his palms on the table. Still no words. Just a long, flat stare.

Max’s smirk dulls by degrees.

“She’s liked,” Christian says finally. Quiet. Unemotional. “That’s all I’ll say.”

Max tilts his head, mouth tight. “Not my fault if she’s got a temper.”

Christian lifts a brow. “No, I suppose not.”

He says it like he’s agreeing. He’s not. Max doesn’t respond. The comment doesn't land the way Christian wants it to. He knows it won’t. Christian shifts slightly, his weight settling into one heel. “People like her. You know that.”

No reply.

“They see what she does. The hours. The work. How she treats people. They notice. I’ve noticed.”

Max drums his fingers once on the table before going still again. He still says nothing.

Christian exhales softly through his nose. It’s not a sigh- more like an effort to steady something before it slips. “You’re the lead driver.” he says carefully. “The car gets built around you. Everything runs through this team to elevate you.”

A pause. Not sharp. Just heavy. “But the way you treat people, Max… that runs through the team too.”

There’s a stillness in Max then- not just quiet. Not just silence. A kind of internal locking, like a mechanism freezing in place. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Something inside him goes... quiet. Not shame. Not guilt. Just a strange, suspended awareness.

“You don’t have to like her. No one’s asking you to.” His voice stays even. Not a warning. Not quite. Not an admonishment, either. Just… the truth. Quiet. Disappointed. He straightens his cuffs and adjusts the hem of his jacket. “I’ll see you at the dinner.”

He leaves without looking back.

And for a long time, Max doesn’t move.

The papers are still scattered on the floor. The silence still ringing.

And for all the satisfaction he thought he’d feel- does feel- there’s something else creeping in. Something heavier. Something he can’t name.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You splash water on your face. Once. Twice. Then again, with even less grace- fingers clawing up beneath your eyes like you can drag the heat out of your skin, rinse the tension from your spine, make the last ten minutes un-happen.

God.

Goddamnit.

You grip the edge of the sink, lean your weight into it like the porcelain might anchor you to something solid. Your reflection is wild-eyed. Flushed. Not broken, but barely stitched together.

But the shame is blooming now, heavy and sour and impossible to scrub clean. You can feel it between your ribs, in the back of your throat. Guilt curling in like rot.

You yelled at him. You screamed in a room full of senior engineers, at Max fucking Verstappen. You threw something. For Christ’s sake. What were you trying to do- make a statement? Burn the building down?

And now?

You don’t even know if you still have a job.

They have to fire you. They have to. You can’t lose it like that- not in this world. Not in his world. You’re replaceable. A factory cog in a Red Bull machine, and you just slammed your wrench through the gears.

The sick part is, you’re not even sorry. Not for the words. Not for the volume. Not even for the paper. But your rage doesn’t matter nearly as much as the consequences do.

Your mouth is dry. Your stomach lurches. You press your forehead to the mirror.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

And then it starts to curdle.

That slow, sinking rot of understanding what this outburst might’ve cost you. Not just the job. Not just the data that you’ve poured your guts into for months. But the seat. The one that seemed so close you could taste it. All the quiet coffees. The after-hours sim sessions. The polite nods from Christian when you handed him something useful. The tiny, silent acknowledgements from people here who actually fucking matter. The games you’ve played, the press you’ve strategized, the sponsors you’ve charmed. The years.

The Dale Coyne years. The cardboard trailers. The junior days where you changed your own tires in a Target parking lot. The money you didn’t have and the races you ran anyway- the tense kitchen table conversations as your talent outgrew your funding. The hope you carried through circuits that weren’t built for you, that never invited you in.

The suffering you endured. The opportunities you chased. And the ones you ran from.

Texas.

You don’t even have to say the word. It’s just there. The shadow of it. The knowing. The series that built you, that made you- that taught you that you were made of something real, something worthy. Your memory of it, blood-stained and cracked and wrong now. A place that once held pride and now feels like a goddamn ghost town in your head. Not safe. Not sacred. Just another haunted headstone in the graveyard of your career.

And then there’s everything else. The pieces of you you’ve handed away just to make it work.

The milestones missed. The birthdays. The bachelorette parties you should’ve been planning. You skipped your own fucking graduation. The baby showers. The weddings. The ordinary little things you traded for late flights and earlier mornings, for jetlag and bleachers and unfamiliar beds. The every-other-Thursday extended family dinners you haven’t sat at in years.

All of it. All of it, for this.

And now it’s teetering. Held in the balance by a single moment of rage. Two minutes that might’ve undone a decade of persistence. Two minutes that might have been your final act.

You breathe. Then again. One more. Just to make sure you still can.

And you turn the handle.

The hallway is empty- mercifully.

You ease the door shut behind you like it might detonate, step out into the corridor with the slow, measured quiet of someone trying not to make a ripple. Head down. Shoulders rounded. If you can just get back to your room, your desk, the SIM bay- anywhere neutral- you’ll be fine. You’ll regroup. Pretend none of it happened. Get ahead of the apology, maybe. Grovel, if necessary. Resign with dignity, if that’s all there is left to do.

You cross the threshold into the lobby, and-

Shit.

It’s not empty.

Not loud, not bustling. Just… not empty.

A handful of people hover near the front desk. Lanyards, tailored jackets, polite chatter. Nicole stands with a clipboard, mid-sentence. You know the type. Early sponsor arrivals. Suits and polished shoes and sticks up asses that everyone pretends aren’t there. You don’t know any of them personally, but you’ve seen enough pictures and seat-sharing charts to clock who’s who, which brand signs which check, whose opinions matter.

And unfortunately, your movement draws the room. It’s just the way your sneakers hit the tile. Just the shift of motion across the open floor. Just the way their heads turn- curious, expectant. You feel it before you see it. That tightening of atmosphere. That subtle pause.

You don’t turn back. You can’t. That would only make it worse, more awkward, less professional. You just straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Smooth your expression into something clean, presentable, safe.

You have no idea what you look like. Not really.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs. Your ears are ringing- not loud, just a faint high whistle, like you left part of yourself in the bathroom and forgot to close the door behind you.

You feel composed, mostly. Maybe. Or maybe you’re deranged. You have no read on yourself.

And isn’t that terrifying?

Maybe your hair’s a mess. Maybe your pupils are blown wide, your face blotchy, your voice still ragged from yelling at a two-time world champion like you were trying to exorcise a demon from the building. Maybe your hands are still shaking. Are they? You sneak a glance down. No. Still. Steady. But your fingers feel foreign. Untrustworthy. Too long. Too visible.

Are they looking at your face or your hands? Are they smiling because they’re happy to see you or because they know? Can they tell? Can they see the imprint of it on your skin?

That ten minutes ago, you screamed until your throat burned, until your hands were fists and your words were a weapon and your whole body was a fire alarm no one knew how to turn off?

Do they feel it?

Do they know you just launched an all-out war in the boardroom down the hall and slammed the door like you wanted God to hear it?

You don’t know. You can’t tell. It’s like your internal monitor has gone dark- no feedback, no gauges. Just blank space and static. You’re flying blind.

You only know this: they’re looking. So you move. So you do what you’ve always done. So you reach for the mask. You smile- small, polite, just wide enough to read as welcoming. “Hi,” you say as you cross the floor. “Welcome to Milton Keynes.” Your voice is steady. Pleasant. Even warm.

It doesn’t matter that your lungs are still raw or that your pulse hasn’t steadied. It doesn’t matter that you’re not sure if you’re about to black out or burst into flames.

You wear the lie beautifully.

And God, you hope it holds.

You know most of them by sight before you even reach them- can clock who belongs to who just by cut and posture.

TAG Heuer. All men. Easy, professional. Tailoring so precise it feels effortless. The kind of fashion that whispers money instead of shouting it. Their watches glint under the fluorescents, wrists crossed over phones they don’t look at. They’re already calculating Q4 impressions, mentally tallying every pixel their logo earned in Japan.

You greet Jean-Claude and his associates with a flurry of crisp handshakes and the appropriate warmth- measured enough to say I’m a professional, yet friendly enough to convey your (genuine, truly) gratitude for funding your paycheck.

Viaplay. Three of them. Two men in sport coats and a woman holding a compact video rig like it’s an extension of her spine. Their outfits are sharp but not intimidating- marketing dressed up for dinner. You shake again, but one glance at their body language, the restless scan of the room, and it’s obvious who they’re here to see. Their eyes ping around like radar, hungry for Max.

You land on Oracle last, lingering toward the tail end of the little group. Two women, one man. Business formal, down to the half-step sync of their polished shoes. Authority wrapped in quiet, clinical elegance. They don’t fidget. They don’t preen. They absorb.

One of the women catches your eye.

Not because she’s warm. Not because she seems engaged.

Because she doesn’t.

Tall. Dark hair, lopped at the shoulders and styled softly, not a strand out of place. Late middle-aged, maybe older, even, but not tired by it- there’s something composed about her, sharply preserved in a way only money can be, like time only touches her when and how she permits it. Her posture is immaculate. Her suit, black and impeccably cut, looks like it cost more than your first kart.

She isn’t smiling.

Her expression is neutral, but you don’t mistake it for approachability or warmth. It reads like a closed door. Not cold, not unkind- just firmly locked. Eyes that take everything in and offer nothing back.

The other two Oracle reps hover slightly behind her. Their posture defers to hers in subtle ways. You catch it- the way they glance at her before speaking, before laughing. Deference, not camaraderie. You take that in.

And then you catch something else: she’s bored. Just a flicker- eyes drifting, a slow blink, that faint, glassy gleam of someone cataloging and dismissing everything around her. Not impatient. Just uninvested.

She wasn’t expecting to be here, you realize. Or maybe she was expecting more.

Your spine straightens. You don’t need to see any more- this woman doesn’t need to speak to be the most powerful person in the room. You don’t know her.

And that’s a problem.

The Oracle rep you expected- Ariel- isn’t here. You don’t know every sponsor inside and out; you haven’t had that kind of access. But you keep a list. You wrote down the important names, the faces that matter, the ones that come back again and again. You pay attention.

And Ariel? Ariel was easy to remember, if only even by sheer exposure.

He seemed invested. Not just in Oracle’s five-year, $500 million headline sponsorship, but in Formula 1 itself. In Red Bull. In Max. It was all over in the press- he had done leadership panels side by side with Christian, splashed all over the RedBull media- though you hadn’t ever met him in person, the idea that he would willingly miss a sponsorship celebration, no matter how impromptu, no matter how lowkey? Not adding up.

This woman isn’t Ariel. And she doesn’t look impressed. Not by the trophy case. Not by the building. Not by any of this.

You’re smiling before you realize you’ve moved. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted- not high, just enough to seem open. Present. Warm. You don’t extend your hand first; you wait, subtle and deliberate.

You’re careful.

“Hi,” you say, and your name rolls off your tongue as you make your introductions- voice smooth, friendly without being forced. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”

No title. No credentials. Let them draw their own conclusions- maybe that’s better.

The woman doesn’t smile. But she takes your hand. Her grip is firm. Palm dry. Nails short. Her eyes flick up to yours and stay there, assessing. Not unfriendly. Not warm. Just… watching.

“Safra Catz,” she says. “CEO.”

Your pulse skips, skips again.

Oh.

Shit.

You just shook hands with the Safra Catz. Not some VP. Not a department head. The CEO of Oracle. As in- the head of the company whose name sits in front of Red Bull Racing on every press release, every graphic, every broadcast. As in- the reason the lights are on and the sim bay functions at all. She’s the one. The name on the top line. The signature on the check. She’s not just the most powerful person in this room.

She’s probably the most powerful person in every room.

And she didn’t come here to be dazzled. She didn’t even come here, it seems, to be convinced. That look isn’t interest.

It’s audit.

This unplanned pit stop was supposed to be a small detour for you. A quick acknowledgement before you scurried off to your room to lick your wounds and type up a groveling apology. You were prepared for a couple handshakes, maybe a selfie. Nicole had said Ariel and his usual crew were easy- always happy to be here, always talking brand metrics and sim tech like it was their birthday party.

Not this.

Not her.

You scramble internally. Where the fuck is Ariel?

Why wasn’t Christian here to greet someone like her?

Why is no one else handling this?

You scan the lobby- no team principal, no PR handlers, no corporate affairs in sight. Just Nicole, now stuck balancing lanyards and sign-in tablets with a look on her face like this is above my pay grade, and a small group of the most influential people you’ve ever been accidentally left alone with.

You glance toward the Oracle entourage. The other woman is already watching you, not unkindly, but with the measured detachment of someone who’s used to watching people either rise or choke under pressure.

Like she’s watching a test in real time.

Fuck.

You didn’t ask for this. You weren’t prepped for this. Either way, none of that matters. Because if Safra walks away unimpressed, uncharmed, uninvested in any way- you’ll be guilty by proximity. Christian will be furious. Even if you duck out right now and leave them with Nicole, this will still be your failure.

And you know it.

So you smile. Like your lungs aren’t locking up. Like your pulse isn’t battering your ribs. “Well,” you say, voice smooth, with just the right edge of charm, “it’s an honor to have you with us.” Safra doesn’t blink. Doesn’t nod. Just continues to observe. She didn’t come here to be celebrated.

She came to evaluate the worth of the empire her company is underwriting.

You didn’t ask to be responsible for this. But you are now. And like it or not? You have to stick the landing. You fall into step beside the Oracle group, eyes skimming your surroundings like you’ve done this a thousand times- because you have. You’ve given at least a few dozen tours to families and schoolchildren and college kids and tourists over the last ten weeks. You can do this half-asleep. And part of you still is.

Safra walks like someone with somewhere better to be. Which, fair. Her eyes aren’t on the glass cases, the car renders, or the gearboxes disassembled for aesthetic effect. She’s watching people. Systems. Details. You feel it.

The way she glances sideways when someone opens a staff door without knocking. The flick of her eyes when the TAG Heuer group laughs too loudly. This woman is constantly auditing.

And she has no fucking clue who you are.

“Are you one of the drivers?” she asks, finally.

It doesn’t sting. Not like it might have. If anything, it sparks a flicker of strange pride. She assumed up, not down. Probably because she’s spent her life being assumed down, and clawed her way to the very top regardless.

You give her a small smile. “Not quite. I’ve done two races- Zandvoort and Spa- when they needed a seat filled. Otherwise, I’m Red Bull’s development driver.”

Safra’s brow lifts. Subtle. Barely more than a twitch. But you clock it immediately.

You stay even. Steady. Not selling- just telling.

“I was the first woman to race in the modern F1 era. It was... a lot of things. Very loud. Very quiet. Kind of overwhelming and underwhelming all at once.”

Still no nod. No encouragement. But she doesn’t walk away either. You add, lightly, “Turns out breaking a barrier doesn’t make the room any easier to sit in.”

You keep going. Not to prove yourself. Not to impress her. Just- because she asked. “I do about eighty hours a week of simulation testing, component development, mechanical feedback- basically, I spend a lot of time breaking things so the race drivers don’t have to.”

That earns you something new. Not warmth, not amusement exactly- but the ghost of a smile. Tight, brief, private. You don’t miss it.

“Sounds glamorous,” Safra says dryly.

You laugh, light and honest.

“It’s not. But it’s important. The sport doesn’t move without data.”

That lands. You see it. You’ve spent your whole life learning how to read people who don’t want to be read, and her gaze flicks back to you, sharper now. More focused. Not friendly- but interested. The kind of interest that comes from seeing numbers instead of faces, efficiency instead of fluff. You’ve seen it before- in team principals, in engineers, in people who like things that make sense.

It’s the first time she’s really looked at you. Listened to you.

You follow her line of sight to the rest of the group, still crowded around the display wall of carbon fiber steering wheels like they’re made of gold. You can see her losing interest by the second.

So you pivot. Instinctively.

Because maybe this woman doesn’t care about trophies or tour stops or any of the surface-level bullshit.

But you know she cares about systems. Performance. Proof. And that? That’s something you can show her. You lean in, just enough to drop your voice beneath the noise.

“If you’d rather skip the rest,” you say, “I can show you the operations floor. Or the telemetry deck. Something a little less PR-polished.” She eyes you carefully. Calculating. Then nods.

You give Nicole a gentle look across the group and tilt your head. She nods, already in motion, herding the others toward the garage floor.

You fall into step with Safra.

This wasn’t the plan.

But something tells you this- this- might matter more than the next ten meetings combined.

You punch your badge into the security panel and push open the door to the simulator bay. The hum of active machinery wraps around you immediately- low, rhythmic, alive.

The sim rig is idle, sleek in its half-asleep state, wall monitors still lit with telemetry screens cycling data from Austin and Japan. It has a presence- something that feels like effort. Like getting shit done. Like every night you’ve ever spent here, racing ghosts in the dark.

Safra steps in behind you, heels clicking on the polished floor. You catch the slight narrowing of her eyes as she takes in the space- not just curious, but appraising. Measuring return on investment, probably.

“I figured you might be tired of carbon fiber trophies and inspirational quotes on the walls,” you say lightly, motioning toward the rig. “This is where the actual magic happens.”

She says nothing, but steps closer.

You gesture to the array of monitors. “What you’re looking at isn’t just driving- it’s system load calculations, fuel burn curves, mechanical feedback modeling, downforce variation-.” You pause. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Safra doesn’t wave you off. Doesn’t look confused, either.

You pivot.

“This is where I spend most of my time. Hundreds of laps per week. We simulate races, new parts, failures, changes in grip level due to weather, track resurfacing, you name it.” You reach for the nearest monitor, tapping through the overlays. “Every data point here? Is transmitted, stored, calculated, and modeled with software running on Oracle architecture. Fast enough to make real-time decisions. To adjust strategy on the fly. To win.”

Now you glance at her. Not selling. Just saying.

“You’re not just a logo on the side of the car. Your infrastructure is what makes all this possible.”

Safra folds her arms. Her expression is unreadable. But she’s looking at the screens now, not at you. And there’s a flicker behind her eyes that tells you she’s seeing it. The scale. The potential. The impact.

And maybe- just maybe- why it’s worth the money. Hopefully.

“Red Bull is one of the best in the paddock at data synthesis in real time, even across the world.” you add. “The cars generate over a gigabyte of data each, every single lap. Mexico City, Qatar, Japan- you name it- to Milton Keynes and back in fractions of seconds. Because of your stack.”

Silence.

Then, finally, Safra’s voice- measured, but interested. “And you run all of this?”

You blink. “Me and a handful of others man it most of the time- a very, very talented team of analysts and engineers. I drive it. We interpret it. We push it until it breaks. And then we help figure out how to make it stronger.”

She nods once. Slowly. Still thinking.

You don’t push her. Just let the silence do the work. And for the first time since this day detonated in your face like a warhead, you feel like you’ve done something right.

Something that might matter.

You glance at the clock above the telemetry rig. Time’s gotten away from you- not that you mind. But still.

“I should probably return you to your people,” you say lightly, straightening your posture, smoothing your hands down the front of your blazer. “Before someone accuses me of corporate kidnapping.”

Safra’s mouth twitches- half a smile, maybe- but she says nothing. Still watching you with that same quiet, deliberate focus. Then finally, a slight nod.

You press the door open and step back into the hallway, guiding her past a wall of carbon laying and suspension prototypes and under the massive archival photo of Seb’s 2013 title celebration. You walk slowly, not filling the space with idle commentary. You’ve done enough talking. It’s her turn, if she wants it.

She doesn’t. But she walks beside you, closer than before.

By the time you reach the lobby, the others are gathered again near the trophy case. Christian, present now, stands at the edge of the group- arms loose across his chest, expression polite but distracted. You can tell from the way he shifts on his feet that he’s been doing this for a while now. Schmoozing. Smiling. Managing.

Nicole catches sight of you and gives a small wave as you and Safra rejoin the others. “Apologies for the detour,” you murmur, gesturing subtly toward the Oracle group.

Christian’s eyes flick between you and the Oracle CEO, brow raising just slightly when he sees Safra’s demeanor- she’s less rigid now, more engaged, saying something low to one of her assistants with a look that’s at least a half degree warmer than when she stepped in the door.

You fade toward the periphery- just another shadow in the margins, planning your quiet exit- when Christian excuses himself from the sponsors. You brace yourself for the worst.

He approaches at a diagonal, shoes silent on the polished floor, and stops just beside you- far enough not to be conspicuous, close enough that you can feel the weight of his attention. His eyes flick briefly back to the small gathering of sponsors before settling on you.

“What was the deal with Safra?” he asks, voice low. Even. “Looked like you two went a little off-script.”

You don’t flinch. “She didn’t seem particularly thrilled,” you say honestly. “Wasn’t really engaging with the standard tour. I showed her the sim rig.”

Christian lifts a brow. Just one. “She’s Oracle’s CEO.”

“Yeah. I figured that out when she introduced herself,” you murmur. “I didn’t know she’d be here. I didn’t plan on getting involved with the sponsors at all, honestly. I would’ve prepped differently.”

He hums. Neutral. You go on, more out of duty than defense.

“I wasn’t trying to jump rank. But I wasn’t going to make her trail around the factory bored out of her mind while we showed off keychains and pit guns either. You weren’t in the lobby. Nicole was doing her best. I made a call.”

Christian gives a single, barely-there nod. “I was a little tied up,” he says, dry. Then, after a beat too long- long enough to make your stomach twist, long enough to know it’s coming- he adds, “You can’t yell at the team’s lead driver.”

The pause lingers like a second slap. Not loud, not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. Company policy wrapped in a paper cut. You nod before he can say anything else, because of course. Of course you can’t. Quiet. Accepting. “I know.”

Your eyes drift toward the front door. Somewhere between the glass and the asphalt outside, and your entire body deflates- just slightly. Like a breath you’ve been holding since the moment you slammed that boardroom door is finally, reluctantly, slipping out.

This is it. The moment.

You’ve known it was coming since the second you screamed in his face. Since the papers hit the wall. Since the silence hit harder than any shouted consequence.

You’re not naïve. You work in Formula 1. Reputations are everything, and yours just shattered in front of the most powerful people in the building. What else is there to say?

“If you’d be willing to let me resign,” you say softly, “instead of firing me… I’d appreciate that.”

Christian’s head lifts sharply. His brow twitches, jaw tightening- not in confusion, but something closer to disbelief. Like you’ve insulted him. He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

You don’t.

His sigh is sharp. Not annoyed- disappointed. Like you’ve just said something too ridiculous to warrant a response, but he knows he has to give one anyway. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, looks off toward the glass doors for a moment, then back. “Go get ready,” he says. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

Then he turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back.

And for the first time in hours, you realize how heavy your shoes feel.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

It’s a lot.

You know it’s a lot. The hat alone says as much- wide-brimmed, sharply creased, and unapologetically western, casting a deliberate shadow over your lashes as you linger just outside the reception room. It’s been a year, maybe more, since you wore it last, and it’s almost disorienting to have it on again. Like picking up an old weapon- familiar, but heavier than you remember.

You catch your reflection in the glass of the door and nearly laugh. God. You look like the world’s most glamorous gunslinger. And the thought hits- maybe it’s too much. Too bold. Too pointed. The choice to walk into this room full of European billionaires and motorsport royalty looking like you just stepped off a stagecoach instead of out of a simulator.

This is not subtle. Not even a little bit. Not the makeup, soft though it is. Not the way your strip lashes fan up beneath the hat brim. Not the way your cheekbones catch the light every time you tilt your head just so. Not the suit- jet black, structured within an inch of its life, tailored to fit like a challenge. Sharp at the shoulders. Cinched at the waist. The kind of thing that doesn’t just enter a room, but runs it.

And definitely not the crisp fold of paper in the inner pocket of your jacket.

You pause, letting the moment stretch, just enough to wonder.

But then you remember standing in front of the mirror earlier- holding the hat in both hands, like it was more sacred object than accessory. Thought of your mom. Of the way she’d straightened your first real hat with careful fingers and said, in that matter-of-fact drawl that didn’t leave her mouth even after two-and-a-half decades in Washington, “All good business happens under a 40X.”

And yeah. It’s a lot.

But it’s also perfect.

Because if you’re going down tonight- if this whole thing has already unraveled and you’re just here for the slow death of whatever’s left of your contract- then you’ll do it standing tall, dressed like the exact kind of woman who cannot be shaken. Not by a team. Not by a tantrum. Not by a boy-king with a god complex and a talent for workplace harassment.

You roll your shoulders once, adjusting the weight of the hat, the tension in your chest, the pulse in your throat, and let the air around you settle. The party’s already started- laughter and clinking glasses spilling through the narrow gap in the door. There are at least five dozen people inside. Sponsors, both the tour group and new arrivals. Executives. Team brass. The ones who write contracts and cut checks and carry influence in the way they cross a room.

You tip the brim of your hat up just slightly, so it’s just a little more out of the way of your eyes when you look up at the men in the room. Not for them.

For you.

And then you step in and- no, it doesn’t go silent. The music doesn’t cut. The champagne flutes don’t freeze mid-air. But it’s an arrival.

You feel it in the subtle shift of weight. A few eyes flick up. A couple of murmurs near the bar. Heads tilt. Not many people know who you are. That’s fine. That’s perfect. Let them wonder. Let them remember the girl in the cowboy hat and the suit sharp enough to cut diamonds. Attention isn’t the enemy.

Forgettable is.

You make it five steps inside before Alessandro materializes at your elbow like he’s been lying in wait. “Dio mio,” he says under his breath, eyes sweeping over you like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. “You clean up well. I thought the hat was a myth.”

You huff a laugh. “Told you the accent’s not all show.”

He leans in like he’s about to make a joke, but instead just gives your arm a quick squeeze and steers you toward a tall cocktail table surrounded by a loose ring of engineers- some you know, some you’ve only ever nodded at in passing. A few you’ve seen presenting in meetings you weren’t important enough to speak in.

And then- oh.

You see him.

You blink. You must be wrong. But no. No, you’re not.

Adrian Newey.

Standing right there at the edge of the table like he’s just another guy at a company happy hour. Which, technically, he is. But to you? To anyone with even half a liter of race fuel in their bloodstream?

He’s not a man. He’s a blueprint. A myth. A god among Formula One designers, the spine of generations of world champions. You’ve seen him before, sure, usually just as a shape across the factory or a presence behind tinted glass in briefing rooms. The kind of sighting that makes you go quiet. Makes you shift to the wall and pretend you’re part of the architecture. You don’t talk to Adrian Newey.

Except he’s talking to you.

“Oh,” he says lightly, “so this is the one responsible for those lovely telemetry spreads I’ve been seeing.”

Your brain blanks. Fully. Absolutely. Utterly blanks. Your name is gone. Language is gone. Alessandro glances over at you, clearly waiting for you to say something.

“I- uh- ” You swallow. Smile. “I’m the one in the sim, yes. The engineering team is incredible, but- uh. Yes. That’s my data.”

“Very consistent,” Adrian says, almost offhand, like he’s reciting something obvious. “You know when to drive for data, not just pace. Makes setup work far easier when the driver’s not introducing variables. Not many get that right.” You blink. Twice. Three times.

Alessandro beams. “Careful,” he says to Adrian, teasing lightly. “You’re going to make her explode.”

You don’t say anything more. You can’t. Your vocal cords have packed a bag and left your body entirely. But you nod- humbly, you hope- and hold his gaze just long enough to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

You're going to have to journal about this later. Probably frame the quote.

Alessandro lets out a quiet snort, like he’s watching someone forget how to operate their own body, and leans in just enough to nudge your elbow. “Okay, superstar,” he murmurs, grinning, “before you pass out, come back over here and stand near the mortals.”

He tugs you a half-step back, just enough to pull you out of Adrian’s direct blast radius and back into a safer orbit- one where your heart rate might settle into something that doesn’t resemble cardiac arrest. You're still blinking. Still wordless. Still stunned stupid by an aging man with hair loss and a soft voice telling you that your pedal work makes his life easier.

Adrian Newey. Adrian fucking Newey liked your numbers.

You look at Alessandro like he’s just told you you’ve been accepted into NASA. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, like you’re trying not to squeal like a teenage girl at a concert. It’s ridiculous, it’s embarrassing, it’s fully out of character, and Alessandro is absolutely eating it up.

“Should I get you a chair?” he teases under his breath. “Some water? A paper bag to breathe into?”

He’s still talking, gently grounding you with small talk about sim setups and diff tuning and the godawful new telemetry dashboard you’ve both been battling for weeks- but you barely hear it.

Because you’re still glowing.

And that’s when a hand claps down on your shoulder- solid, unmistakable.

“Ah,” Jos says, chipper as anything, like he’s been combing the party for you all night, “there you are.”

You manage to blink up at him from under your hat, nodding like your brain’s still rebooting from some divine motorsport-induced trauma. Because it is. You’re still barely breathing, still hearing the words very consistent echo somewhere behind your eyes like a celestial bell toll.

Jos glances between you and Alessandro, eyebrows raised slightly at your expression- wide-eyed, mouth half-open, like someone just whispered the secrets of the universe into your ear. “You alright?” he asks, only half-joking.

Alessandro huffs a laugh. “Adrian just complimented her sim work.”

Jos’s face lights up instantly. “Ah!” he says, delighted. “Well, that explains it.” He gives you a conspiratorial little pat on the back, like you just won something and he was rooting for you all along. “Been doing well for yourself here, huh?”

You open your mouth to respond- thank him, downplay it, anything- but mostly just make a small, startled sound, still blinking in slow motion.

“Come,” he says, already turning. “Come with me.” There’s something mischievous in his voice- light and pleasant, sure, but layered with intention. Like he’s already five moves into a plan you haven’t even seen the board for yet.

You let him guide you- what else are you going to do? Say no to Jos Verstappen in a room like this? In your state? He’s already steering you with one hand on your back, talking like this was always the plan, like you’ve already agreed.

Alessandro chuckles behind you. “Get her out of here before Newey says anything else,” he calls. “She won’t survive it.”

You shoot him a helpless look over your shoulder, lips parted in half-protest, but Jos is already pulling you gently but firmly through the crowd, weaving between champagne flutes and tailored suits like a man on a mission.

You’re scrambling to catch up- not just physically, but mentally. What’s his angle? What’s the play? You try to read it in the curve of his shoulder, the bounce in his step, but Jos is spinning the game faster than you can track it.

His hand hovers just behind your back, light but directional, a shepherd’s nudge masked as polite guidance. He keeps you moving as he fires off questions, rapid and low, like you’re in a conversation and not, in fact, being subtly escorted across the reception floor like a prize calf.

“You clean up well,” he says, the edges of his grin smooth with mischief. “Hat’s a little much, but it’s good to know where you come from, no?” You smile- tight, polite. It’s not the time to tell him the hat feels like it might be the only thing holding you together. Not when your heels are already clicking you into danger.

“Haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he continues. “Helmut was spinning circles after that press stunt. How’s the fallout been?”

You barely get out a half-word before he’s pivoting again.

“The sim work’s still going? Hm. Doesn’t breathe like a real car, does it? All numbers, no noise.” It’s disorienting, the pace. He doesn’t wait for answers, doesn’t need answers. He’s laying breadcrumbs, building a rhythm, and it’s not until your hand grazes the back of a chair that you realize-

He’s brought you to a table.

You blink. “Oh- ”

“Here, sit,” Jos says, gesturing toward the empty seat beside him like it’s already got your name stitched into the upholstery. “We’ve much to talk about.”

You hesitate, just for a beat. Just long enough to make a plan: you’ll sit, humor him, play the part for a few minutes- then slip away and return to your assigned seat with the dev team. No harm, no foul.

So you sit.

The second you do, Jos’s intensity dials down like someone turned the volume knob on a stereo. The quickfire rhythm of his questions softens into something slower, more deliberate. He leans back- just slightly- but his eyes stay on you, bright with interest, steady in their focus. Like now that you’re exactly where he wants you, he can afford to give you space to speak.

The shift is almost flattering.

His tone changes too- curious, but gentler. Thoughtful. “Tell me,” he says, as a glass of champagne is passed to him from a hovering waiter. Without missing a beat, he offers it to you instead, like it was always meant for your hand. “How are you finding it here, really?”

You take the glass- because what else can you do?- and stall with a sip. The bubbles pop sharp against your tongue. He’s still watching you, patient now, genuinely invested in the answer.

“It’s…” You start, searching for the shape of a sentence that won’t betray too much. “It’s been a challenge. A good one. I’ve learned a lot.”

Jos hums, not pushing, but inviting. “You always seemed sharp,” he says. “Not just talented. You’ve got a hunger to you. People notice that.” You blink. It’s hard to tell if that’s meant to be praise or preparation for something else entirely. “And the late hours? All that dev work. Must be grueling.”

You nod. “It is.”

“But you love it.”

A beat.

“I do.”

His smile returns, smaller this time. More knowing than before. He lets the silence stretch, like he wants you to keep going, and you do- without even realizing.

You talk longer than you meant to. About the sim rig. About the engineers. About how much more goes into every test run than most people ever see. Jos asks the kind of questions that make you think he might’ve been listening to your press conferences for years- things about tire degradation data, balance correction, the margin of error when mapping chassis behaviors. You find yourself answering in full, head tilting, hands gesturing softly like they used to when you were passionate and not exhausted.

It’s not until your champagne glass is almost empty that the realization clicks into place like a snapping trap.

Everyone’s finding their seats.

The room shifts, a ripple of chairs being pulled out, napkins lifted, coats shrugged off and draped behind backs. There’s a general migration- light conversation rising around you as sponsors and staff start to drift toward their dinner seats. Time to go.

You make a move to rise- one hand on the table, the other halfway to your seatback- but Jos casually places his fingers over your wrist, feather-light, not forceful. Just enough pressure to stall you in place.

“Stay,” he says, like it’s obvious. “We have an extra seat. Max didn’t bring a guest.”

You freeze.

Wait. If Jos is in one chair- and there’s someone, maybe a power unit partner, it doesn’t matter, already taking the seat to his left- then that means…

Fuck.

You turn your head just as another figure drops into the chair on your right. Your breath catches in your chest.

Max.

Verstappen.

Of course it’s him. Of course. He looks just as displeased to see you as you are to see him. Your eyes meet. And for the briefest, most painful second, there’s a moment of unspoken horror between you. You’re certain you and Max are seeing perfectly eye to eye- sharing the exact same thought. Neither of you says it, but it hangs there in the air, heavy and obvious:

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The first dig comes before the starter plates.

“Nice hat,” Max murmurs, just low enough that only you can hear it. You don’t react. Not visibly. It’s nothing. Technically. Nothing anyone else at the table could pick up on, let alone hear. The kind of commentary you’d need context to clock, familiarity to flinch from.

And you do flinch. Just once. Internally. But you don’t let it show.

The opening remarks begin. Christian takes the mic. A few lead engineers are named and thanked. Sergio stands at his table, Max stands at yours, waves, laughs, and they sit again- then the championship montage starts to play- thirty feet of screen lit up in Red Bull colors, with perfectly cut highlights of Max and Checo’s most dominant drives.

You take a sip of your drink. Max shifts next to you. “Think they got your sim footage in here somewhere?” he asks lightly. “Maybe in the bonus reel.”

You finally turn to him, one brow arched- dry as bone. “Doubt it,” you say. “But I think they used one of your radio tantrums from Singapore. The one where you threw your own setup under the bus? Flattering.”

Max huffs- just a little. You catch it, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, before he hides it behind his glass. You turn back to your drink. Sip. Let the warmth settle. Max doesn’t say anything else. Not right away.

And maybe that’s the strangest part.

No follow-up jab. No sideways comment. Just a little smirk and then silence, like your retort earned you a brief reprieve. You glance at him from the corner of your eye- just long enough to catch the shape of his profile in the soft event lighting. Still smug. Still infuriating. But… quieter now.

You don’t understand it.

Maybe he got what he wanted in that boardroom- maybe he’s finally bored of breaking you down. Or maybe he knows not to poke a live wire when it’s still humming.

Whatever it is, he lets you be. And you don’t know what to make of it. Not relief. Not really.

But the silence isn’t hostile. It doesn’t feel like the coil of something waiting to strike. It feels… lighter. Not good, not safe, but less. Like you’re not in active danger.

Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s the eyes. Maybe it’s the dinner that Max has started to tuck into with the gusto of a driver who’s been halfway to starving all season and has every right to indulge. Maybe it’s the fact that you threw a goddamn stack of papers at his head.

Or maybe it’s this.

The look he gave you when you snapped back- not wounded, not smug, but something more like surprise. Like he hadn’t expected you to hit back. Like maybe he liked it. Like maybe he didn’t.

But he hasn’t said another word since.

And for now- that’s enough.

Not a ceasefire. Not an apology. Just this. A moment where neither of you draws blood.

You let it be.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You excuse yourself the minute dessert is served. No speech. No pretense. Just a half-smile and something vague about needing air, a phone call, the bathroom- whatever lie will make people stop looking at you for five goddamn seconds.

You just need out.

Out of Max’s quiet smirks, the ones tossed like coins on a table- small, calculated, irritating in a way only you are tuned to hear. A muttered aside here, a passive little comment there. Nothing direct. Nothing anyone else would catch. But always right on time.

Out of the way he’s taken up more than his share of the air between you, sitting just wide enough that your elbow hovers awkwardly over your own lap. He hasn’t touched you. Not once. But he’s close enough that you know he could. Close enough that you keep retreating, angling your body subtly toward the opposite side of your chair.

Which would be fine. Except that side isn’t safe, either.

Because Jos is there. Warm. Charming. Utterly unescapable.

He’s been peppering you with gentle suggestions- that maybe you should ask Max to pass the wine, maybe you should tell Max about that sim update you’d mentioned earlier, maybe Max would enjoy hearing about your experience at Zandvoort.

You keep trying to give him your shoulder- to lean back, to get space- but every time you shift away, he shifts slightly closer. Not enough to be inappropriate. Not enough to call out. Just enough to make you feel it.

He asked you to scooch once. Smiling. “Just a bit,” he said, gesturing like he needed more room- his hand not quite touching the back of your chair. But moving left means moving closer to Max. And you do. Because it’s Jos. Because he’s been weirdly supportive. Because you don’t know what he wants.

And now you’re here. Trapped between both of them.

And then there are the sponsors. Still watching you.

Their attention polite, their interest performative- but you can feel it. The eyes. The weight. You’re the girl on the brochure. The surprise hire. The one with the headlines and the spotlight and the friendly smile that says, Yes, of course, I’ll entertain your half-informed question about aero development over canapés and fake laughter.

They keep looking at you like you’re a trained dog about to do a trick. Like you're a little animal that stood on its hind legs once and now everyone’s expecting a little spin. And you keep performing. Because it’s your job. Because it’s what you’ve trained for.

But god, you’re so tired of smiling.

It’s all too much.

You’ve got pressure on both sides- Max with his smugness, Jos with his relentless interest- and the whole goddamn room expecting you to shine on cue. So when the dessert plates hit the table- chocolate mousse, espresso cream, gold flakes glittering under the downlights- you stand.

Quietly. Deliberately. You don’t even touch your spoon. You smile at no one in particular. “Excuse me,” you say lightly, already halfway out of your seat. “I just need a breath of air.” And you go. Because if you sit there a second longer, you’re going to scream.

And you already did that once today.

You’re not sure you’ll come back from it a second time.

You take the first hallway that promises privacy, pushing through the fire door at the end. The air slaps your skin the second it opens- cool and wet, the kind of English autumn chill that isn’t cold enough to sting, just clingy enough to sink into your clothes.

It curls around your neck. Slips beneath your collar. Prickles against the places where your nerves are still misfiring. You step out fully, letting the door close behind you with a slow, weighted click.

Silence- almost.

Somewhere off to your left, across the street, a low rumble of passing traffic echoes between the buildings off campus. Tires hissing on damp asphalt. The distant, rhythmic buzz of a crosswalk signal.

Above you, one floodlight flickers once before settling back into its quiet glow, casting a pale cone of light over the narrow loading dock and catching the gentle swirl of mist that hangs just above the pavement.

You breathe in. Once. Twice. Fill your lungs with air that isn’t wine-soaked or perfume-sweetened or heavy with tension. It smells like rain and metal. Like the heat exhaust from a service vent and the faint mineral bite of concrete after dark.

A shiver rolls down your spine, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s grounding. Alive. Your pulse slows, just a little. Your jaw unlocks. Your shoulders ease away from your ears- muscles you hadn’t realized were clenched finally starting to let go.

You close your eyes for a second and lean against the smooth concrete wall. The texture scrapes gently against your suit jacket, catching on the stitching like a tether. You don’t mind.

The suit still holds. The hat still shadows your eyes. You are, technically, still composed.

But god, it’s a relief to be out here.

Out of the noise. Out of the spotlight. Out of the space between Max and Jos and the razor-sharp edges of polite corporate adoration.

No one’s watching now. No one’s asking. No one’s talking. Just the world as it is, as it should be- cool, quiet, and honest.

The quiet doesn’t last long.

The metal door swings open behind you with a low groan, then thuds shut again with the finality of a guillotine.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him before he speaks- the shift in air, the press of presence. Max. “Lovely,” he mutters, like it’s your fucking fault you were here first. You go rigid. Of course it’s him. Of course it is.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for the brick wall to hear.

The quiet stretches. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lingers a few steps behind like he might be reconsidering whatever idiotic idea brought him out here in the first place. The silence isn’t awkward, not exactly. It’s more like a wire stretched too tight- vibrating under the weight of a hundred unsaid things. Two dogs in a ring held back by the chains of diplomacy and wool suit-jackets.

You don't wait to find out what he wants. Your hand snaps out, grabbing the heavy door handle you just came through. You shove it- hard.

Locked. A mechanical thunk clatters through your bones. No movement.

You pull again, harder this time. Nothing. The reinforced security lock, active after hours. The same one that clicks into place at 8:00 p.m. sharp like the factory turns into a goddamn bank vault.

“Of course,” you breathe, letting the stiff brim of your hat tap lightly- once- against the cold, flaking paint of the door. “Of fucking course.”

Behind you, Max exhales, the kind of sharp, humorless breath that means he’s just realized it too. “You locked it?” he asks.

You round on him with a slow, exasperated turn of your head. You can’t be bothered to sugar your words. Not with him. Not right now. “Yeah, Max. I came out here just to lock us out on purpose.”

He doesn’t take the bait. Just glances at the door, then down at his own empty hands. “My badge is inside.” You look at him. Then past him. Then down the alley toward the street where the low hum of a passing car filters through the wet air.

“Well,” you say flatly, “I have mine. But it’s only going to work at the side entrance.”

“How far?” he asks, as if you’ve just announced you’re hiking to Brussels.

“Less far than the front. But you’re welcome to go that way.” You point into the darkness to the right, stretching open with the promise of a long walk around the building and muddy shoes.

You’re already walking in the opposite direction. The click of your heels sharp against the concrete, splashing slightly where water still clings in the dips and cracks. He falls into step beside you without being asked.

You don’t offer conversation. He doesn’t offer an apology.

The mist hangs low. Streetlights buzz faintly overhead, bathing everything in soft gold and flickering white. The metal of the railing along the path is cold beneath your fingertips when you trail your hand along it.

You’re exhausted. Not just physically- though every nerve ending in your body feels half-lit and fried- but emotionally. Every social performance, every inch of patience, every ounce of diplomacy has been wrung out and hung to dry.

You hear it before he says anything. Not words- just the quiet prelude. The shift of breath. The tightening of his jaw. The subtle, anticipatory silence like a thought winding itself up.

God.

You wish he wouldn’t. You hope he doesn’t. The sidewalk glistens beneath the amber glow of the streetlights. You focus on the scrape of your heels over the concrete. The rhythm of them. The anchor.

Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Don’t-

“It’s not because you’re a woman.”

You blink once. Twice. Keep walking. Your expression doesn’t move, but your heart stutters in confusion- like your brain missed a beat in the music.

What?

He clears his throat. “I’m not- ” He stops, tries again. “I’m not a misogynist. I wouldn’t treat you differently just because you’re a woman.”

You stop walking. Turn your head, just slightly. Look at him. Not up, not down. Just enough to check if he’s serious.

He is. Jesus Christ.

A laugh sputters out of you- just one, just a little breath of disbelief and exhaustion and stunned amusement all tangled together. You press your fingers to your temple.

Max shifts his weight, annoyed already, like you’re being difficult. “You said that- back in the meeting. That maybe it was because you were a woman.” He shrugs, sharp. “It’s not that. I just… I didn’t want you to think that.”

You blink. Still staring.

That’s it?

Not an apology. Not even an admission. Just a weird, fumbled clarification that he’s not a misogynist- just an asshole.

Your laugh slips out again before you can stop it. Harsh. Disbelieving. “Jesus Christ,” you say, mostly to the air. “Men are so fucking stupid.”

His mouth flattens. That unshakable frown you’ve seen a thousand times tightens across his face like a mask he doesn’t know how to take off.

“You’ve made my life hell for weeks,” you go on, gesturing vaguely toward the factory behind you, “and now, now, you want to make sure I don’t think you’re sexist? Like that’s the problem here? Like that’s the thing keeping me up at night?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Just leave me alone,” you finish, flat. Exhausted. “Please.”

And you mean it. You’re done. With this building. With him. With whatever bizarre campaign he’s been running to drive you out of your mind. You’re getting out- out of the sim rig, the back hallways, the stifling boardrooms, the tiny locker room you’ve practically lived in.

You shove your hand in the lining of your suit. Fuck this. Fuck all of it, honestly. You’re getting a seat. You’re getting on the grid. Or you’re getting the hell out of this fucking factory.

You’re getting gone.

You shake your head. It’s not even angry now. Just... tired.

“You really are a piece of work.”

The metal stairwell up ahead glints under the glow of the side door light. You pull your badge from your pocket, still warm from the heat of your suit. Slide it across the panel. A soft beep. A click.

The door unlatches. You pull it open, step aside, holding it for him like a hotel doorman. “After you, Verstappen. Not a misogynist- just a colossal asshole.”

You don’t wait to see if he responds. Just follow him through the door and brush past him, back towards the party. Max doesn’t follow you. You don’t look back to check.

Your fingers slip into the pocket of your jacket as you walk, the heavy weight of folded paper meeting your palm like an answer. You’d printed it weeks ago- on a whim, on a dare, on a breathless phone call with your mom when she told you, in no uncertain terms, you have to ask for what you want, honey, or they’ll forget to give it to you.

You’ve waited.

You’ve played the good soldier. The grateful one. The patient one.

No more.

It’s not a hate letter. Not a demand. Not desperate. Not some manifesto scribbled in the heat of a meltdown. A contract proposal. Clean. Direct. Ballsy. You typed it. You tweaked it. You edited it with your mom. You tweaked it some more. You printed it. And then you did nothing. Because you were being patient. Grateful. Professional. Because you still believed in the power of waiting your turn.

But if you’re being honest- that ended hours ago. Maybe weeks ago.

If the screaming match in the boardroom was the nail in your coffin, if they’re just letting you bleed out in the sim bay until you take the hint and walk-

Then fuck it.

The air feels different as you re-enter the reception. Softer, warmer. The plates have been cleared, wine glasses thinned to half-fills, laughter replaced by quieter conversations. Most of the sponsors have left, the ones who remain softened by drinks and dessert. The laughter is low now, the hour late enough that only the important people remain. You feel it instantly- that subtle pivot in the air when the social becomes strategic.

There.

Corner of the room.

Christian.

Helmut.

Adrian.

Talking like nothing in the world matters except whatever’s in front of them. Like drivers don’t scream down hallways and throw papers at walls.

You cross the room anyway. Not quickly. Not slow. Measured. The paper, wrapped in the silk lining of your suit and held close to your heart burns like it’s alive. You don’t have a plan. Just a pulse in your throat and a fuse already lit.

You stop in front of them and say nothing.

No small talk.

No lead-in.

You reach into your pocket and pull out the paper. No flourish. No explanation. Just the weight of it, deliberate, as you hold it in front of Helmut.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask. He takes it and tucks it into the inside of his jacket like he knew it was coming.

He doesn’t open it. You don’t tell him what’s in it. There’s no point. If this is already over, then you might as well end it on your own terms. If it’s not- well. It’s not.

You nod once. Turn on your heel. And walk out like you don’t have a care in the world as to how it turns out.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

Long long chapter- sorry it didn't get out over the weekend! I tried, but I had to do some serious backfilling and editing so it took a FAT minute, and I just wasn't going to divide it. Didn't feel right. As always- please please leave your comments- I read every single one- they mean the world to me. I have no idea the hours that I put into writing over the course of the ten months, but editing alone is 5-15 hours of labor per chapter. Your feedback makes it worth it.

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 fic #mv1 #mv33 #mv33 x reader

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fairyhaos · 4 months ago

Text

yeoubi. // TEASER

여우비 (yeo-u-bi) : noun. literally “fox rain” — when sunlight filters through rainfall, creating a golden shower.

PAIRING : vernon x f!reader

INFO : east asian historical fantasy(ish. i kinda made up my own mythology), fox demon!vernon, silver!vernon, immortal!witch!yn, fluff, magic, strangers to lovers

TEASER WORD COUNT : 1.1k (full fic ~15k)

FIC WARNINGS : blood mention, injuries, slight discrimination against yokai, cursing

SYNOPSIS : living as a magic, immortal healer in a rural, human mountain village means most of your existence has been rather peaceful. that is, until one cold winter when an injured yokai stumbles into your life; and though everyone else is terrified of him, you take him in, nurse him back to health, and show the others that some demons aren’t that scary after all. (...and maybe, just maybe, you end up falling for the pretty fox yokai too.)

NOTES : for the @camandemstudios winter with you collab! send an ask or reply down below to be put on the taglist, or sign up for the full collab taglist here <3

Some minutes later, as you’re sitting on a log on the path to catch your breath, Hansol comes back down the mountain to meet you, settling down by your side.

“It’s so quiet,” he whispers. The air around you is lit with a faint glow, courtesy of a visibility spell you conjured so you wouldn’t fall flat on your face as you walked. It makes Hansol’s face look golden as he smiles at you, eyes shining. “Everything is so quiet out here. I can hear the animals.”

You smile back, finding joy in how relaxed he looks. “Doesn’t that make it noisy?”

Hansol shakes his head, and then looks away from you, ears cocked to the side, listening. “No. This is like a familiar buzz of noise, so familiar that it becomes silent.” He looks back at you again, smiling. “Down in the village, it’s so noisy because of all the people, but up here, it’s all gone.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you say with a smile, and Hansol nods so quickly that you laugh, endeared. “I’m glad. You can go off for a bit, if you want, and I’ll wait for you here.”

Hansol beams. “Okay.”

And like that, he’s off, nothing more than a faint swish of a silver tail before he disappears once more.

He doesn’t come back to you for some time, not until the weak sunrise begins to peek its head above the horizon. You’re not too worried, though: somehow, you know that he will come back to you, though you can’t find ears nor tail of him while he’s gone.

It’s incredible how much you’ve come to trust and believe in Hansol, though he’s only been with you for several weeks. But even though he’s been so reserved, anxious and afraid at times, it’s clear how earnest and gentle he is, and something in your chest tightens and then relaxes with happiness whenever you see him smile. He’s just so—genuine, and you really like that about him.

There’s a rustle in the evergreen bushes to your left, and his silver head of hair pops out, golden eyes shining when he sees you.

“Hey,” you greet, the moment you see his face. “Are you gonna come over?”

Instantly, he stands up, hops over the bush and makes his way over to you. His footfalls are light, looking like he’s dancing over the snow before he settles next to you once more, looking like he never left your side.

“Hey,” he says. “There are so many rabbits in these mountains, you know? Like I’ve never seen so many rabbits gathered in one place before, because normally they get killed by hunters or there’s just not enough food in that area to sustain so many. It’s actually insane how many rabbits you have up here.” When you just smile, his eyes widen, ears pricking upright. “Oh, is it you? Do you do something to help them stay alive? With your magic and all that?”

Hansol then launches into a flurry of questions for you, so eager and animated that it surprises you a little, before melting your heart.

You’re no longer surrounding yourself with the visibility light, but Hansol is still glowing, looking so alive with cold-dusted cheeks, shining eyes, wind-fluffed hair and the frost dusting the tip of his nose, which must have accidentally happened when he’d gotten too excited and lost control of his magic.

Hansol’s positively lit up, now he’s surrounded by all this nature. He must’ve been so cooped up and nervous before, when he was just in your house, barely anything to do. Now he’s healed, and outside, and you can tell that being out of the house is where he’s meant to be.

“It’s not me,” you admit after Hansol’s finished conjuring up crazy theories. “Well, kind of. I messed around with the mountains about eighty years ago and did something by accident so we get a lot more winter flowers than normal. The rabbits love eating them, so we get a lot of them too.”

“Oh,” Hansol says, amazed. “That makes so much sense. I saw so many flowers. I thought that was a little bit weird, but I just chalked it up to Mother Nature having fun, or something.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I guess Mother Nature was having fun,” you say, gesturing to yourself, and Hansol grins too. His eyes crinkle as he does so, pearly white fully visible, and goodness, even his big, bright smile is as cute as he is. You’ve never seen him smile this widely before. It’s… pretty.

Even though he’s all warmed up to you now, even though it’s clear he trusts you, it’s obvious he’ll always be most at peace out here in the big, wide world.

His gaze slides away from yours, looking at something behind you, and he gasps.

“What is it?” You turn to look back, trying to find what had caught his eye, but Hansol doesn’t respond. He jumps up, diving into the bushes without a word.

A moment later he emerges, and in his hands is…

“A daffodil?” you say, amazed. “What’s this doing here? Spring is very, very far off.”

“I guess it’s because of you,” Hansol says, handing you the flower.

You accept it gratefully, tracing the edges of its buttery yellow petals, such a warm, golden colour in your hands, in stark contrast to the cold white of the snow around you. It’s so pretty, so pristine, and it’s amazing it managed to survive in the freezing winter temperatures. Must be due to your magic, like Hansol said.

“It looks like you,” Hansol says suddenly, and you look at him in surprise.

“Really? How?”

“You look like spring, to me,” he says. The frosted tip of his nose looks pink, as do his cheeks. A decidedly warmer, blushier pink than they’d looked before. “All warm and gold and pretty. Like the daffodil. And I…” He pauses, and then seems to change his mind, shutting his mouth and blinking at you like he wasn’t about to say anything else.

You smile, so endeared that you’re practically glowing with it. “Thank you,” you say, touched, and look back down at the daffodil in your hands before raising your eyes to the definitely-blushing yokai once more. “That’s so sweet.”

Hansol shrugs, a little bashful, before standing up abruptly.

“I’m gonna go find the rabbits again,” he says, and before you can even reply, he’s disappeared.

You laugh, breathing in the crisp air and then releasing it in a sigh, feeling warm all over despite the cold. You shake your head, fond. Hansol is just so…

Goodness. What are you going to do with him?

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revelboo · 2 months ago

Note

Happy Valentine's ~! Would you be able to maybe write a little valentine's scenario for Jazz or Prowl?

Valentine’s Scenario-Jazz

Jazz x Reader

• Hands stilling in the act of chopping carrots, you swallow a snort as you hear ‘Sexual Healing’ playing out in the driveway, Jazz cranking his speakers until the glass in the kitchen window is vibrating. Until you can feel the music humming in your bones. Someone’s in a mood tonight. Your mate summoning you. Setting the knife aside, you rinse your hands and open the back door, enjoying not being restricted by that cast anymore. “Someone’s going to call me in for a noise disturbance,” you call out.

• Transforming, he makes a show of looking around. Grinning because you don’t have any close neighbors. Door wings flaring, he pumps the music again hips swinging. Dancing and crooking a servo at you. “Maybe you better come make me stop then.” Sliding a hand down his chassis, hips undulating as he dances for you. “Or would you rather join me, kitten?” Thrusting idly he growls knowing you love that sound. Knowing what it does to you as your lips part.

• Shaking your head, you cross the yard. “Pretty sure my butt is still stained green from last time you talked me into letting you fuck me in the yard.” Even if it had been almost scandalous, rutting like animals under the stars, skin wet with dew. Almost worth the sniffles from the chill in the air the following day and having to pick leaves out of your hair and the dirt that had been up under your nails.

• “Want me to check for you, doll?” He growls, servos teasing with the seams around the plating hiding his spike. “Least I can do if you won’t dance with me.” Grinning when you cross the yard to him, laying a little hand in his and letting him carefully spin you. “There’s my kitten. So sweet.” You’re so damn lovely as you dance with him, following his lead. Face upturned so you’re silvered in moonlight as he intertwines his servos with your fingers. The sound of your laughter so pretty when he dips you. His little mate.

• “You’re lucky I love you, you goof,” you say when he keeps you bent back, smiling crookedly down at you as your heart seems to skip a beat. That smile everything to you, his laugh, his deep voice teasing and joking. And he pulls you back up, bending down to claim your mouth as you hook your arms around his neck. Let him grip your hips and lift you, your legs wrapping around his waist when the kiss becomes hungry and demanding. What’s a few more grass stains?

#transformers x reader #jazz x reader #tf jazz

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estellan0vella · 1 month ago

Text

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

WC: 17.7K

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

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re welcome, chef,”

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

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

“That shit looks gross.”

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

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

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

"What the fuck is that?”

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

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

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

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

“Basically, yeah.”

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

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

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

You dissolve into laughter, shaking your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chan considers this for a moment. “Yeah.”

You blink. “I agreed with you already!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chan hums. “Happy to help.”

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

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

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

Minho yawns. “You done?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho just stares at him.

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

“Go to therapy,” Minho says flatly.

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

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

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

Minho snorts again. “Jesus. Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are a weirdo,” Minho says.

“And yet you love me.”

Minho hums. “Unfortunately.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The volume goes up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jisung, however, is not relaxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho writes Domestic Sexy Helper = Green Flag.

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

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

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

Minho shrugs and adds Forearm Porn to the board.

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

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

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

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

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

Minho scribbles Touch Starved Bisexual on the board.

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

“Oh boy.”

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

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

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

Minho doesn’t disagree.

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

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

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

“You’re a lunatic.”

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

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

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

“You’re already a corny bitch.”

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

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

Jisung grins. “That’s my brand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what makes it worse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. Then nod once.

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

Felix sighs, already regretting everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho groans. “What now?”

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

“ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT,”

“I WILL BREAK HIS LEGS,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I WAS DOING DAMAGE CONTROL!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“THANK FUCK,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“NO FUCKING WAY,”

“MINHO!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a fucking hero,”

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

“Minho pisses on the patriarchy,"

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

“We really fucking did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jisung throws a pillow at him and keeps dreaming.

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

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

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

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

Jisung grins. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s fine. He’s fine. Until Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at Jisung. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

“FUCK! Get out!”

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

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

“NO. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.”

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

“Yes. Please.”

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

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

“Mmm.”

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

“You sound stable,” Minho says flatly.

“I’m not,”

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

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

“Poetic,” Minho mutters.

Jisung sighs deeply. “Tell my story.”

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

Jisung groans. “Pretending is exhausting.”

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

Jisung lifts his head. “Wait, you-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think he’d let you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

Minho stares. Stares longer. His jaw drops.

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

“Don’t make this a thing,”

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

“MINHO-”

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

“Can we not-”

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

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

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

“MINHO.”

“I feel betrayed.”

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

Minho pauses mid-rant. “What?”

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

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

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

“So basically business as usual.”

“Shut up.”

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

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

“You smell like desperation and confusion.”

“I smell like love and sadness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jisung freezes. “What?”

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

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

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

Jisung gulps, throat dry. “Fuck, I-”

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

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

“I went to Minho’s room.”

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

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

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

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

“I need to lie down,”

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

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

Felix coos. “Poor baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s happening?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes. I panicked. I came to you.”

“What is wrong with you?!”

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

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

“I know! What do I do?!”

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

“I can’t just-”

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

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

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

Then Felix. “Now, Min! Look now!”

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

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

Juwon.

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

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

Minho’s eye twitches. “Oh fuck no.”

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

“I said I’d piss on him.”

“What- Minho-”

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

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

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

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

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

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

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

“FIRE!” Minho bellows.

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

“YOU SHIT-STAINED LOSER!”

“FUCK YOUUUUUU!”

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

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

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

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

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

Chan loses it. “OH MY GOD.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come sit, Ji.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Felix snorts. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” Jisung breathes. “But someday?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jisung stares. “That’s fucking adorable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shared look says everything.

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

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

“Almost there, Angel,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Felix both raise your brows at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three… two… one… go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up, you’re in last!”

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

You and Felix scream at him simultaneously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was fucking terrible,”

“I’ve never been so humiliated,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck this game!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you having a seizure?”

“I’M DANCING!”

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

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

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

“You’ve been bitten three times already!”

“Let me go out with a bang!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m proud of it too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho perks up. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Nope, you get no details.”

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

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

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

“Nope! No deleted scenes either!”

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

“He might’ve,”

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

“Love you too, Min,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The fuck?”

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

“We weren’t expecting anyone, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You giggle softly, covering your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

“MOVE!”

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

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

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

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

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

Han Jisung Taglist: @puppymsworld

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

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

Based off this Jilix ask but I took some creative liberties

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