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nomlin · 1 month

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Many many thoughts. Lovely as always. I'm a sucker for long distance relationships (when they actually work out, it's just the cutest damn thing 🥺).

Soft, Strong and Very Long (Distance) | lfl

❝𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐝.❞

↳ He goes to school a thousand miles away, and takes a piece of you with him every time he leaves. The struggles are real, but so is your love.

↳ Lee Felix x female reader

↳ Long distance relationship romance trope. Crack/comedy, fluff, mostly dialogue, sexy tension, very minor angst, clumsy attempts at nudes and phone sex, smutty ending.

! Explicit content, adult themes, 4.5k, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Part of the skz tropes collab w @yoongihan」「main contents list」「© March 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

The goodbyes were always so much harder than you could prepare for.

No matter how many times you went through it, this being the fourth, the pain of separation never failed to crush your chest and clog your throat, rendering you unable to speak but for the sobs that Felix gently hushed and cradled you through. It all seemed so unfair; that he should have to return to the other side of the world all for the sake of a diploma that he could just as easily achieve somewhere much closer, but he had been there before he met you, and so there was no accounting for love. Not then.

Now, he swept the tears from your cheeks and peppered your lips with sweet kisses that you would cling to for the long, dreary months of his absence, just as you would every piece of him he left behind— the hoodie that you’d stolen from his suitcase, the droplet earring that he said looked better on you than him anyway.

The bustle of the airport barely imposed upon your farewell, mere background noise and faceless intruders.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said.

“Three months is forever.”

“It’s not,” he laughed softly, sweet eyes curving to crescents. “We’re forever. This is just a blip.”

“I hate blips.”

“Me too, baby.”

He kissed you once more, the staticky announcement for the opening of his gate sounding around you. He pulled away, and despite your want to clutch at him, there was no choice but to let him go.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” he promised.

“Alright.”

“I love you.”

Emotion choked you. “Love you.”

With a bright wave and a smile so radiant of the sunshine he embodied, he hitched his rucksack to his shoulder, and departed. If you were left with a rock in your gut and a pit in your chest, none around you would have known, for you took a deep breath and through the tears that swam in your vision, marched from the airport and drove home alone.

The first night without him was spent in the company of ice cream and old movies; a ritual that did little to ease the weight of sadness, but that bore enough monotony to eventually lull you into restless sleep, where flashes of dreams came to you in soft gold and a smattering of freckles.

The second night was somewhat easier, no doubt in part due to self-inflicted exhaustion. Throwing yourself into work was, as you had come to learn, most efficient in distracting you from thoughts of the man you loved so far away. With a hundred and one things to do (for the role of an intern was never without labour), there was no time to afford to daydreams of Felix, and in these early stages of separation, that was nothing but a blessing.

It was as you were dozing contentedly on your bed that your phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Wow. That didn’t even ring.”

His voice was such a salve to all your upsets and complaints.

“Miss me that badly?” he laughed.

“You know I do.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Am not.”

His low laugh rumbled pleasantly in your ear.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Busy. Don’t mind that, though. Takes my mind off you.”

“See? Adorable.”

“Shut up.”

“Never.”

“How was yours?”

“Fine. I was locked in the library from ten this morning until about an hour ago, so.”

“Fun.”

“Mhm.” He sighs. “Could have done with coming home to you, honestly.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you mumbled. “It makes me sad.”

“Baby. It should make you look forward to the future, when I will be coming home to you.”

“All I do is look forward to the future.”

“Me too.”

A moment of silence conveyed the weight of sadness, but was quickly broken by Felix, ever optimistic.

“If I were there right now, I’d cook you a nice dinner, we’d have a glass of wine or three. I’d run you a hot bath and when you were done, we’d vegetate in front of Netflix until one a.m.”

“Sounds like heaven,” you sighed.

“Yeah? Wait until you hear what happens when we go to bed.”

A wry smile crossed your lips. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Well...” he spoke quietly, barely a whisper, voice reaching silky depths. “I’d keep you close to me, hold you until you were on the brink of sleep. I’d kiss your shoulder softly, run my hands down your body— you’d be wearing those cute pink pyjamas. The shorts with the lace.”

“Mhm. And?”

“I’d touch you carefully... brush my fingers over that little spot on your spine that makes you shiver. Kiss below your earlobe and over your neck, just the way you like it. The way I like it.”

A warmth of arousal began to stir, and so it was that you sank to the pillows at your back.

“And then?”

“Then… well. I’d spread your pretty thighs and settle between them, and you’d feel how hard you make me, but I wouldn’t give it to you. Not like that. Not yet.”

“So mean...”

“Oh, baby. Savouring the moment makes me mean?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s so easy to get you to plead for it. You look at me with those sweet doe eyes and a little pout on your perfect lips, and I want to kiss it right off. You say my name just the right way.”

“What way is that?”

“The way that makes me want to fuck you into next week.”

“Felix...”

“See?” He hummed. “Just like that.”

Now hot under the proverbial collar, it was hardly upon you to deny the urge as your hand crept ever lower to where you ached beyond imagination.

“This is so unfair,” you mumbled.

“We do it to ourselves. Talking like this.”

“But it’s fun. To talk like this. I like it.”

“Are you wet, baby?”

“... Yeah.”

“God.” A sharp intake of breath. “This isn’t just unfair, it’s fucking torture.”

“Maybe we should stop here, then.” You sighed. “Before we can’t.”

“Right. Wise. I somehow have to make it home with this raging hard-on.”

“You’re not even home?”

“You couldn’t hear?” He laughed. “I’m on the bus.”

“Oh my— That’s why you’re whispering?!”

His laughter flitted down the phone, bright and seemingly unashamed.

“You’re awful. Somebody might have heard you.”

“There's only, like, two other people here. Don’t worry about it.”

“You know I will.”

“Adorable.”

“Felix—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, baby.”

Just like that, the sadness returned, a familiar friend wrapping its cold arms around you. “Alright.”

“Touch yourself for me in the meantime, okay?”

“Felix!”

“And send pictures. I want proof, baby.”

“You’re insane—”

“For you. Yes. Night, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight.”

The OF girls made it look easy. As did the porn stars and the cam girls and everyone else whose profession was even remotely related to capturing any part of their naked body on camera.

Never during the relationship had he asked you to do such a thing. To ‘send nudes’ was to trust implicitly, and while you most definitely did trust Felix, you couldn’t help but consider it almost a test of the relationship— of your commitment to him, the strength of which would be measured by your willingness to do this one small thing for him.

You could at least try, you supposed.

It seemed to be a question of position. Legs spread and laying back on the bed made you comfortable enough, but then the resulting shots were far from appealing. At least, to your mind. You’d have preferred a little less overhang of tummy and nearness of thighs. Felix would curse you out for such a thought. Bending over and presenting all and sundry to camera was too reminiscent of a hippo assuming birthing position, and so was also quickly ruled out with a shudder. Squatting over the camera in what you thought was a small stroke of genius soon devolved to a bout of horror; rewatching the footage inspired expectations of something too horrible to comprehend. As though looking up from inside a toilet bowl.

Thoroughly fed up and resolved to letting Felix down, you realised almost two hours passed since you’d begun this ridiculous exercise of sucking in, of pouting, of arching and of contorting your body to unrecognisable proportions at the expense of your discomfort and the onset of dysmorphia. Two hours of your time that could have gone into literally anything else better suited to soothing your spirits and the absence of your boyfriend.

When he called that night, he detected your upset.

“What is it, baby?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t want to talk?”

“I do.”

“Talk to me, then.”

“You talk to me.”

“I’d love to, but this vibe is making it difficult.”

“Fine. Don’t then. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Hey, woah— Wait a second. Baby.”

“What?” you snapped, voice breaking.

“What’s the matter? Did I do something? Are you upset with me?”

A huff of frustration caught on your tongue, for the truth of it was that your poor mood was no fault of his. Not really.

“No.” You muttered.

“Please tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is, we can—”

“I couldn’t take any pictures for you.”

A moment of silence betrayed his stupefaction.

“What?”

“The pictures,” you said again. “The proof that you wanted. Of me. Touching myself. I couldn’t do it. I felt so ugly and looked so stupid and tried for so long but it just didn’t work.”

More silence preceded a heavy sigh.

“That’s why you’re in a bad mood? Because you couldn’t take pictures for me?”

“Mhm.”

“God. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m an idiot.”

“Wh—”

“I asked you to do that without thinking. I didn’t mean for it to become such a thing. I didn’t actually expect you to send me anything.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then why ask?”

“I don’t know. It just... we were in the moment, I guess? Fooling around?”

“It didn’t feel like you were fooling around to me. You said you wanted proof.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I was... trying to be sexy, or whatever. I should have thought about how much pressure it would put on you.”

“It wasn’t pressure, it was just...”

“It was me being a thoughtless idiot. I’m sorry.”

A weight of relief seemed to evaporate from your shoulders in the instance of his apology and explanation, and then so trivial did the whole thing appear.

“I guess this is just one of those long-distance things we’re going to have to get better at,” he said.

“We’ll get there. It’s okay.”

“It’s hard, being so far from you.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Stop apologising. Let’s just... learn from it and move on. Next time I’ll ask if you’re serious or not.”

“There won’t be a next time, babe.”

“Alright. Well. If there is, though.”

“Alright. If there is.”

The tenth night of Felix’s absence was spent in the company of a long, extra-hot bath, sorely called for by the arbiters of self-care, i.e. your good and common senses.

Felix liked to bathe with you in this very tub. It was one of his favourite things to do after intimate exertions made you both sensible to the need, and so it was that you quietly recalled the sensation of his lathered hands on your skin, of his keen and practiced hands massaging your tender shoulders, arms and thighs. You’d been so unsure of it at first— to share a bath like that seemed to cross multiple boundaries that should be held between couples to maintain the air of mystery a relationship should possess to nurse the ‘spark’, for fear too much comfort will snuff it out, and yet there he was, happily stepping over it. It was all so easy for him. Everything was easy for him. He made everything easy for you, with his endless charm and gentile nature and the offering of a simple hand that would pull you near, and there all uncertainty would melt against his warmth.

He called that night, as he always did.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“In the bath.”

His groan was equal parts despair and want. “I miss baths.”

“You don’t have one at your place?”

“At the student dorms? No. Not that I’d use it even if we did. Imagine the civilisations living in it?”

You scoffed a laugh. “Aw. You don’t want to take a bath with new and interesting life forms.”

“You’re the only new and interesting life form I’m interested in getting soapy with, thanks.”

“Rude.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Stop. Let’s not be one of those couples.”

“You’re right. Let’s not be disgustingly in love and happy about it,” he chuckled.

“Remember our first date? There was that couple in front that kept glaring at us whenever they heard us.”

“Mhm.” He hummed. “To be fair to them, movie theatres aren’t the most considerate of places to suck face.”

“We weren’t sucking face.”

“No? What would you call it then?”

“We were... getting to know each other.”

“Sure.” He laughed. “Getting to know how far our tongues could slide down each other’s throats.”

“Ew. Don’t taint my memory of our first date like that. That’s some Alien shit.”

“I’ll be your facehugger, baby.”

“Stop!” You laughed.

“There’s no escape.”

“Good. I don’t want to escape.”

“Huh. Kinky.”

“Oh my God, behave. I’m not suggesting we introduce roleplay, Lix.”

“Shame. Always wanted to cosplay as the Alien.”

“Are you suggesting we roleplay as the Alien and Ripley in the bedroom?”

“Ripley? Who said anything about Ripley? I’m far more partial to Ash.”

“Alright. I’m hanging up now.”

“You don’t want to be my pretty android princess?”

“Hanging up!”

“Baby! But we could be so good together!”

“Goodnight!”

Next day brought a string of messages from Felix containing links to both robot and alien costumes, each one more outrageous than the last.

>> this one has a butt flap. technology is awesome

<< wow you're really committing to this bit

>> who said it was a bit

>> ;)

If nothing else it made the working day less torturous, and if your thoughts had begun to wander down the fanfiction-paved rabbit hole of Alien versus whatever, that would have been entirely Felix’s fault. The less said about it, the better.

That night, he called on cue.

“Guess what?”

“If you’re about to tell me you’ve ordered an Alien costume, I swear to God—”

“No, no,” he laughed. “Though maybe my Amazon Wishlist looks a little scalier now than it did yesterday. That’s between me and my God.”

“You have a God?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Don’t worry about it. I have news. Actual news.”

“Go on.”

“I love you.”

“... What?”

“I love you.”

“What are you—”

“That’s the news. That I love you.”

If smiles could split your face, you might be in serious peril.

“Felix, baby,” you sighed. “That’s not news. I know that already.”

“Boo. But it’s my headline every day. Can’t I tell you again?”

“Of course, I just thought—”

“I love you.”

“Alright, I know. I love you too.”

“But I love you.”

“Lix—”

“I love you.”

Thus, the conversation derailed and remained on such tracks until laughter and exhaustion prevailed upon you to surrender to your boyfriend’s onslaught of affection.

He loved you, after all.

In case you hadn’t heard.

The sixteenth night of Felix’s absence was, as far as nights without him go, one of the better ones. After work you’d swung by the local university to listen to a talk on the art history of Studio Ghibli, the films and animation of which were close to your heart. At thirteen pounds a ticket and two hours long, you certainly felt to be on the end of good value, and better yet, had gotten to spend a little time in the company of people that shared your passion for the worlds of Hayao Miyazaki.

When Felix called, you told him all about it.

“I’m so jealous,” he sighed. “I wish I could have gone.”

“There’ll be other opportunities.”

“I hope so. Did they talk about Howl’s Moving Castle at all?”

“Of course. Did you know they used one thousand four hundred storyboard cuts for the movie? It’s amazing.”

“You’re amazing.”

“I— What? Where did that come from?” You laughed.

“My heart.”

“Weren’t we just talking about Studio Ghibli?”

“Yes. Now we’re talking about you.”

You grimaced as though as might see it. “I veto this topic.”

“Your veto has no power here, my friend. You are amazing. You do know that, right?”

“Felix…”

“I mean it. There’s not many girls would be prepared to put up with their boyfriend spending so much time away. You handle it so well.”

“I’m no saint. I have my moments.”

“I know. But that’s all they are. Moments. I can rest easy knowing you’re waiting for me.”

“Of course.” You swallowed over the lump in your throat. “I’ll always wait for you.”

“You won’t have to wait much longer. I promise. We’ll be able to do all sorts of things together when I’m back. We should go to the beach. Let’s go see the sea. And have a picnic. And take long walks and get lost. And find cute cafes to sit in while we people-watch. We can do that bookstore tour we always talked about.”

One wonderful idea after another, so appealing as to make you smile. If only the bitter stroke of impossibility didn’t taint it all.

“Until you have to leave again,” you whispered.

Silence followed Felix’s sharp catching of breath.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to spoil things.”

“No,” he muttered. “It’s okay. You’re right.”

Another beat of silence.

“One day I won’t have to leave though, you know?” he said. “When school is done, I’ll be yours. All yours.”

“Yeah. One day.”

“I know it’s hard, babe.”

“It’s not hard. I’m just— I’m having a wobble. I’m sorry. I don’t really feel like talking anymore.”

“Alright. Well. Text me, if you like. Or not. Whatever you’re up for.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“You too.”

A sad state in which to end the conversation, but going over the same promises and reassurances and apologies given a hundred times before simply wasn’t in your capability. Felix was perpetually optimistic; that was in his nature. Yours was melancholier and more susceptible to such depressions, and he knew that. Never once made you feel bad about it. You did that well enough by yourself. For all the peaks and troughs your relationship waded through, you should have by now developed a resilience. Instead, it seemed you only felt it all more.

Yes, you would wait for him. As long as it took and as painful as it was. Would your love withstand the resentment that, despite your better self, you bore towards Felix for the constant distance? Shameful even to admit that you entertained such petty emotion, but the fact of it was that you were not the martyr Felix often sought to paint you as, and to pretend otherwise proved exhausting and festered yet more bitter and bad feeling.

He had only meant to have you looking forward to the future. You had allowed your sadness to overcome you. So it was that the struggles of long-distance love were not so easily managed. Not even when you wanted them to be.

Two forty-five a.m., and the sound of the front door all but bouncing off the hinges awoke you with a start of fright.

Immediately reaching for the bedside lamp, a soft glow bled over the dark room, and with the encroaching footsteps that seemed to race through your apartment, your sleep-softened mind was too slow to catch up. Your bedroom door opened, and for a moment you thought to be still stuck in the dream you’d been having.

“F— Felix?”

Already stripped of shirt and midway through unzipping his jeans, the man’s wild temperament did more to alarm you than to excite.

“What are you— What is this? What the fuck—”

“I got an early flight back,” he said as he crawled to the bed, yanked aside the duvet and slotted gracefully between your thighs. “Wanted to surprise you.”

“But it’s the middle of the—”

Your protest cut short by groan of delight as his kiss silenced you, a mess of teeth and tongues reflective of two months yearning, two months wanting. His skin cool to touch wracked you with a shiver and broke out gooseflesh; nails scraped his muscular back as he rolled against you, evidence of his arousal thick. So quickly did it descend upon you— the lust, the ferocity of his attentions, you could hardly catch a breath. What alarm had been incited melted with his touch, leaving you with warm and gooey sensation, putty in his hands.

“Missed you,” he mumbled against your skin. “Missed you so fucking much. Couldn’t bear how we ended things before. I had to see you. Had to tell you and show you much I need you—”

He hitched your thigh up, freed himself from his jeans, his rigid length pressed to where your shorts just concealed you— his eyes flashed and he grinned, picking at the material of them.

“The pink shorts,” he said. “You’re so cute.”

Scrambled beyond any comprehension, Felix slid them aside to expose you, then guiding his length through your sensitivity, shuddered at the ease of the glide; at the depth of your arousal.

“God, you make me so hard. Look, baby. Feel how hard I am?”

A groan slipped from you. “Lix—”

“Just hearing your voice these last weeks has been enough to do this to me, but this—” He kissed you again. “Feeling you, touching you. You have no idea how I ache for you, baby.”

“Felix, please—”

Plush lips attached to your neck, your hands gathered and lifted to above your head where he might have further exploration of your quivering body. Soft fingertips ran the length of your chest and waist, and in dipping between your open thighs aligned himself to your arousal, and with a sharp inhalation of breath and gentle push, the immediate relief of penetration brought a shower of heat from your crown to your toes. Stretched out gently at first, and then with firmer determination as his wants possessed him, his cock plunged fluidly with his thrusts. So painfully delicious was the sensation he offered, of fullness and security, his physical absence so sorely missed and now restored with such alacrity as could bring you to tears if not for the overwhelming need to be fucked until you could no longer recall your own name.

“Oh my God, you feel so—” His jaw locked. “Fuck, baby.”

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in Felix’s case, his fucking harder, for his pace was near ferocious. An onslaught of his desire to claim you in the ways he’d only dreamed of for a length of time, and so he fucked you as such. Slaps of skin matched the pace of the creaking bed, his gentle grunts and sighs and muted curses setting fires under your skin. Resting back on his calves, he held your ankles and kept you spread, better posed at an angle that brought you to a cry of delight.

“Oh my— Lix—”

The heavy drag of his thickness sparked white noise and ignited a hot daze, your thighs quivering with his insistence.

“Yes, baby—” He panted, bit the flesh of his plump bottom lip. “You’re made for me. All for me. No matter where you are, you’re mine.”

Such sentiments of possession touched parts of yourself hitherto unexplored, and those parts were felt keenly by both present. Felix groaned and unable to keep himself so supported, returned to a missionary state, his weight just held above you, his hips ever fluid in their hard, easing thrusts. Everything about you seemed to tighten, springs wanting to be released in the face of your encroaching euphoria, and with Felix knocking all the breath from you with every thrust, you could not well vocalise how loath you were to be unfilled for even a second.

“I— I can’t, I’m going to—”

Helpless trembling demonstrated to Felix all he need know, and with a victorious grin did he kiss you and speak openly:

“I feel you, baby. Come for me.”

And feel it, he did; all of it, down to the last wave of salacious pleasure that rendered you so dumb as to only pant his name. Slowly did he fuck you through the onslaught, a measure of mercy on his part and of surrender in the seconds that followed, for his falling apart was hard and hot, pink and beautiful.

On his breathless suggestion, the afterglow was spent in Felix’s favourite way— in a hot bath of lavender-scented bubbles, where his hands explored your skin and swept away the defilement he would no doubt later, once again, inflict.

“Why did you come back so soon?” you asked, voice a tired whisper. Against the heat of his firm chest, there was no possible harm could come to you nor stress that could ail you. Felix was all that mattered.

“Told you. Wanted to surprise you.”

“At this hour?”

“Was the only flight I could get so soon. I needed to see you. To talk to you, face-to-face.”

“There wasn’t that much talking.”

“Yes, well. Some things can be said without words.” He kissed your shoulder. “I also didn’t like the way our last conversation went. And this isn’t me blaming you, I just… I could tell you were struggling. You needed more than me just calling. You needed me. I had to step up.”

“You’re insane.”

“You keep saying that. I don’t know if it’s a complaint or not.”

“It’s not.”

“Sure?”

“My boyfriend being so worried that he gets on the first flight back a month early? No matter the time or cost? Why would I complain about that?”

“Some people might think it was irrational.”

“Those people have never loved like we do.”

A gentle thumb and forefinger under your chin tilted your head up to where he could reach your lips, his soft browns glimmering a depth of devotion.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you more.”

He grimaced. “Thought we weren’t going to be one of those couples.”

“We’re not. We’re a couple all our own. We’re unique.”

“Isn't that just a polite way of saying we’re weird?”

“No. It’s a polite way of saying that if I were a robot, and you were an Alien, I’d totally fuck you.”

“Oh yeah?” Felix laughed, eyes alight.

“Yeah.”

“God, we’re weird.”

“No.” You kissed him gently. “We’re unique. That’s how we make this work. And it will work.”

Felix smiled warmly, his kind eyes and soft complexion once more committed to memory. This wasn’t the end, you knew, and yet you felt you could face whatever came next with more certainty than ever. He had stepped up for you.

Only right you do the same for him.

“I promise,” you whispered.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙯 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 ♡ >

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nomlin · 2 months

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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙡𝙫. 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙮 𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙗

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」「Act 1」「© February 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

But why be kind to yourself when it’s so much easier to punish?

Jisung licks his lips. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to work you out, and credit to him if he manages it. You’ve never been able to.

“I could, like, give you her number. If you wanted it?”

“Your shrink?” you ask.

“Yeah. Not to be presumptuous, of course. I just think everyone needs a little extra help from time to time. You wouldn’t regret it.”

You laugh. It’s not genuine. “No, but she might.”

“Behave. Nobody’s beyond help.”

You’ve no idea, Jisung.

“Doesn’t matter anyway.” You shrug. “I couldn’t afford it even if I wanted to.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Well, okay. But I'll just take care of that.”

“What?”

“It’s no issue.”

“Jisung, no—”

“Do you love Minho?”

You almost choke on your own saliva. Do you love him?

“He’s my best friend. Of course I do.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re sleeping with him. You don’t just love him as a friend.”

“I thought we weren’t being presumptuous?”

“Man, come on.”

“You’re sleeping with him too,” you retort. “Do you love him?”

Jisung purses his lips. “Not yet,” he says.

“But it doesn’t take much for you to fall.”

“What do you want me to say?” he scoffs. “That I'm head over heels for him? That I’d have his babies and suck him dry every night?”

A hot whirl of arousal stirs. “Shut up,” you grumble, shove ice cream into your mouth. It helps.

Jisung eyes you again, soft brown eyes glimmering under the harsh fluorescence. After a bit, he says, “I thought that maybe your struggles were similar to mine. Anxiety. Stressing. Uncertainty. I thought you’d been triggered by what Minho hyung and I did.”

You swallow the warm ice cream.

“That’s not it, though. Is it?”

You shrug.

“You won’t tell me?” he presses.

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because you called me in the middle of what seemed like a pretty severe panic attack when you could have called literally anybody else.”

Right.

“I can’t, Jisung.”

“Can’t what?”

“Tell you. Anything. Any of it. What I struggle with. It’s not... for sharing.”

He stares across the table. Tries to burn holes through your skull into your brain. “I won’t judge.”

“Everybody says that—”

He reaches for your hand. His skin is cool. Feels nice. “I don’t just say shit,” he urges. “Trust me.”

Maybe it’s the way he runs his thumb across your knuckles. Maybe it’s just that you’re tired. Maybe it’s the fucking lighting or the time of day or a cosmic alignment that sets the words rolling quietly from your tongue with a muted sigh:

“I have these... urges.”

You look at Jisung. He blinks in encouragement.

“They’re sexual. Sometimes violent. Mostly awful. They... come and go. I can go weeks without feeling them, but there are triggers. Certain things—people—that set them off. Minho is one of them.” You swallow. “You seem to be too. All of 3racha, actually. So... I suppose you did trigger me. But not in the way you might think.”

Your palms are sweating. Fuck, this is so hard.

“Minho told me about... you, and I— I wasn’t ready for it, is the thing. Maybe if I'd been ready it wouldn’t have hit me so hard, but it just— Hearing about it, I started to imagine it. Pictured it clearly. You and him... In the studio.” Your face flames. “I wanted to see it. Wanted to watch. Fantasised about the two of you all over each other. Like you’re pieces of meat. Thinking about it just makes my—” You put your hand over your chest. “Makes my fucking heart race and my skin burn and I ache all over and the only thing that eases it is touching myself. If I don’t get it out of my system I.... sometimes I feel like I might die, and then I think that maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Might be a beautiful thing. There are worse ways to go. Aren’t there?”

You dare to look at Jisung for the briefest of seconds. His cheeks are rosy, eyes focused. Aware. A vein throbs in his throat.

“I know it’s not normal,” you whisper. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Jisung says immediately, voice thick.

“There’s something.”

This time he doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s finally taking you at face value. Minho would be proud.

“I’ve never... told anyone this,” you say.

“I’ll take it to my grave.”

You try to smile. “I’m sorry, Jisung.”

His brows knit firmly.

“For objectifying you the way I have. For calling you. For everything.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Don’t be sorry, man. I mean, it’s nice of you to apologise but I’m pretty damn sure you’re not the only one that’s ever thought that way about us. Kind of comes with the territory.”

“It’s different, though. We’re not strangers, Jisung. It’s disrespectful—”

“Stop. Relax. None of us are perfect. I wouldn’t even want to know what a perfect person looks like.”

“You’ve met Minho, right?”

He laughs softly. “Right. Shit. Leave it me to get a perfect boyfriend.”

Oh.

“... Boyfriend?”

Jisung grimaces. “He... didn’t tell you?”

“No. Didn’t get much of a chance, in fairness.”

Boyfriend. The word seems so much weightier in your head. Presses down on your little black box, cracking the seams. What lives inside it wails, nails on a chalkboard.

“I think... I will take that number. If that’s okay?”

Jisung grins, gummy and sweet. Perfect.

“It’s more than okay, baby.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#that's it #jisung is the feeling of home

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nomlin · 3 months

Text

I was slightly concerned for Chan at the beginning of this chapter but by the end.... God, I love this so much, I need them to be happy plssss.

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙫𝙞𝙞𝙞. 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙪𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙚

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

!! this part contains graphic imagery that may distress some readers, proceed w caution !!

「Contents List」「Act 1」「© Jan 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

Minho speaks first, as keen to break the silence as he is to break Chan’s face after that.

“What just happened?”

“Goddamn it, Sung,” Changbin sighs. “I’m going to—” He gestures after Chan.

“Sure,” Minho says. “Go.”

He does so quickly, leaving Jisung—still a semi-naked sweaty statue—rooted.

“Aren’t you going after them?” Minho asks.

Jisung’s mouth opens, then closes. He scowls, then relaxes. “I— I don’t... I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey.” Minho approaches him, hands on his shoulders. They’re trembling. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

He pulls the rapper into a hug, and wonders on his own promise. Can everything be fine? All feels like it’s gone to shit. For all his rage toward Chan, he can’t help but feel that there’s something so much deeper going on.

In his arms, Jisung’s tremors eventually subside; his breathing evens, and Minho feels the warmth of his face pressed into his chest, his svelte body going limp. Smooth skin and lean musculature, for he’s still shirtless. Positively mouth-watering.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, runs a hand down Jisung’s spine.

Jisung hums. “Am now.”

“Good.” Minho pulls back. Doesn’t really want to let him go, but knows he’ll have to. “You should go find those two. They’ll be missing you.”

“I don’t think Chan hyung will be.”

“Don’t do that. He loves you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Breathing fills the silence. Minho’s heart pounds.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you,” he whispers. “I just—”

“I want to stay.”

Minho’s gut clenches. Jisung’s fists curl into his shirt.

“Can I stay?”

God; Minho’s never been tested like this. “I... don’t want to give Chan another reason to kick off.”

“He’s already kicked off.”

“Jisung—”

“I miss you, hyung. I’ve been so sick without you. These lessons— Fuck, seeing you and not being able to touch you is just—” He urges close, nose bumping Minho’s jaw. “There’s no way I’m leaving now.”

Lust gathers in Minho’s loins like a stormy sky; he wants this man so fucking badly, can’t even find the words to explain it—

“You feel the same way, don’t you? Or was having me suck your dick once enough?”

“Jisungie, Jesus—”

Stumbling steps back until pressed against the mirrored wall, Jisung attaches himself to Minho’s throat and brings from him sweet whines. Minho feels the nip of teeth and his dick strains— he’d let this man tear his throat clean out as long as he promised to lap up the hot, sticky mess. Jisung sinks to the hardwood, pushing up Minho’s sweaty shirt as he goes to map the soft abs and skin with his mouth.

“So pretty. So soft. Missed you so much hyung—”

Jisung drags his sweats down and keenly frees him from boxers; Minho melts when he wraps a hand around his length and squeezes on a firm upwards drag. Jisung kneads his thigh, the thick and fleshy muscle a source of fascination the first time around; it seems that lustre hasn’t worn.

“Won’t be interrupted this time,” Jisung promises. Minho wouldn’t give a fuck if they were. He runs his fingers through the freshly dyed dark strands, combs them from Jisung’s flushed face.

“You’re beautiful, Han Jisung.”

“You too, bro.”

Minho giggles, his dick twitching in Jisung’s palm. He kisses the leaking head softly and whispers, “And you, baby.”

“Did you just tell my dick it’s beautiful?”

“What, I’m wrong?”

“You can’t just—”

“Shut up.”

With that, the rapper takes the dancer into his mouth, the warm and wet so much like heaven around him he’s not sure he’ll make it out the other side with all the brain cells he went in with. Feels like he’s looking through frosted glass as he watches Jisung slide down on him, his burnt cheeks snug and pretty lips moist. He thinks about the sounds that have come from those lips—the raps, the bars, the lyrics so profound. He infatuates millions. Brings them to tears.

Sucks dick like a demon.

Running hot, Minho tears his shirt off. Jisung pops off him and grins, stretches a hand up to drag over the elder’s tummy. Slick with Jisung’s saliva, Minho keens when he keeps a steady pace of stripping him from base to wet tip.

“Fuck, Jisungie— Feel so good—”

Jisung’s eyes glimmer. Demon. “It’ll feel even better when I blow your back out, hyung.”

“Oh, God.”

“Do you want that?” Jisung licks Minho’s shaft. “Want J One to fuck you stupid against this mirror?”

“Please—”

“Mhm, baby. Love it when you beg.”

“Jisung—”

He stands, hand still wrapped daintily around Minho. “Turn around for me.”

Minho does his best— is it possible to literally vibrate with need? His vision shakes, and Jisung kisses his shoulders, his nape, touches him all over with clammy palms. When pressed against the cool glass, Minho gasps.

“Bend a little, baby,” Jisung instructs, hands sliding to the curve of Minho’s waist, hips, then the swell of his ass. He caresses and pulls him gently apart to run a finger over his sensitivity; Minho really might black out.

“It’s been a while, Jisung.”

“Since a man?”

Minho nods. Fuck; it feels dirty to even say it. Jisung hums, drops to his knees, and it crosses Minho's mind that he can’t be as spring fresh as he would like. That's got to put him off, he won’t want to—

“Take good care of you, hyung.”

“Oh, fuck—”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ♡ 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙤-𝙛𝙞 ♡

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#new addiction #i'm not ok #minsung my beloved

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nomlin · 3 months

Text

#i am staring respectfully

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nomlin · 4 months

Text

The dark, gloomy energy Chan brings to the table has to be studied. I know with my whole heart he has a good reason but damn do I want him to just take a step back and stop being a butt for one second.

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙫𝙞. 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙚

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」「Act 1」「© Jan 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

Minho’s studio smells that intoxicating tincture of new wood and fresh paint. He breathes it to the pit of his lungs and shudders every time.

The air conditioning runs at a slow, steady whir. The chill kisses his skin when he drags his hoodie off. No windows and soundproofing make it an oven in the warmer months. Ceiling spotlights run the room, their soft glow reflecting on the glossy hardwood. Sturdy wooden beams cross the ceiling, hooks and divots carved into them to allow for attachments that Minho can suspend at pleasure: stripper poles, silks, gymnastics apparatus— as the client wishes. A pristine mirrored wall makes the room seem twice its size; Minho strolls the length of it, and would usually take great satisfaction in basking in what he worked for if not for the shitty little cloud following him.

Fuck this.

He wakes the sound system, chooses a nondescript EDM track with beat enough to dance to. He lets the eight-beat dictate him, feels the vibration of the punching bassline under his feet. Feels good to get his heart pumping and the blood flowing. Reminds him of sex. Just drier.

He falters when the studio door swings open. His flow is corked; he stops and catches his breath, watches through the mirror as Changbin, Jisung and Chan enter. Changbin is in his snapback and sweats, his curls peeking out from beneath. Jisung has a beanie pulled irritably low over his face, and his hoodie drowns him. Chan is sleeveless and pasted with an on-brand scowl.

“Starting without us?” Changbin asks, bright considering the apparent dour condition of his boyfriends-slash-business partners.

“Just warming up,” he says, silencing the sound system.

Chan skulks across the room to the sofa in the corner, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Changbin follows him, and the way they whisper suggests they can’t have kissed and made up yet. Great.

He hardly notices Jisung approaching timidly.

“How are you, hyung?” he asks softly.

Why is it that when Jisung calls him that—hyung—his dick aches? He takes in the younger’s pretty, heart shaped mouth and the round, dark eyes that catch the spotlights at a glimmer. The soft curve of his jaw and the bridge of his sweet, beautiful nose.

Now it’s not just his dick that aches.

“I’ve been better,” Minho replies. “You?”

“Yeah.” Jisung scratches his nape. “Same. I guess.”

Same? Wanting to crawl out of his skin and find another vessel that won’t miss him so badly? That kind of same? He doubts it.

He swallows, and in a bid to drive the conversation back to the realms of civility, taps his index against the thick rim of Jisung’s beanie.

“What’s this all about?”

Jisung's cheeks flare with a blush. “Wh— You don’t like my hat?”

“I like it. I just question why you’re wearing it when it’s hot as fuck outside.”

“It’s not that hot.”

“No?”

The intrusive thoughts win: Minho runs his finger down the column of Jisung’s smooth, sweaty throat. He only meant for it to prove his point, but it feels like he’s just stuck his digit in a mains socket. Jisung’s lids flutter, his Adam’s apple contracts on a swallow.

“You... you’re sweaty,” Minho mumbles.

Jisung wheeze-laughs, paws at his neck with his sleeve. “Guess you got me.” He swipes the beanie off then, and Minho gawps like an idiot; it’s the colour of dark, sumptuous chocolate, shiny and inviting. Thin, bleached strands run from root to tip.

“I was hiding a bad dye job,” he says.

“A bad dye job?”

“Mhm. Wanted a change but the lady at the salon didn’t quite get it, you know? Can’t win them all. Or whatever.”

“Jisung—” Minho steps forward. Are they even intrusive thoughts anymore if they’re the only ones? With hands raised he touches the man’s hair, fingers gliding through it like silk as he rakes through appreciatively. The urge to tug itches his palms.

“It looks great,” he manages instead, and stops touching Jisung before muscle memory kicks in.

“Y— You think?”

“Mhm. Your fans will love it.”

Jisung scowls, nose and brows scrunching. “But do you love it, hyung?”

Oh, fuck. Why? Why must Minho be the strongest soldier? Why can’t they be alone when Jisung decides to scoop his gooey insides out with one, single word? He curls his nails into his palms and digs firmly, only partly hoping he’ll draw blood. Regardless, it doesn’t help how he throbs. Doesn’t help how he wants to grab Jisung and slam him against this mirror and take his dick until his hole is so raw he’s screaming and crying for—

“Hyung?”

Minho breathes through his nose.

“I love it.”

And Jisung smiles. Gummy and irreverent and blindingly beautiful. It’s not fair. Can’t be fair.

“Are we going to start or what?”

Of course, it’s Chan that pops Minho’s quivering horny bubble. A good thing, probably, even if it is grating. Equally as grating is the way Jisung steps back from him like he’s been burnt.

“That depends. Are you done with your domestic now?” Minho asks, suppressing attitude. Failing horribly.

“Let’s just get on with it. The sooner we start the sooner we can finish.”

Minho quietly invokes divinity.

“Alright. Let’s start with the usual warm up.”

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#jisung is cute #that is all that is needed to be said for this one #thank you for your time

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nomlin · 4 months

Text

Minho having a years long crush on MC is not surprising but the confirmation makes me melt all over again. Seriously, it's not to late to to give up on 3racha and go hand in hand with MC-- riding into the sunset....

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙫. 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」「Act 1」「© Jan 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

Minho is in no fucking mood for this.

The idea of facing 3racha after the preceding shitstorm makes him want to douse his balls in acid. When he thinks about how he’s supposed to try and teach them to dance on top of that, he’s tempted to go back for a second dip. Maybe add rusty nails for the giggles.

His studio is in the newly developed part of the city, adjacent to hipster boutiques and vegan cafés which aren’t so much his scene, but millennials just fucking love to spend their money on a trend. That’s how he advertises his business— ‘dancing is food for the soul’. It’s not a total lie; he can attest to its efficacy in rousing spirits when other vices lose their lustre.

Having his own place is a small dream come true. Literally. When one is told by parents and friends that one is wasting time and should just get a proper job— well, one can imagine the erection one may nurse when the first clients pay up.

All of this to say that Minho loves what he does. He’s proud of it. There's real joy in the process of mentoring and watching someone grow. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if it all somehow went tits-up. That's partly why he makes such an effort to keep his personal life a good distance from work. Too much fuck-up potential.

So, he asks himself: how did this happen? Why is he commuting to work with a knot in his gut?

Because he’s weak, mostly. He knows it. Couldn't resist a beautiful person if his life fucking depended on it, though credit where it’s due: he did a good job of respecting the boundaries of friendship with her, until he didn’t. Not that he regrets it by any stretch. How could he? A years-long crush realised is about as close to a dream come true as his dance studio was for him, so no, he doesn’t feel the need to brood over that one. What he does possibly, maybe, slightly brood over—just a pinch—is the part he played in bringing 3racha to the scene. Thanks to him, they’re both involved now. He planted the sordid little seed at the concert, made his move, and greedy bitch that he knows he is, threw her into Changbin’s path in his mission to be an obstacle in Jisung’s, leaving her to scramble to her feet while he made waves enough to manoeuvre his dick into—

He transgresses. Hardly matters now; who sucked what, whose fault it all is. What’s done is done. He hasn’t seen Jisung beyond lessons for a fortnight, and he misses the charismatic young rapper that sucked his soul from his body and grinned at him with cum-covered teeth and the sweetest fucking eyes. God.

He’s thought about calling him. Of course he has. Would have done it already if it didn’t stand to piss off at least two people, for as much as he wants Jisung, he’s also loath to throw fuel on the queer fire. It was pure accident that he happened to overhear a bitter exchange between Chan and Changbin that explained the tension they brought to lessons; Chan was aware of Changbin’s recent dicking, and his disapproval was so violent it dented the very foundations of their relationship. Minho wanted to laugh. Chan disapproved? The man whose spine would crumble if he retracted the morality stick from his ass? Each to their own, of course, but Minho can’t help but think the queen doth protest too much. He wonders if it were another man Changbin had fucked, would he be so upset? He certainly doesn’t seem to be making much of a fuss over Jisung’s antics, is all he’s saying. Food for thought.

He’s also not totally sure his roommate is as okay with it all as she makes out. Something changed after Rapture; after she caught him and Jisung in the bathroom. She hasn’t quite withdrawn, but he thinks one more slip-up like that might do it. There’s a light in her eyes when he talks about Jisung, but he can’t read it. Doesn't want to mistake it for something it’s not. Sometimes it’s there when he fucks her; a faraway glint that’s as cold as it is warm. Curious, but not so welcoming. For the seconds it lasts she’s somewhere else. Only takes saying her name for her to come back, and she’s his again, but still.

Whatever. He can’t waste any more energy on this.

How awful would it be to sack off the lesson? Can he afford the scar it’d rip into his reputation? The dancer that wouldn’t dance for 3racha?

He sighs.

It’s going to be a long fucking day.

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#I am expecting very awkward tension #maybe slight confrontation?#mayhaps just playing dumb over thr whole thing #doubt that though #minho please teach chan a lesson #preferably solo #in a bed #just the two of them #fuck it #no bed #the floor #in front of chanbin and hannie

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nomlin · 4 months

Text

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙞𝙫. 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

!! this part contains graphic imagery that may distress some readers, proceed w caution !!

Don’t let the porn fool you; showers are the worst places to fuck.

“God, Min—”

Still; it’ll do in a horny pinch.

Propped against the glass door with right leg hitched at his hips, Minho drives a steady, solid pace. The flow of hot water soaks him, rivulets caressing him and dripping iridescently down his svelte form. Having him inside you makes you bone-deep weak; you cling to his shoulders, try not to slip.

“Fuck, baby—” He speaks through wet lips, looks at you through sodden lashes. His eyes are glazed honey. “Want to pump you so full.”

You groan obscenely. He’s so fucking thick.

“You want that? Baby wants to be bred, huh?”

“Min, Jesus—”

He grins, perfect white. Water runs into his mouth, drips from his chin. “She doesn’t want it?”

“She does. She wants it. I want it— Fuck, please—”

Satisfied, his pace doubles. Smack, smack, smack. All speed from the dancer’s hips, his muscles trained by precision. Almost burns to touch him; the water scalds, blood runs fiery, lust singes the air that shimmers incandescently and presses you closer to one another. You wonder what he sees as he fucks you; what he thinks about. Does he feel it? This inexplicable sensation of walking a cliff edge? Does he look over it and welcome the rocks below? Would he slice his palm open and watch with glee as the red inks the ocean and spreads, spreads, spreads until it’s nothing more horrifying than a silent ripple? Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’re the only one that would happily step off and come during the fall.

There’s something wrong with you, after all.

The rapid glide of his throbbing cock brings you to collapse, your g-spot so much abused you fear having to get out of this shower. Minho kisses you, his wet mouth slipping, and with his lips pressed to your burning cheek he holds out as you tremble and babble until reduced from the violence of orgasm, when he can fuck you full of his own.

It’s a near relief when he withdraws, cleans you down, attends gently to your sticky skin. Everything aches, the soreness between your thighs the most pleasant. Feels good to be used. To take what Minho gives you, what Changbin gives you, because you’re good for it. So good. Blissfully fucking good.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you?

Exhausted beyond sense, Minho puts you—and your little black box, so thoroughly well fed—to bed. Draws the blinds to the morning hour, to the rising life of the city, kisses your forehead and mumbles a promise of being there when you wake up.

You distantly hear him leave the apartment.

You dream of a brightly lit stage; of a man with red hair that shows dimples when he smiles. He sings like an angel, moves like one too. His beauty is second to none, his joy at his profession bestowing upon him a radiance that can’t be touched. He waves at the fans, and they adore him. Would give anything for him. They clamour and cheer and swoon; there are none so devoted as they. You stand in an empty corner, far from it all, nursing a darkness that writhes with life of its own. A darkness that is sentient to its emptiness. A monster. You try to keep it in, keep it close, but its hurts so much. It pushes and stretches your skin and cracks your ribs, and you can’t anymore: it escapes with violence and sweeps over the audience in a great tide, extinguishing their brilliant light. The man with red hair weeps as his fans scream and try to run, scrambling for the stage, yet they’re just out of his reach. He begs you to stop, falls to his knees and claws at his skin and pleads with you, “Stop, stop, please! Make it stop!” But you don’t know how. You don’t want this. Never wanted any of it. The darkness rears at the stage, having eaten all light but one. It glares down upon the man, haloing him. With tear-streaked cheeks and still on his knees, he looks at the great tide of black that swells and rises over him. “It’s my fault,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

And your darkness swallows him whole; the man with red hair that showed dimples when he smiled.

There is, most definitely, something wrong with you.

sorry for the delay. health is having its way w me right now. why must brains have thoughts lolol. happy new year beanlings ♡

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#there's a lot to say about that dream #but for now I'll shut up and pretend it didn't happen #live in the shower scene only #only happy times allowed here #thank you #sorry for spamming #I'm inconsistent

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nomlin · 4 months

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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙞𝙞𝙞. 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙥

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

The minute you’re home, he has you.

Minho’s familiarity is a remedy you’re keen to chug; it washes over this thing that’s moved in inside you. Dark and faceless. Terrifying.

Bundled up on the sofa and supplied with tea, Minho sits close. He listens. For whatever else about your dynamic has changed, you’re relieved this hasn’t: the sincerity of his care and his wish to act the soundboard. For as sharp as his tongue can be, he hears beyond the things you tell him, his intuition born from intimate acquaintance allowing it.

When Minho is apprised of your retreat to the park, Changbin’s invitation and the events of the studio, he regards you with dark, serene eyes.

“I don’t want to say I told you so...”

“You’d be right to.” You wrap your hands around the warm mug. “I really wanted to believe he wasn’t just a dickhead. You saw right through him.”

“Not at all. I just took him at face value. When people show you a side of themselves you don’t like, it’s not for you to try and warp that into something that’s easier to understand. Just try to accept it. He doesn’t get to skip his share of accountability just because he’s famous.”

“When did you get so wise?”

He huffs softly. “Right around the time I worked up the courage to kiss you, probably.”

Warmth heats your cheeks, your ever-present want for the man throbbing, and you feel a little more like yourself. The idea that he should require any kind of courage to do anything is frankly baffling.

He clears his throat, and then says, “I hope you won’t waste any more time worrying about him after this.”

“Definitely not. Fuck him.”

Minho quirks a brow.

“Figuratively,” you add.

The little black box rolls its eyes.

He smiles, but it quickly gives way to a frown. “I don’t know how I'm going to bite my tongue when I see him again.”

“You’ll manage. You know it’s not worth it.”

“But it is, though. Didn’t it feel good to put him back in his place?”

You shrug. It did at first. Then… not so much.

“You’re not going to let this put you off, are you?” Minho asks.

“Put me off?”

“Bin.”

Oh.

“Don’t let Chan fuck this up for you.”

You stare into your tea.

“Babe?” Minho prods.

“I won’t.”

Minho hums, lets his head fall to the sofa back, strands of blonde falling into his dark eyes. He’s so at ease with it all. Talks about your thing with Changbin like it’s nothing to do with him. And it isn’t, really. Just like his thing with Jisung is none of your business, no matter how badly you wish it was. But the lines are starting to melt. Friendship and lust; the only thing that separates them is a want of desire, and for him you’ve had it all along. You’ve always lusted. Have always wished for him to lust. Now he does, but not just for you. And you don’t mind it; not really. There’s no jealousy or bitter contempt. You just want to be there to see it. To paint more little fantasies that can live safely in your little black box. Safe from anyone’s crowbar.

“Does he make you happy?” Minho asks quietly.

You visually trace the high bridge of his nose. “He does.”

“And the sex?”

You smile slowly. Coy. Minho looks down his nose at you, smiles as you do.

“Right,” he laughs. “Definitely don’t let Chan fuck it up then.”

“I don’t intend to.”

He nods, and comfortable silence elapses. You wonder what he’s thinking; does he pity you? Maybe deep down he’s ashamed of you. Must be exhausting to be friends with you, after everything.

“I’m sorry I ever argued with you, Min.”

The man frowns, pokes your cheek. “Shut up.” And then he leans in, a quick but deep sniff taken from your throat.

“You smell like Changbin,” he says.

Oh.

“Is that a bad thing?” you ask quietly.

His Adam’s apple contracts when he swallows and whispers, “No.”

The look that descends upon him is reminiscent of the first time this happened— how the suggestion of another man seemed to drive him to the brink of his composure, your relaying of events with said other man pushing him from it with heft. If you’re reading this right…

“So you don’t want to scrub me clean?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly. Runs his tongue over his teeth. You ache to feel them on your skin. The little black box comes out of hiding and blinks hopefully.

“Only if you’ll still be my dirty girl.”

ty for reading along for this fst marathon event if you did. definitely down for doing more of these in future. Happy holiday beans. Love to you all x

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#all I can say is #I fucking love lino #best boi

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nomlin · 4 months

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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙞𝙞. 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙧

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

Your handprint looks good on Chan’s cheek. Cherry red on snow white.

He shoots up from the chair, kicks it across the studio with his heel so hard it bounces off the sound desk. “Who the fuck do you think you are to touch me like that?” he growls, jaw clenched.

“Who do you think you are to talk about my life like that?”

He steps closer; barely a foot between you. Your heart, singed around the edges, pounds. The little black box trembles in the corner, eyes shut tight. Something in the air has warped, the anger in the studio no longer so harmless. It’s taking shape; growing. Pinned under his crazed stare, it’s not excitement that threatens to paralyse you. It’s fear.

“You should have stayed the fuck away like I told you to,” he hisses.

“I’ve never been one to do what I’m told.”

His eyes flash. Any closer and he’ll be on top of you. Your pulse roars through your ears.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” he snarls. “You’re only so upset because you know I’m right. You have nothing. You’re a nobody. You know it.”

Bile surges up your throat, burning; you shove him away, unable to stand the heat of him.

“Sorry to disappoint, but the empty observations of an insecure third wheel mean about as much to me as dog shit,” you state flatly, composure thin, but nonetheless present.

Chan’s nostrils flare with rage. “You want to talk about being a third wheel?” He laughs hoarsely. “Please, tell me how it felt getting cucked so soon after finally getting your greasy hands on Minho.”

Felt fucking great, actually.

“I’ve never minded sharing, Chan. Unlike someone.”

“Me? I’m in a fucking poly relationship, what are you—”

“Are you, though?”

Chan stops. You smile serenely.

“Seems to me those ships have sailed, right into mine and Minho’s beds.”

Thunder shadows his features. It’s like you’ve slapped him again, but this time the soreness spreads over your chest. Infecting you with immediate regret. This hatred has nowhere to go; you don’t even know why it’s here. It just is. Pulling and pushing, exciting and depressing, breaking and mending. You quite liked it until he looked at you the way he’s looking at you now: with bleak, dissociative acceptance of a truth he’s been hiding from himself. A truth that can’t be put back in its box, and you’re the one holding the crowbar.

He swallows. Drops his gaze.

You wish he’d shout at you.

Why isn’t he shouting at you?

“Chan?”

In the studio door stands a bewildered Changbin, two coffees and a grease-stained paper bag in hand. You hadn’t even heard the door open. Chan snaps back to himself, and prior anger restored, he about-faces and storms past Changbin with a shoulder barge for good measure. Changbin only gawps.

You sigh, approach him and take a coffee. “You should go after him.”

He flounders, pulled between the two he cares for and with no information to guide him.

“Go,” you emphasise. “Seriously.”

“I— I’ll be right back. Shit.”

With refreshments deposited on the desk, he rushes from the studio, his footsteps thumping in quick succession down the stairs.

And you’re alone. Now you can bask in the afterglow of having fucked SpearB in his studio, if only you can find it. It’s not where it usually lives; in the centre of your sternum, its warm tendrils extending through your arms and legs and up the back of your skull like golden marionette strings. In its place is something impenetrable. Something heavy and dark. Something that makes you shiver and want to cover up.

You dress yourself and finally find your phone, wedged between the sofa seats. There are several missed calls from Minho, text messages of concern and apology. You call him immediately.

“Baby? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried out of my damn mind! You just don’t check your phone anymore!?”

“Are you at home?”

“I— Yes, I’m here. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just... I didn’t— I don’t want to be alone.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll be back soon.”

Can’t bring yourself to tell him anything. Not yet.

“Love you.”

You swiftly end the call before he says anything that’ll add to this weight in your body. On stepping outside to empty streets and the first light of earliest morning, you hail a taxi and escape.

Still holding the crowbar.

final chapter of this marathon event in 24 hrs. drop a reblog and comment, show your support x

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#the face I made throughout this chapter #girl was not holding back #proud of you #hate to say it #but I feel awful for channie

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nomlin · 4 months

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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭𝙞. 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙥

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

Leather sticks to your back. Clammy. Unforgiving. The discomfort wakes you.

As you rouse to consciousness, a pleasant soreness of utter satisfaction blooms between your thighs and in your muscles. It brings a slow smile. You stretch out with ease, joints popping and cracking.

Huh. You can stretch out with ease.

Propping yourself up on elbows, you blink away the gum in your eyes. Changbin is nowhere to be found.

There is, however, another.

“Looking for someone?”

In the dim studio light, a glare of harsh red confuses until features—unsettlingly serene—sharpen with clarity. Your heart stops— something stops.

Oh, fuck.

“W— What are you... Where’s Changbin? Why—”

Chan cocks his head. “He stepped out. Getting coffee, probably, right in time for you to wake up to. He’s sweet like that.”

He rakes a lazy gaze over your entirely naked form from the chair he’s sitting on, the disdain in his eyes so clear it ventures on borderline disgust. Shouldn’t make you so giddy. Shouldn’t make you want to spread your legs and extend invitation. You should be screaming and covering up. He hates you.

“How did you...”

“How did I know he was here?” He scoffs. “The man I’ve spent every day with for ten years? How did I know where he’d disappear to when he wanted to hide something from me?”

“Listen, I—”

“Oh, I'm not interested in, like, anything you have to say,” he says. “I’m here for Bin.”

“And I’m here with Bin,” you snap. “By actual invitation.”

Chan’s composure slips into a cold glare. “Are you suggesting I'm not wanted here? In my own boyfriends’ studio?”

“Of course not.” You try to reign it in, the potential for disaster sticking at the back of your throat. It’d only take one word for this to blow. “I just think that if he was actually trying to hide this from you, he’d have taken me somewhere else. We didn’t even plan on this.” You gesture to yourself as exhibit A. “It just happened.”

“Right. Sure it did. Like you haven’t been texting him every day for two weeks begging for this.”

“Begging?”

“Desperation stinks, honey.”

“So does jealousy.”

He stares, runs his tongue over his perfect teeth. Wolfish. Sends a shiver down your spine. “You know,” he says, folds his arms. His leather jacket tightens. “I can’t fathom what it is that Changbin sees in you.”

Your skin prickles, nerves surging as though bracing themselves for the incoming onslaught.

“Jisungie and Minho, I understand. I get it. Minho is beautiful, talented. He has so much going for him, even I was taken with him when we first met.” He purses his lips, unfolds his arms and gestures to you. “But you? You’re just—”

You rise from the sofa and quickly tug Changbin’s discarded hoodie on, the garment falling to your upper thigh.

“You’re like night and day,” Chan continues. “Total opposites. I mean; you work in a coffee shop, right? No prospects other than that? At your age?”

You glance around for your phone. Can’t find it.

“How did you and Minho even meet? He couldn’t have found someone more interesting to live with? Or fuck?” He leans forward, an attempt to catch your attention. “Because you two are also fucking right? But you’re not, like, together. It’s not real. Can’t say I'm shocked he didn’t want to commit. It’s the only thing about this that makes sense—”

And blind rage guides your hand when you turn towards him and swing a sharp slap across his cheek, the painful smack ringing out across the studio.

Chan seizes and grips his face, vivid colour blooming on the pale, flawless skin. Your palm stings, and it feels fucking awesome. Eases the bitter pain in your chest. Cools the lust that simmers beneath your hatred, for that should be all you’re feeling— hatred. Pure contempt. Revulsion and rage towards the man that so belittles you. Yet the little black box sheepishly lifts it lid, trembling with arousal at the heinous appeals of his degradation. It whispers the joys of being on your knees at Chan’s mercy, of taking from him whatever he might be good enough to give, because you are as appalling as he claims— a dirty, desperate fuck toy that would give her left arm just for a lick of the obscene parts of him.

You slam the lid of the black box down and spit it at. Enough is enough.

It’s high time you stood tall and recognised that the man you admired as a genius of production, a musical prodigy, a deity among men, ‘CB97’—all that you loved of him from afar and still do up close—is in reality, a giant asshole.

fst marathon event~ next chapter in 24 hrs. drop a reblog and comment, show your support and i'll keep the content coming x

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

#wow ok #rude as heck #chan are you projecting your insecurities rn?#we're all hypocrites one way or another #but #mc do your thing #dom him #for me 👉👈

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nomlin · 4 months

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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙭𝙭𝙭. 𝙞 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

The privileged girl works the rich boy over with her mouth. Rich boy whimpers and his cheeks are pretty pink. Privileged girl tastes the salt on her tongue and thinks about how fucking privileged she is.

And why wouldn’t you?

On the precipice of coming, Changbin stops you.

“Here.” He pats his thighs, cock sprung and wet. Glistening hard. “Ride me.”

You strip yourself and climb hurriedly to his lap, the broad head of his length catching when he aligns. The little black box is wide open, eyes on stalks to take it all in.

“Fuck, you’re so hot—”

Silence him by capturing his mouth, sink over his girth and tremble with the sensation of fullness. He could split you in two. You’d— Fuck, you’d thank him. Your slow, breathless grind allows you a minute; Changbin groans and guides you by swell of hips, eyes darkened by lust.

“Feel so good, baby.” He throws his head back. “Fuck, you fit me so well. How do you fit me so well—” A snap of his hips. “Make me want to fucking ruin you—”

It devolves as he plants his feet and carnally pounds you, impaling deep and slick. Forced to support yourself by arms around his neck, your back is deliciously abused by the rake of stubbed nails, bruised by the iron grip he keeps. Helpless but to take, take, take what he gives yet aware of how he keens when you nip and suck his throat between cries, latching and sucking to his clear delight. Pretty pink and purple blooms on his sweaty skin, sealed by your lips. You hope the marks will hold until Chan sees them. You hope they enrage him. Hope they turn him on. Hope he’ll kiss over them and make fresh ones of his own. How lucky Bin is, to be thrown back and forth by those that covet him.

“B— Bin, ngh—”

“Yeah, baby.” He hooks an arm around your body and pulls you closer, your pelvis arched inwards, the presentation of your ass made good upon by the hand that drops to squeeze your cheek and spread you; he feels so fucking big like this, tight against your entrance.

“Don’t stop— Please don’t stop, Bin—”

“God, fuck, I’m close.”

“Not inside me,” you breathlessly request, pushing yourself from the man’s chest to better convey the message. He’s blissfully fucked-out, rosy bottom lip drawn between his teeth, but nods his frantic understanding and lifts you from his throbbing length just in time to have your navel and his abs defiled by warmth of cum. He pants and his body blushes, soft abs contracting under the decoration, rounded tits heaving with pink nipples so pert you can hardly help closing a kiss over them.

“Fuck, fuck—” he sighs, kissing you swiftly and drawing you close. Glowing though admittedly far from orgasm, you kiss the man’s temple and cheek, his wet lips, prepared to stay with him while he basks in it; but he’s as insatiable as you. Cannot possibly entertain that you leave this unsated. He lifts you, urges you to stand on the sofa over him, your left foot planted to the soft seat while the left is hoisted to the back, thus presenting your sensitivity.

With only four one syllable words he sucks your soul from your body:

“Ride my face, babe.”

He attaches his mouth to you, unbothered by the wetness, the mess, the heat. Difficult at first to fall into a comfortable grind, but desire eventually dictates the slow, sensual movement. Dragging yourself across his tongue and lips, you tremble with the exertion while he conducts the act with endless enthusiasm. On an excited tremble, his cum drips from your navel to his forehead; he rasps a throaty laugh and quickly swipes it, smearing it across his similarly soiled abs. He reaches up and inserts a thick finger to stimulate you into a quiver so violent you can hardly remain upright— he hums and says breathlessly:

“You taste even better after you’ve been fucked.”

Is that the thing to send you into an orgasm so brutal it almost topples you? Changbin supports your body, laps at where you quiver, and when satisfied, guides you to sit beside him.

Minutes stretch on as Changbin attends to your cleanup—no easy task in a studio ill equipped for a refractory period. He returns to the sofa with you, makes no move to suggest you should redress or leave. This is his space, he says. Stay, he pleads. You acquiesce and kiss him sweetly. Let the man rest on your tummy and card through his thick curls.

You’re safe here with him, he sighs contentedly.

You smile. Wonder if the same could be said of him being here with you.

Eventually, you fall into a contented doze.

Late is the hour, long has been the day, and with Changbin wrapped around you, they may be longer still.

fst marathon event~ next chapter in 24 hrs. drop a reblog and comment, show your support and i'll keep the content coming as quick as spearb did this chapter 💦 x