#and I DID actually shut the fuck up most of the time

[spcherryygirl]

𝓜𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝓐𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 — 𝓙. 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒅

𝓢 YNOPSIS : : you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love, love, love you.

𝓒ONTENTS : : yearner!jason todd. yearner!reader. female!reader. injuries( his scars. not detailed, the fic is sfw ). mentions of the lazarus pit. povs are separated ( still in second person. jason's first, then reader's ). ooc(?) jason feeling underserving woah woah woah. fluff. angst (?). mentions of sex. some parts are inspired by lyrics. ( new ) established relationship. no beta read, we die like bruce's parents. wc : 2.4k

BOOKS — DC BOOK

REQUESTED ; SUGGESTED : : @yeoniverseee && @laufeysgoddess

ᨦ𓏲 ، ݃♟❜ : : this is kind of,, a remake of this,,, if u squint.. layout slightly inspired by @laufeysgoddess ' carrd mwah mwah.,, ig it can be gn!reader, ithinkitjinkiithink also. i made hannie & ellie pick a fic to remake & they picked this !! & i was feeling very most ardently these days lolzsk. i am a STRONG believer that jay cried the first time he has sex with someone he really, really loves. like my "my love, mine all mine" fic,, JAY DED CRIED THERE SHUT UP. okay, now im really just recycling the pictures and layouts hehehehe. also,, 800???? YOU GUYS?????? ARE???? 800??? EIGHT HUNDRED ?????? EIGHT FUCKING HUNDRED ???? IM MAKING BABIES W U ALL. some parts here are actually what i said to @fromdove 😋( this is also dedicated to her btw. all of my works r prolly dedicated to her, hannie & ellie ) i love her ( including my cherries ) as much as i love jay, btw !! i tried to be poetic, guys. i really did🥀. idk if i hate this or love THEM. also... @yintous jinxed the crying part........ yin, you freak. this took me a whole week gng #writersblockslanderer. probably not ur taste in fics bc it's more focused on how they love

every time. every single time he finds himself staring at you too long, he hears it in his head like a fucking prayer. not that he's still into that kind of thing, but anyway. there's something sacred about the way you smile at him. something that gives him the sense that he has god's favorite secret beside him on the couch, his hoodie wrapped around your with her hair tied up in a bun and your toes against his thigh.

he thinks you're unreal. and maybe a little unfair. because you're soft with him. too soft. you're gentle in ways he doesn't think he deserves, like you were made to prove him wrong just by existing in his space. just by existing on this planet, actually.

it's a new relationship. not new in the way that it's uncomfortable or awkward. just new enough that he still feels the flutter in his belly when you kiss him first. just new enough that anything little you do still surprises him.

like how you touch his scars.

not with pity. not with horror. and obviously, not even with that unattached interest people sometimes get. no. you touch them like they're part of a map you're memorizing. like your fingers are tracing out every inch of what made him and you don't want to miss a single marker.

"this one," you said once, tracing over the raised scar near his ribs, "looks like a half moon."

and he looked at you like you'd said something ridiculous. because who the hell gazes at a scar━━a remnant of a knife that nearly killed him( not really )━━and thinks of the fucking moon?

you do. apparently.

he wants to write that down somewhere. with a permanent marker. place it into the back of his head so he'll never forget the way you looked at him that way. like you saw something lovely in all the spaces he thought were destroyed. maybe a tattoo would do.

sleeping beside you is its own kind of pain. he doesn't sleep much, usually. his body doesn't find stillness comfortable. but when you're in his arms, curled into his chest, breathing slow and steady and trusting him with your entire heart, he sleeps like the dead. it's dangerous. it's silly( not to you ). it's addictive. he wakes with his arm around your waist and his nose pressed to the back of your neck and wonders if perhaps this is what peace feels like.

god, not once in his life. even when bruce wayne took him in, thought he'd get to feel that.

and when you kiss him━━god, when you kiss him━━it's like you can feel what he wants before he can. you kiss him slow. careful. sometimes sloppy, sometimes quick. but always as if he belongs to you. as if there is another place in the entire world you'd rather be. and he breaks down. melt. dissolves for it every time. he leans into it with his entire body, as if the only thing holding him to reality is your lips on his.

having sex with you isn't forgetting. not with him. not anymore.

it's not an escape. or temporary. it's a return. a coming home. it's permanent.

you're kind to him. not only in kisses. but in the way you look at him when he undresses in front of you. in the way you stroke his back like it's holy. in the way you whisper his name like it's fragile.

he recalls the first time you had sex. the day he first cried while having sex with you. recalls how he attempted to hide it. bury his face in your shoulder and try to convince himself that it was merely sweat. but you were aware. of course, you were aware. and you kissed his temple and whispered, "i've got you," as if he wasn't shattering in your hands.

you make him believe that he is worth the gentleness. worth, this.

and perhaps he is. perhaps, with you, he is.

because you stay. even when he's not speaking. even when he's being grumpy or distant or two steps away from breaking. you stay. you wrap yourself around him and fetch him tea and refuse to ask him questions he doesn't want to respond to. and somehow, that gets him to speak. not everything. but enough. enough for you to understand.

he spoke to you about the pit. once. and only once. you didn't flinch. just gripped his hand. and said he was here. now. with you.

he trusts you.

and that shit scares him.

love was never simple for him. even before the pit. it was always rough. always a distance. but with you, it is. still. not in the boring sense. in the safe sense. in the "i can finally breathe again" sense. it's rough. but no longer a distance.

sometimes you're singing in the kitchen. poorly. on purpose. or not. and he leans in the doorframe and listens to you spin around in your socks, spatula clutched like a microphone, and he thinks, i could die right now and it would be enough.

he doesn't say anything. not yet. but he thinks about it all the time.

and he loves you. most ardently. passionately. in every possible way that a person can love.

in the way he remembers your coffee order and has a hair tie wrapped around his wrist for you.

in the way he allows you to see him when he's at his worst.

in the way he handles you like you're fragile. like you're not. like you're his.

in the way he sleeps more soundly when you're breathing next to him.

in the way he wishes to believe again in the future.

he loves you. hurtfully. shamelessly. completely. perfectly.

and if he could cut that into the sky, he would.

he loves you in the "let's run barefoot across the universe together" sort of way.

to saturn and back and then beyond.

to the spaces between stars where time loses track of how to move.

and jason todd━━jason peter fucking todd━━doesn't want to be rescued anymore. the child. the second robin. red hood. jason todd.

they all just want to stay.

with you.

he has no idea what he looks like when he is in love. but you do.

you've committed it to memory. tattooed it( at least, in your mind you did ) near your heart. the gentle droop of his eyelids when he gazes at you as if you're a dream. the slight opening of his lips, as if there is something he would like to say but can't. how his hand lingers in mid air before it settles on the small of your back, as if requesting permission still, even now, despite all that has happened.

he stares at you as if you're the last sacred thing in a world of tombs.

and you feel it. every ounce of the burden he bears. not because he loads it onto you, but because he never does. he bears it all as though he was meant to endure it alone, and you have to press yourself into the crack just to make him remember that he doesn't have to. not anymore.

you love him like breathing. all the time, without thinking, with no effort at all. it's just there. like his name on your tongue. like his shirts in your drawer. like the way your heart slows when you hear the front door open and it's him. again. and god, you never felt more real.

you remember the first time he told you about the pit. how his voice sounded like it was scraping the edge of something sharp. how he didn’t look at you, didn’t blink, just stared at the floor like it held the truth and the punishment and the apology all at once.

he said it like it was a confession. like it would be the thing that finally pushed you away. that will make you want to not stay.

it didn't.

you simply leaned over, wrapped your fingers around his, and told him, "you're here now."

he blinked then. just once. as if he was trying to process your words. as if he had no idea that something so simple could mean so much.

sometimes, you wonder if jason todd doesn't know that he's still alive.

not just breathing. but alive.

in the way his eyebrow creases when you laugh too loudly. in the way he rolls his eyes when you steal fries from his plate but pushes the rest up towards you anyway. in the way he allows you to sit on his lap with a book in your hand, not saying a word, just,, existing.

his scars don't frighten you. they never have.

he showed them to you as if he was getting ready to be turned down. again. god. it's like he expects you to just vanish. as if he was showing you the remains of a city he didn't think anyone would want to live in.

you touched them all. one by one. kissed the one under his rib. trailed your fingers over the one that curves into his shoulder. learned the mosaics of him with devotion. patience.

"you're not broken," you told him. "you're written."

he didn't say a word for a long time afterward. just gazed at you like you'd reached into your pocket and pulled out the sun and given it to him.

he tries━━no━━he does his best. every day. every time.

that's what bothers you the most. the way he's doing so hard. not to be good. not to be complete. but to be gentle with you. to be with you. even when it hurts. even when he's afraid.

you notice it the way he cradles your face like you'll disappear. the way he asks you "this okay?" even when it's just your limbs knotted up on the couch. the way he wears your keys around his neck( just to make sure he won't lose it, he told you once. ) like they're where they're supposed to be.

you recall the first time you had sex.

how he touched you like prayer. how his lips shook against yours. how his voice cracked when he said your name.

you knew. immediately. when his breath caught and his chest faltered and he tried to hide his face in your neck, you knew.

and so you cradled him. gently and slowly. allowed him to rest in your arms as if he were something fragile. kissed his temple and said, "i've got you," repeatedly until he accepted it. until he relaxed.

you don't realize that no one's ever made him feel little before. like that. little as in the safe kind.

he clung to you as if he thought he'd lose you if he relaxed his hold.

he didn't have anything to say then. just sat there. still. for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

he looks at you as if you're cut out of finer stuff. but you look at him and observe someone who has been to hell and is still willing to be kind. still tries. still wakes up every morning and makes coffee and leans his head on your chest as if he's found home.

you'd adore him in all the iterations of this life. even the ones in which you never get to hold him.

but you do. and that's the part that takes your breath away.

when he kisses you, it's all. everything. like he's famished and you're the only thing that ever satisfied him. he kisses you like nothing else exists. like if he died the instant after, it'd be alright. because he got to have this.

when you kiss him back, you kiss him with the same desperation. the same longing.

he once held your face in his hands, he didn't say it. i don't think he needed to. you don't either. the words, "you feel like home." was a line the author made solely for him. to recite it to you, the love interest. his love interest.

and you smiled as though your heart was breaking.

because that's what he is. to you. every hurting bit of him. every bruise and sigh and quiet stare and kisses. he is home. he is the place you come back to. the one you'd wait for lifetimes. the one you'd fall in love with all over again.

he can't say it in words, so he says it in everything else.

he gives you flowers wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper. leaves you little notes in your pockets. sits with you through thunderstorms just because you hate the sound.

he stays.

even when he's exhausted. even when he thinks he shouldn't.

and you do, too.

you stay when he's quiet. when he's distant. when he's hurting and doesn't talk until you're kissing his bruised knuckles.

you stay when he's laughing and when he's too far gone to remember why and how.

you stay because there's not a piece of him you'd want to leave.

you love him in the gentlest ways. in the harshest ones. in all the ways he doesn't believe he's worthy of being loved.

you love him when he's in your bed, breath warm against you, arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline.

you love him when he's disappeared for hours and returns with your favorite pastry because he "just happened to pass by."

you love him when he refuses to say he's hurting but lays his head in your lap like a silent surrender.

you love him because you do.

because something in you saw something in him and chose him anyway.

and you think━━no, you know━━that he is the great love of your life.

he doesn't think in miracles. but you do.

and you think he could be one.

because somehow, some way, despite it all, despite the blood and the grave and the fucked up environment, he's here.

with you.

and if you could have him write that in the stars, you would.

because you love him in the way the sky turns soft pink when the sun forgets how to hide, disappear, go down.

because you love him in the pauses between words, in the spaces between stars, in every what if, could be, maybe, probably, really, statistically speaking, almost, & someday.

he has bewitched you. body and soul.

and you never want it to shatter.

© spcherryygirl

[giuliannna]

WATCH YOUR MOUTH

— it only takes one slip of the tongue to remind you who’s actually there for you. requested by this ask

you’re already losing your mind beneath him.

hamzah’s hands are heavy on your hips, pulling you back into him. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, your moans barely audible over the obscene noises echoing off the walls.

“feels so fuckin’ good,” hamzah praises roughly against your ear. his fingers dig into the flesh of your waist, sure to leave marks, hips snapping forward against your ass over and over like he can’t get enough of you.

you claw at the sheets, gasping, your jaw going slack. h mindless words fall from your lips over and over, soft, whimpering.

it’s perfect, like always, until you fuck it up.

a singular mistake.

instead of hamzah’s name, you sigh out the name of another man.

an ex boyfriend. a fling, maybe.

you’re not sure - you hardly even registered it slipping out.

but the second the name fell upon hamzah’s ears, he came to a still, his cock still shoved deep inside you.

“..what did you just say?”

his voice is way too calm. you squeeze your eyes shut, your breathing labored. “shit. i don’t know why i-”

before you can even finish your pathetic excuse, he’s moving again.

hamzah holds you tighter, his chest to your back. one arm snakes around your waist, the other wrapping around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but you feel a rush of dizziness in your head.

his mouth presses to your ear from behind, his voice a sharp whisper. “say that again. i fuckin’ dare you.”

you whimper, shaking your head. “no, no, hamzah, i swear-”

his grip on your throat tightens just a little, thumb brushing under your jaw.

“who’s fucking you right now, huh?” he hisses.

“you,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“who’s making you feel this good?”

“you, you, hamzah, it’s you, i swear-”

“mm. not good enough.”

his hips slam into you, the force knocking the breath from your lungs. you cry out, fingers twisting in the sheets as he fucks you rougher, his breath ragged against your skin.

“you think about him when you’re like this, huh?” hamzah growls, hand sliding between your legs, fingers relentlessly circling where you need him most. “do you?”

you sob, back arching. “no, no, just you, fuck-”

he chuckles darkly against your ear, amused at your lack of coherent sentences.

his pace is brutal now, each thrust knocking you further up the bed, your knees sore against the mattress but you can’t bring yourself to care. his fingers are still on your clit, quick, merciless, bringing you closer to the edge.

“hamzah, please-” your voice breaks around his name, your throat feeling raw.

“please what?” his lips drag along your shoulder, his teeth grazing the delicate skin.

you can’t even form the words. your body’s shaking, thighs trembling, eyes wet with tears you hadn’t realized were slipping down your cheeks.

he laughs low in his throat, a rough, sinful sound. his hand slips from your clit only to slap lightly against it, making you twitch. “c’mon. tell me.”

“m’gonna cum,” you cry, body arching back into him, desperate for the release you’ve been pushed to. “please, hamzah, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it-”

his hand closes around your jaw, turning your face to the side until your cheek’s pressed into the pillow. “mmh, i don’t think you are.”

“say it again.” his voice drops lower, like a promise and a threat wrapped in one. “say you’re sorry.”

your breath hitches, a pit of shame opening in your stomach. “i’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes wired shut, whole body trembling.

hamzah groans, hips stuttering. “fuck, that’s right. good girl.”

you barely have time to take another breath before he’s pulling out and flipping you over, his hands rough but careful as your back lands against the mattress. his eyes are dark and his jaw is clenched tight as he stares down at you.

“look at me,” he mutters, sliding back inside in one hard thrust that has you crying out and wrapping your legs around his waist on instinct.

you’re trying, you really are, but your vision’s blurry, your body so drunk on him you can barely keep your eyelids from drooping.

he presses a hand into the mattress right beside your head, the other grabbing under your knee and pushing it up, angling you open for him, pushing himself deeper.

your fingers find his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. whines and moans tumble from your lips completely unfiltered.

his forehead presses to yours, his breath coming in sharp bursts. “that’s it. you sound so fuckin’ pretty.”

your hands tangle in his hair, tugging on the roots as the pressure in your belly winds tighter and tighter. he groans, hips rocking into you with a force that leaves you gasping.

“c’mon,” he mutters against your mouth. “show me who’s makin’ you feel good.”

and you do - your orgasm hits hard, a sharp, blinding rush that rips through you so fast your whole body locks up. you sob his name, clinging to him, shaking under him each wave crashes over you.

he works you through it, murmuring praises against your skin “ohh, god - just like that, fuck..”

soon, you’re limp beneath him. chest heaving, fingers trembling where they’re still curled in his hair. his hands are gentler now, smoothing over your waist and thighs.

“hey,” his voice softens, the harshness fading out of it. “look at me.”

you blink up at him, eyes dazed and glassy.

his thumb brushes along your cheek, catching a stray tear you hadn’t noticed. “you okay?”

you nod, a shaky little breath leaving your lips. “yeah. yeah, i’m okay.”

he presses a kiss to your forehead, his weight sinking down just enough to wrap you up in his arms, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

“not so hard to remember me now, huh?”

xoxo giulia

[cheolsbitch]

“Three’s Not a Crowd”

Summary:

You’re just roommates—best friends, nothing more. But when you admit no man has ever made you cum, Minho and Jisung take it as a challenge. What starts as teasing turns into denial, control, and desperation as they make you beg for every touch—except the one thing you want most.

Content Warning:

Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, spanking, light humiliation, power dynamics, dominance/submission themes, possessiveness, psychological play, polyamory (m/m/f), bxb content, emotional manipulation in a sexual context, and intense teasing. All acts are fully consensual but heavily rooted in delayed gratification and power control.

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

“This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”

You don’t even flinch when a pillow smacks you dead in the face.

“You’ve paused this movie three times now,” Jisung groans from where he’s sprawled across the couch like a tired housecat. “At this point we might as well just reenact it ourselves.”

“You wanna play the role of ‘Guy Who Dies in the First Five Minutes’?” you mutter, flinging popcorn at his forehead.

Minho snorts from the kitchen. “He’d overact and cry for no reason. The director would kill him off faster.”

“Excuse you,” Jisung gasps, sitting up indignantly, his hair a disaster and his sweatpants even worse. “I am a natural-born thespian. Right, babe?”

You blink at him. “Don’t call me babe.”

“You let Minho call you babe,” he whines, pouting now. “This is favoritism.”

“He doesn’t call me babe,” you say, just as Minho strolls in and casually drops into the seat next to you.

“Babe, you want the last can of cider?” he asks, already handing it to you.

You take it, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

It’s always like this — loud, stupid, a little too close. No boundaries. No filters. Just the three of you, the weirdest little trio to ever share a rent bill.

Jisung throws his leg over yours without asking, warm skin brushing yours where your shorts ride up. Minho leans into your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arm slung lazily along the back of the couch. No part of this should feel abnormal. It never used to.

But then again, you’re pretty sure Minho’s hand just grazed the top of your thigh when he shifted.

And you’re definitely not thinking about the way Jisung’s bare knee is pressed between yours, or how his voice goes lower when he talks like that.

You crack open the can and take a long sip.

Nope. Not thinking about it at all.

“Men Are Actually So Useless”

You shut the apartment door as quietly as you can, slipping your shoes off with a sigh. It’s almost 1 a.m. Your date ended forty-five minutes ago, and you’ve been walking off the frustration ever since.

You’d shaved. You’d worn perfume. You’d even sat through two hours of small talk with a man who thought astrology was “girl math.” And for what?

To get railed like a fleshlight and left hanging.

Pathetic.

You’re halfway to your room when a voice calls out from the couch.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.”

You groan internally. Of course they’re still up.

Minho’s half-asleep on one end of the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, blanket up to his chin. Jisung is sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching on leftover dumplings and looking way too smug.

“Don’t,” you warn, not even turning around.

“Aw, come on,” Jisung says through a mouthful of rice. “How was your date? Did he whine about the check or just show you his Spotify Wrapped?”

You pivot slowly, arms crossed. “He came in under two minutes.”

Minho lifts his head. “Like… into the date?”

“No,” you say flatly. “Into me.”

Jisung chokes on his food.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then—

“Bro.”

“What the fuck—”

“Are you serious?”

You walk to the kitchen, ignoring their reactions, and grab a cold bottle of water. The twist of the cap feels like violence. “I should’ve known when he asked if foreplay was like, optional.”

Minho groans. “Oh my God.”

“He literally said — and I quote — ‘I usually skip it unless it’s their birthday.’”

Jisung drops his chopsticks like the dramatics he is. “Men are actually a crime. A war crime. I want names.”

You sit on the counter and take a swig of water, swinging your legs. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna start pretending sex doesn’t exist. Like birds.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Birds do exist.”

“Not to me.”

Jisung stares at you for a second. “Wait, are you telling me you didn’t finish?”

“Jisung.” You stare back, deadpan. “I’ve never finished. Not from another person. I genuinely think the female orgasm is a myth. Like… Santa. Or straight men who actually eat pussy.”

Minho visibly winces.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap, pointing at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Looks away.

Exactly.

Jisung throws his hands up. “No, you’re right. We’re hopeless. I’ve seen porn and I still don’t know what the clit looks like.”

You snort. “It’s okay. Neither does anyone I’ve ever dated.”

There’s another pause. One of those loaded, too-quiet ones.

Then Minho mutters under his breath, “Maybe you’re just dating the wrong people.”

You blink.

Jisung slowly turns toward him, eyebrows raised.

“What was that?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says immediately. “Forget it.”

But you don’t. And neither does Jisung.

Because something about the way he said it—

The quiet.

The certainty.

—makes something in your chest stir.

You’re still perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, water bottle in hand. The silence after Minho’s little comment sits heavy in the air, even with the distant hum of the fridge and Jisung’s abandoned dumplings growing cold on the coffee table.

Then, casually — like he’s talking about the weather — Minho speaks again.

“I’ve never left anyone high and dry.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, leaning back into the couch. “I’ve never been that guy. They always finish. Every single time.”

You snort. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know you’re serious,” you say, sliding off the counter. “You just sound dumb.”

Minho blinks. “Why?”

“Because they were acting, dumbass.”

His jaw twitches.

You wave your hand dramatically. “Moaning, shaking, saying your name like you’re the second coming of Christ? All fake. Peak performance. Women deserve Oscars.”

“I know the difference between fake and real.”

You laugh in his face. “Oh my God.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Jisung raises a finger. “Okay, hold on. I always let the girl finish before me, too—”

“You think you do,” you say.

He stops mid-sentence, blinking. “Wait. What if they faked it too?”

“Exactly,” you mutter. “Men always assume they’re God’s gift to—”

“No, no, no, don’t do this to me,” Jisung says, pointing at his own heart. “I give effort. I go in with a strategy. I pace myself. I’ve got rhythm. I ask questions.”

Minho laughs into his blanket. “You sound like you’re planning a heist.”

“This is a heist. Stealing orgasms. Successfully.” Jisung looks at you, distressed. “Wait, what if I’m just mid?”

Minho wipes a tear of laughter from his eye. “Do they leave right away?”

“What?”

“The girls you’re with. Do they get up and ghost right after, or do they cling? Text you later? Try to come back for more?”

Jisung pauses.

Thinks.

“…They cling.”

Minho raises his brows, smug. “Exactly.”

“So… I’m good?”

“You’re welcome.”

Jisung looks weirdly proud of himself now, arms crossed and chin up like he’s just been knighted.

You just stare at them both, blinking slowly.

“This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever heard,” you mutter.

Minho turns his attention back to you, eyes lazy, voice casual. “I know when it’s real. Don’t lump me in with your trash date.”

You open your mouth to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to mock.

But then you remember the way he’d said it the first time—quiet, certain, calm—and the way he’s looking at you now.

And for some reason…

You say nothing at all.

“You Two Are All Talk”

You’re sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by greasy takeout boxes, scattered shot glasses, and half-finished bottles of soju and beer. The air smells like sweet alcohol and fried food, and someone — probably Jisung — spilled peach soju on the remote, which means you’re now stuck watching a dating show that none of you care about.

The TV’s playing in the background, but you’re more focused on watching Jisung reenact one of the over-the-top breakup scenes using a piece of fried chicken as a microphone.

“—and then she goes, ‘I just feel like you’re not emotionally available,’” he says in a fake high-pitched voice, holding the drumstick dramatically to his chest. “Girl, he ghosted his own mom! Of course he’s not available!”

Minho’s snorting into his beer bottle, lounging on the couch with one arm thrown lazily behind his head.

You’re sipping straight from a bottle of plum wine, blinking slowly. “Still more emotionally satisfying than my date.”

“Okay, we get it,” Jisung sighs, tossing the chicken bone onto a napkin. “Your sex life’s a horror movie. We’ve been hearing about this man’s 45-second sprint for days.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You two act like you’re walking sex ed posters.”

Minho glances at you lazily. “Because we are.”

You laugh — hard. “Right. You two probably watched one moaning compilation and decided you’re gifted by the gods.”

“I do my research!” Jisung insists, sitting up straighter. “I study. I prepare.”

“Yeah? So you’re publishing a thesis now? ‘Women Are Easy: A Straight Man’s Journey Through Delusion’?”

Minho lifts his beer, grinning. “You’re just mad because your date couldn’t find the clit with GPS.”

You gesture at him with your wine. “Please. You probably think the clit is a setting on a washing machine.”

“I’ve had people shaking,” Minho says, smug.

“From disappointment?”

He smirks. “From pleasure, kitten.”

You groan. “Stop calling me that.”

“She looks like she’s gonna throw something,” Jisung mutters.

“I’m fine,” you say sweetly, taking another long swig. “Just dying of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Never have I ever“

An hour later, Jisung announces shots like it’s a public service.

There’s a dangerous mix of bottles on the table — soju, tequila, beer, someone’s emergency stash of rum Minho “accidentally” found in your closet. You’re all way past tipsy and deep into dangerously oversharing territory.

“I swear to God,” Jisung slurs, trying to stack the bottle caps like a tower, “if this one doesn’t count, I’m doing a truth round.”

You just laugh and refill your cup. “You’re already three truths deep. It’s called Never Have I Ever, not Tell All My Kinks and Cry About It.”

Minho raises his half-empty glass. “Never have I ever… had sex in a moving vehicle.”

You drink.

They both stare at you.

You shrug. “Backseat. Wasn’t great. Windows fogged up. Whole Titanic reenactment. Zero payoff.”

Minho smirks. “You really do have hidden talents, kitten.”

“I swear to God if you say that one more time—”

“What? It suits you.”

“You’re literally projecting a furry kink onto me.”

“No, I’m projecting cutie with claws energy onto you.”

You take another drink just to avoid screaming.

“Okay, okay—my turn,” Jisung says, pointing dramatically. “Never have I ever… choked someone during sex.”

You and Minho both drink.

Jisung makes a noise. “Wait, you?!”

You shrug. “I’ve had a weird phase or two.”

“She’s so mysterious,” Minho teases, leaning in. “What else don’t we know?”

“That I regret agreeing to this game.”

“Liar,” he says, grinning. “You live for the drama.”

Jisung grins, drunk and delighted. “Never have I ever had a kink I was scared to tell someone.”

Minho drinks.

You raise your brow. “Spill.”

He just licks his lips and smiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know… kitten.”

You throw a napkin at his face. “Get a new personality.”

“I’m gonna get it printed on a t-shirt,” he says proudly.

“Make it two,” Jisung adds.

You groan.

Jisung turns to you, squinting. “Okay, what about you? Be real. What’s your weirdest kink?”

“I don’t have one.”

Minho snorts. “Liar.”

“I don’t!”

“You’re too aggressive to be vanilla. I don’t buy it.”

“I will fight both of you in the street.”

“I’d still call you kitten.”

“I’ll put you in a headlock.”

“Still hot.”

You down the rest of your drink.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

—

The bottle of tequila is almost empty, which means the decisions being made now are… unsupervised at best.

Someone — probably you, but you’ll deny it later — suggested switching to dares after Jisung confessed he once cried mid-blowjob because the girl played a Taylor Swift song in the background and it “unlocked a core memory.”

There’s no music anymore. Just laughter, slurred speech, and the occasional crash of something being knocked over as Minho tries to do yoga in jeans for a dare.

“I’m literally—” he wheezes, stuck in a sad downward dog, “—so flexible.”

“You’re gonna snap your spine,” you say, lying sideways on the couch, cheeks flushed from alcohol and laughter.

“You love it,” he grins, not even getting up. “Don’t act like you don’t wanna see me in this position.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Born this way, kitten.”

“I swear to God.”

Jisung downs a shot. “Alright! My turn again. Truth or dare, baby girl?”

You throw a pillow at his face. “You call me that again and I’m putting your toothbrush in the toilet.”

He giggles. “Dare it is.”

You groan. “Fine. Hit me.”

Jisung lights up with pure evil. “I dare you to send a ‘you up?’ text to the last person you matched with.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Absolutely not.”

Minho sits up with interest. “Do it.”

“I’m blocking both of you.”

Jisung leans in. “Come on, you said you wanted someone with actual experience, remember?”

“I also said I wanted to be hit by a bus.”

“Same vibe.”

You groan louder, but you grab your phone anyway. “If I get ghosted or proposed to, it’s your fault.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Jisung says, raising his glass.

You fire off the message, toss your phone face-down, and collapse dramatically across Minho’s lap, already regretting everything.

“Ow,” he says, not even trying to push you off. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“You’re skinnier than your attitude,” you mutter into his thigh.

He just laughs, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “Still comfy though?”

You flip him off without looking.

“Still cute though,” he says, way too casually.

You groan. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love being called kitten.”

“I don’t!”

“Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You dramatically slide off his lap and onto the floor like a melting popsicle. “I’m gonna actually lose it.”

“Too late,” Jisung says. “You lost it three shots ago.”

You throw another pillow at him.

He throws one back.

Minho just watches, sipping his drink and smiling like he’s hosting a sitcom.

“Alright,” you say, slurring a little, “who’s next before I start throwing hands?”

“You just went,” Minho smirks from the couch, legs spread, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “It’s my turn.”

“Oh no,” Jisung groans. “This is how we die.”

Minho lifts his shot glass, looking far too pleased with himself. “Jisung. I dare you to reenact the most dramatic porn line you’ve ever heard.”

Jisung doesn’t even blink. “Challenge accepted.”

He clears his throat like he’s prepping for a Shakespearean monologue.

Then, in the most unhinged, breathy voice you’ve ever heard:

“Doctor… I think my clothes are allergic to me. They just keep falling off.”

You choke on your drink. Minho lets out an actual wheeze.

“No, no wait—” Jisung holds up a hand, getting into position. “Let me set the scene.”

He kicks over a chair pretending it’s a hospital gurney and drops to one knee dramatically.

��Oh no, step-sir… I’m stuck. In my own feelings. For you.”

You’re crying. Actually crying. There are tears in your eyes.

“Step-sir!?” you gasp between laughs. “I hate you so much!”

Minho’s laughing so hard he’s gone silent.

“You’re welcome,” Jisung says with a bow, then promptly stands up and starts grinding to the faint beat of a TikTok sound someone left playing on a loop.

“Why does he dance like a drunk worm?” you mutter.

“He is a drunk worm,” Minho replies, refilling his glass.

“You love it!” Jisung yells mid-body roll, nearly falling over.

“I love you less every second.”

You all spiral again.

Once the laughter dies down and Jisung finally collapses into a heap, panting from his own twerk attempt, he raises his hand like he’s back in school.

“Okay. New round,” he says, breathing hard. “Everyone says their real kink. No lies.”

You groan. “This again?”

Minho leans in. “You scared, kitten?”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You flip him off but stay seated.

“Fine,” Jisung says. “I’ll go first. Praise kink. But like—genuine praise. Not condescending.”

Minho raises a brow. “You want someone to pat your head and go ‘Good boy?’”

Jisung shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

You snort into your glass.

Minho gestures at himself. “Control. Domination. Tying people up. Making them beg.”

You look at him. “You sound too confident.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone. I just know what I like.”

Everyone looks at you next.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “…Probably power play. Like, being told what to do. But not in a creepy way.”

Minho smirks. “So you do have a thing.”

You hold your drink up. “Shut up and cheers me.”

He clinks glasses with you, looking way too smug.

You roll your eyes and look back at Jisung. “That enough horny for you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter than expected, he asks:

“Have you ever actually felt… safe during sex?”

The room stills.

Like, really stills.

Even the soft music from your phone feels too loud all of a sudden.

You glance over. Minho’s not smiling. Jisung’s staring at the floor. You don’t say anything right away, because you don’t know what to say.

And for the first time all night, it doesn’t feel like a joke.

Just a very real, very honest question hanging in the air.

No one answers.

But no one laughs either.

And somehow, that feels like enough.

But then Jisung lets out a breath and laughs — not a bitter laugh, just a tired, tipsy one.

“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That was a buzzkill.”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s valid.”

Minho finally speaks, voice low but easy. “Alright. That’s enough emotional intimacy for one night.”

You glance over at him. He stretches his arms above his head, his hoodie riding up slightly, revealing the sharp line of his waist.

He catches you looking and smirks. “Unless you wanna unpack your trauma some more, kitten.”

You groan. “I’ll smother you with a couch cushion.”

“You’d have to reach me first.”

Jisung raises his hand from where he’s lying like a corpse on the rug. “I vote we move this party to Minho’s room.”

Minho blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You have a big-ass bed and a TV. Your room’s the final boss of sleepover vibes.”

“He’s right,” you yawn. “Your mattress is practically luxury. My back still hurts from that Ikea piece of shit in my room.”

“Wow,” Minho says, offended. “She insults my kindness and wants to steal my bed. Incredible.”

“You love us,” you say, already standing. “Shut up and move.”

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing his phone and the last bottle. “But if any of you hog the blanket, I’m throwing hands.”

Ten minutes later, you’re all tangled up on Minho’s bed — limbs draped across one another, the soft buzz of a random movie playing on the mounted TV. It’s dark, but the screen casts a glow across the room, painting Jisung’s half-asleep face in soft blue light as he mumbles something about how good Minho’s sheets smell.

“Because I wash them like a civilized human,” Minho mutters, shifting so he’s not lying directly on someone’s foot.

You’re curled on your side, head half on a pillow, half on Minho’s chest, too drunk and tired to move. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

“I’m never going back to my room,” you mumble.

“Same,” Jisung adds, already half snoring.

Minho’s voice is quiet but amused. “You’re like stray cats. I let you in once and now you live here.”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy letting your eyelids fall shut, body warm, brain fuzzy, surrounded by the two people who somehow make everything feel a little easier — even the hard stuff.

And in that moment, with the movie humming softly and the bed full of slow, sleepy breathing, the world feels… safe.

Maybe not perfect.

But safe.

—

“Too Hot to Be Wingmanned”

The apartment smells like toasted bagels, fabric softener, and regret.

You sit at the kitchen table, hair in a messy bun, oversized t-shirt barely covering your shorts, sipping the world’s strongest coffee while Jisung pops Advil like candy.

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” he mumbles, face buried in his arms.

“You didn’t,” Minho says, already fully dressed in sweatpants and a smug expression. “You just faceplanted into my mattress and made dolphin noises until you passed out.”

“I’m a delight,” Jisung groans.

You stretch, sore but oddly content. “Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

“See?” Jisung says, perking up. “And now we keep the energy going. There’s a party tonight.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He downs the rest of his orange juice and slaps the counter. “We’re going. We’re getting dressed. We’re finding someone to ruin your life for the weekend.”

Minho frowns. “Why would we do that?”

“To get her laid,” Jisung says proudly.

“I’m standing right here,” you deadpan.

“Sorry, get her emotionally and physically fulfilled.”

Minho looks at you. “Do you actually want to go?”

You shrug. “Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Because parties are loud, sweaty, and full of men who say ‘vibes’ unironically.”

You smirk. “Sounds like your dating history.”

Jisung chokes on his bagel.

“Fine,” Minho sighs. “But I reserve the right to judge every person you talk to.”

“And I reserve the right to ignore you.”

One Hour Later:

“Okay, thoughts on this one?” you ask, stepping out of your room in a strappy red dress that’s half the size of your confidence.

Minho looks up from the couch, squints. “Too… Valentine’s. Like you’re about to hand out chocolates and trauma.”

You scowl. “That’s literally my personality.”

Jisung gives it a seven out of ten. “It’s giving accidentally slept with the DJ.”

“Next one,” you sigh.

They sit through six more dress changes — everything from “bored trophy wife” to “church girl who commits tax fraud” — all met with critiques like:

“Too prom.”

“Too goth girl on her fifth rebirth.”

“Too nun, but like a bitter nun.”

“That one’s straight-up whore vibes — which, to be clear, I support.”

Finally, you step out in the final dress.

Jet black. Tight. Short.

Backless, clinging to your curves like it was made for you.

Your thigh tattoo — the bow on the back of your leg — peeks out with every step.

And your back tattoo trails upward from your lower spine, delicate and dark and sexy as hell, disappearing under the high collar and reappearing again at your nape.

You don’t even speak. You just do a slow spin.

The room is silent.

Jisung’s mouth is open.

Minho blinks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Well?”

Minho swallows. “You’re not wearing that.”

You smirk. “Oh? Why not?”

He gestures vaguely. “Because… it’s… a lot.”

“That’s the point,” you say, admiring yourself in the mirror. “If a man’s gonna ruin my night, he better at least be speechless first.”

Jisung finally exhales. “No, but like… why does this feel illegal? I feel like I’m watching something I need permission to see.”

Minho’s still staring, brows furrowed. “I just think—maybe you could wear a jacket.”

You laugh. “The fact you’re malfunctioning means it’s the perfect pick.”

Jisung’s already getting his shoes. “We’re so dead.”

Minho mutters something under his breath as you walk past to grab your lipstick.

It sounds suspiciously like “fuck me” — but you pretend not to hear it.

“Look Hot, Regret Nothing”

The party’s already in full swing by the time the three of you walk through the door — bass thrumming in the floorboards, lights low and hazy, the scent of perfume, alcohol, and way too much cologne clouding the air.

Heads turn as you step in.

Not because you’re doing anything special.

Just existing.

Looking like that.

Jisung whistles low under his breath. “Goddamn, we’re not even ten feet in and people are already eyeing you like you’re a buffet.”

You shrug, pretending not to notice the way a few people pause mid-conversation to check you out. “Good. I’m starving too.”

Minho’s next to you, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. “This place smells like frat boy sweat and bad decisions.”

“That’s the vibe,” Jisung grins. “Come on, let’s find the drinks and a corner to watch the world burn.”

The three of you weave through the crowd — a tangle of neon lights and pulsing music, people dancing, bodies swaying too close, laughter rising like steam.

You make it to the makeshift bar, where Jisung immediately takes on the role of overenthusiastic bartender, pouring shots like you’re all 19 again.

“To bad choices and worse men,” he says, handing you a glass.

You raise yours. “And to thighs that don’t chafe.”

Minho reluctantly clinks his glass with yours. “And to someone trying to flirt with you so I can judge them relentlessly.”

You grin. “Aw, you do care.”

“I just don’t want to have to fight someone,” he mutters. “These pants are too tight for kicking.”

You toss the shot back, and the burn in your throat barely registers — the music’s too loud, the energy too electric, and you look too damn good to care.

And apparently, so does the guy walking up to you.

He’s tall. Sharp jaw, smirky lips, a little too confident.

“Hey,” he says smoothly. “Saw you walk in and had to come over before I lost my chance.”

You blink. Bold.

Minho, beside you, doesn’t say anything. Just sips his drink. But you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Name’s Theo,” the guy says, offering his hand. “You look… dangerous.”

You raise a brow, taking his hand just long enough to keep it polite. “And you look like you use that line a lot.”

He laughs. “Guilty. But I’m charming enough to get away with it, right?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jisung beats you to it.

“She’s got a low tolerance for bullshit,” he says, grinning wide. “But if you’re lucky, she might let you buy her a drink before crushing your ego.”

Theo glances between you and your two best friends, then locks back onto you. “Is this the part where they give me a shovel and tell me to start digging my own grave?”

Minho finally speaks.

“No. This is the part where we see how long you last before she figures out you don’t know where the clit is.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Theo laughs, a little less confident this time. “You’re the protective type, huh?”

Minho’s smile is cold. “No. I’m the honest type.”

You nudge him with your elbow, shooting him a look. “Be nice.”

“I am,” he says, deadpan. “That was me being nice.”

Despite the tension, Theo stays — talking, flirting, clearly trying to impress. You humor him for a while, laughing at some jokes, sipping another drink, even swaying a little when the music gets good.

He leans in close when he talks. Too close.

His hand brushes your lower back once. You ignore it.

Minho doesn’t.

Jisung, sensing the vibe shift, quickly drags Minho to the other side of the dance floor under the excuse of “bro I love this song,” giving you space.

You dance a little. Just enough to tease. Just enough to feel good.

But when Theo leans in, breath warm against your ear, and whispers, “Wanna get out of here?” — you freeze.

You don’t answer.

Because before you can even think of a reply, a hand curls around your wrist and pulls you back.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop you.

You blink, turning around.

Minho.

Standing there, jaw clenched, eyes dark, voice low.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “You her boyfriend?”

“No,” Minho says, tone sharp. “I’m her reality check.”

Theo snorts. “Yeah? And what reality is that?”

“The one where she’s too good for you, and you’re a ten-minute detour she won’t even remember tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything.

Because you don’t have to.

Theo holds your gaze for a beat longer, then shrugs and walks off without another word.

The music swells again.

You and Minho stand there in the middle of it — the lights, the noise, the crowd — and for once, he doesn’t say something smug or sarcastic.

He just looks at you.

Like maybe he’s not entirely sure what just happened either.

You swallow.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to keep it light. “For cockblocking my one shot at mediocre disappointment.”

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh.

“You deserve better than that.”

And then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd before you can answer.

—

After Theo disappears into the crowd — bruised ego and all — you take a second to breathe, letting the music thrum through your veins and clear your head.

You spot Jisung dancing near the kitchen, doing some chaotic combination of body rolls and finger guns that should be illegal. You walk over, slide in beside him, and match his rhythm just enough to make him grin.

“There’s my girl,” he yells over the music. “You good?”

You nod. “Minho scared off my fan club.”

“Tragic.” He leans closer. “But also… not mad about it.”

You laugh, shake it off, and grab another drink. Jisung disappears toward the bar to flirt with someone wearing leather pants and absolutely no shame.

You’re left standing near the edge of the dance floor when a girl approaches you.

She’s pretty. Glitter under her eyes, drink in hand, tipsy smile already half-formed.

“Hey,” she says, swaying slightly. “Sorry — I just have to ask. Are you, like… poly?”

You blink. “What?”

She giggles. “Like, are you dating both of them?”

You tilt your head. “Both of who?”

She gestures vaguely toward the party. “Your two boyfriends. The tall chaotic one and the one with the resting murder face. They’ve been glued to you all night.”

You pause.

Then it clicks.

Minho. Jisung.

She thinks… oh.

You stifle a laugh, glancing across the room where Jisung is now dramatically flipping his hair at someone and Minho is leaning against a wall like it personally offended him.

“Oh,” you say, trying not to wheeze. “No. They’re just my roommates.”

The girl blinks. “Seriously?”

You nod, sipping your drink.

She leans in conspiratorially. “Girl. I can’t even find one man to text me back. You’ve got two hot ones wrapped around your finger like a romcom. That’s not fair.”

You smile. “What can I say? I cook frozen dumplings and never wear pants around the house.”

She stares for a beat. “Yeah. I’d fall in love with you too.”

You laugh out loud this time.

Hard.

But when she keeps looking at you like you’re the luckiest bitch on Earth, you just raise your cup and say, “You know what? Sure. They’re both mine. Full-time emotional support boyfriends.”

She gasps. “Iconic.”

You clink drinks with her, still grinning.

Because honestly? Explaining the chaos that is your friendship with Minho and Jisung would take too long.

And at this point?

You’re not even gonna fix her.

—

You find them near the balcony, Jisung sipping a mixed drink that’s definitely 90% sugar and 10% vodka, and Minho leaned against the railing like he’s about to deliver a monologue from a noir film.

They both look over as you walk up, still chuckling from your last conversation.

“What’s so funny?” Jisung asks.

You grin. “Some girl just came up to me and asked if I was poly.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Because of us?”

You nod. “Apparently I’m dating both of you. She said she couldn’t even get one man to text her back, and I’ve got two stuck to me like glue.”

Jisung beams. “Wow. She gets it.”

Minho just groans. “That’s it. We’re changing our group chat name to ‘Gay Boyfriends United.’”

You’re mid-sip when a voice interrupts you — confident, a little too loud, and already annoying.

“Excuse me,” a guy says, stepping in far too close. “I just had to say—you are absolutely gorgeous.”

You glance over.

He’s tall. Overdressed. The kind of guy who thinks holding a drink in a wine glass makes him sophisticated.

“I mean, damn,” he says, eyes raking over you like you’re inventory. “Face, body, those tattoos… just—perfect.”

Minho straightens up behind you.

The guy keeps going. “I don’t know how your two gay boyfriends are letting you walk around like this without putting a ring on it.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” the guy smirks. “They’re obviously just your fashion advisors. Let me take you out sometime—properly. You deserve a real man.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond.

Because Minho moves.

Slowly.

Calmly.

His hand finds your waist from behind, warm and solid, and he steps right up to your back. His head rests gently on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear as he speaks low.

“Let’s go home, babe.”

The word babe lands like a gunshot.

Your heart stutters. Your mouth goes dry.

The guy in front of you falters. Blinks. Then scoffs.

“Seriously? That guy’s not even into girls.”

Minho tightens his grip slightly. Doesn’t say a word.

And that’s when Jisung steps in, looping his arm around both you and Minho with a blinding smile that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jisung says lightly. “We were just about to leave. Weren’t we, babe?”

You’re completely frozen now.

Minho’s breath is warm against your neck.

Jisung’s grin sharpens.

And both of them?

Staring this man down like they’ll bury him behind the venue without breaking a sweat.

The guy looks between the three of you — the way you’re pressed together, how they’re practically wrapped around you like they’re daring him to speak again.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Yikes. Alright. Didn’t realize it was that serious.”

He backs away, muttering something under his breath, and disappears into the crowd.

You don’t move.

Minho doesn’t move.

Jisung hums like nothing happened. “I really liked that drink too. Tragic.”

You blink. Slowly.

Minho leans in just a little more, voice low against your skin. “You okay?”

You nod once, still stunned.

Jisung squeezes your arm. “We’re gonna go home now. You’re riding with us, yeah?”

You look between them, still pressed to both sides of your body like armor.

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

Because at this point, what else can you say?

—

The car is quiet.

Minho’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. He’s focused — a little too focused — eyes forward, jaw tense. Jisung’s in the backseat, head tilted against the window, drunk and humming along to the low music playing on the stereo.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.

No one’s spoken since you left the party.

Not about what happened.

Not about the guy.

Not about the way Minho pulled you into his arms like it was nothing, or the way Jisung clung to both of you like backup was already pre-planned.

You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you should say.

So you just… stare out the window, watching the city pass in blurs of gold and red, neon signs flickering past like ghosts.

Finally, Jisung speaks.

“Do you think that guy moisturizes?”

Minho snorts. “Doubt it.”

You blink. “That’s what you’re choosing to talk about?”

“He looked dry,” Jisung murmurs, eyes still half-closed. “Like… emotionally. And epidermically.”

“Epidermically,” Minho repeats, deadpan.

You smile a little despite yourself.

Minho glances at you at a red light. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just processing.”

He nods once. Doesn’t press.

Jisung hums again. “You looked hot, though. Like, actual hot. Like a problem.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. “Apparently too hot for gay boyfriends.”

That gets a laugh out of both of them.

Minho shakes his head, pulling into your building’s parking lot. “If I hear that phrase one more time, I’m committing a felony.”

—

Back at the apartment, you all peel off your shoes and jackets with the sluggishness of post-party fatigue. Jisung collapses dramatically onto the couch like he’s just been shot.

“I’m so tired,” he whines into the cushions. “Minho, carry me to bed.”

“I’d rather throw you out the window.”

You laugh, making your way to the kitchen for water. Minho joins you, grabbing a glass from the cabinet like it’s muscle memory.

For a second, it’s just the sound of water pouring and the low hum of the fridge.

Then—

“You know you didn’t have to do all that back there,” you say quietly.

Minho glances at you. “What, call you babe and hold you like a K-drama boyfriend?”

You snort. “Exactly.”

“I was just playing the part,” he says, voice light. “Didn’t wanna deal with that guy’s mouth for another five seconds.”

“Sure,” you say, raising your glass. “Oscar-worthy performance.”

He smirks. “You liked it.”

“I blacked out.”

“Liar.”

Jisung yells from the couch, “If anyone’s Oscar-worthy, it’s me. I fully committed to the role of clingy gay boyfriend. I deserve a bouquet and maybe some champagne.”

“You’re not getting shit,” Minho calls back.

“Discrimination,” Jisung mutters.

You lean against the counter, sipping your water, feeling the tension finally starting to bleed out of your system.

Minho looks at you, serious for just a second. “He was being a dick. I wasn’t gonna stand there and let him talk to you like that.”

You stare at him.

He holds your gaze.

You nod once, softly. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, reaching past you to grab a snack from the cabinet — like he didn’t just melt your brain a few hours ago.

“Anytime, kitten.”

You groan. “I knew you’d bring it back.”

He grins. “Don’t act like you don’t miss it when I stop.”

You chuck your water bottle at him.

Another date night

It had started out fine.

Better than fine, even.

You’d gotten dressed up — not too much skin this time, just enough confidence. He picked you up, took you to a quiet rooftop bar, ordered for you without being an asshole about it. He was funny. Charming. Flirty in a way that felt natural.

You laughed. You flirted back. You let yourself think, Maybe this time.

And when he leaned in and kissed you outside his place, hand on your waist, whispering something smooth against your skin — you didn’t flinch. You let him lead you in.

And that was the mistake.

Because the moment things got physical… it all unraveled.

His kisses were messy — but not the good kind. All teeth and wetness, like he was trying to eat your mouth instead of kiss it. His hands were too fast, like he was skipping every chapter just to get to the end of the book.

When he finally got you to his bed, it wasn’t sex.

It was… humping.

That’s the only word that came to mind.

Rhythmic, fast, mechanical. He didn’t look at you, didn’t touch you properly, didn’t even notice that you’d gone completely silent halfway through.

And when it was over — when he collapsed beside you with a content sigh and tried to pull you into his arms like he’d done something worth celebrating —

You stood up and said, “I have to go.”

You dressed in silence, didn’t bother with excuses, and left before he could ask if you wanted water.

—

By the time you get home, your skin is still buzzing — not with arousal, but with rage.

Minho and Jisung are on the couch, both in sweatpants, half-watching some dumb late-night cooking show. They pause when they hear the door open.

And they look at you.

Like they already know.

Minho cocks his head. “Well?”

You don’t say anything.

You just kick your shoes off harder than necessary, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, close it again without grabbing anything, and press both hands against the counter.

“You okay?” Jisung asks gently.

Still nothing.

Minho sits up straighter. “Bad?”

You laugh. Just once. A broken, humorless sound.

“Why is it always me?” you ask, still facing the fridge. “Like… what the hell am I doing wrong?”

Neither of them says anything.

You turn, and they both see it — your eyes glassy, your voice shaking now.

“Do I have a sign on me that says ‘Don’t worry about her’? Like I’m just… there to be used and thrown away?” You gesture vaguely. “It’s like none of them even try. Like I don’t matter.”

“Hey,” Minho says, standing now. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you snap, voice rising. “I keep going on these dates. I try to give people chances. I try to have fun. And every single time I end up back here, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.”

Jisung walks toward you slowly, like you’re a wild animal about to bolt.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “It’s pathetic. I literally had to fake moaning just to get it over with faster. I felt nothing. Nothing. It’s like he wasn’t even with me.”

“Did you—”

“No,” you cut in. “Of course I didn’t.”

Minho’s jaw tenses.

You take a shaky breath. “I came home. Got in. Locked the door. Said hi to you guys. And now I’m going straight to my room to do what he couldn’t: make myself cum.”

Jisung’s eyes widen slightly.

Minho doesn’t move.

You look between them. “What? You wanted honesty? There it is. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. And I’m so fucking done pretending this doesn’t bother me.”

And with that, you turn on your heel, walk down the hall, and shut your bedroom door.

Behind the door, it’s quiet.

Just you, your pounding heart, and the sound of your vibrator drawer sliding open.

—

Minho and Jisung stand in the living room, frozen in place, her words still echoing in the silence between them.

“…make myself cum.”

Neither of them speaks.

Then, very faintly—just through the thin walls they all used to joke about when playing music too loud—comes the sound.

A soft whimper.

Followed by another.

Then a quiet, breathy moan.

And another.

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

Minho doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just stares at the hallway, jaw clenched, lips parted, expression unreadable.

But then the sounds continue — more desperate now, sharper, her breaths catching like she’s chasing it, needing it. Taking it. The kind of pleasure they’ve never seen her give anyone else.

The kind of pleasure no one else has ever deserved to give her.

And suddenly the silence between them is heavier than ever.

Hotter.

Jisung shifts slightly, hands twitching at his sides. “That’s… she’s really…”

Minho finally speaks. Voice low. Dangerous.

“She’s not faking this time.”

Jisung looks down.

Minho follows his gaze.

They both see it.

Hard.

Obvious.

Each of them, clearly affected.

Jisung swallows hard. “Okay… this is new.”

Minho doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t joke.

Just lifts one brow and lets his gaze flick from Jisung’s straining sweatpants to his flushed face and back again.

Then, calmly — like he’s talking about the weather:

“So it’s not just her.”

Jisung’s voice is a little breathless. “Nope.”

They stare at each other for a long second.

And then another moan cuts through the air — louder this time. Her voice raw, desperate, breaking as she gasps something unintelligible.

Minho exhales slowly. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

And then he smirks.

“Still think we’re all talk?”

Jisung doesn’t answer.

Minho steps closer — just one step — his eyes gleaming, cocky, full of wicked confidence.

“She thinks no man can make her cum,” he says, voice low, hungry. “That no one’s capable.”

He leans in just enough for Jisung to feel the heat of his breath.

“I say we prove her wrong.”

Jisung swallows. “We?”

Minho’s smirk widens.

“Oh yeah,” he murmurs. “We.”

He turns toward the hallway, voice dropping even lower.

“And I know just the way to prove it to her.”

The sounds from your bedroom have faded now — the vibrator long silenced — but the effect lingers.

The air is thick with tension, lust, and something darker.

Something heavier.

Jisung still stands frozen by the couch, hands clenched at his sides, face flushed to the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in short, unsteady breaths, his eyes flicking between the hallway and Minho like he’s stuck in the middle of a slow-burning fever.

Minho watches him.

Carefully.

Hungrily.

Then, he steps closer.

“You hear the way she sounded?” he asks quietly. “That wasn’t fake. That was real.”

Jisung nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“She’s been chasing that feeling from every guy who’s ever touched her.”

Minho’s voice drops lower — smooth, deliberate.

“And none of them gave it to her.”

Jisung bites his lip.

Minho steps even closer.

“You think she deserves to keep begging for it?”

His fingers lift — featherlight — and ghost along the hem of Jisung’s shirt, just barely grazing the skin underneath.

Jisung shivers.

“N-no,” he says, voice catching.

Minho smiles.

“Exactly.”

He lets his hand drift upward, knuckles grazing Jisung’s bare stomach, brushing just under his ribs — not enough to satisfy, just enough to taunt.

“You want to help her, don’t you?”

Jisung nods quickly. “Please.”

Minho’s hand trails slowly up to his chest, fingers dragging lightly over his shirt, then back down to his waistband.

His lips are close to Jisung’s ear now, breath warm, soft, intimate.

“We take our time,” he murmurs. “No rushing. No fucking her like a rabbit. No skipping the parts that make her moan like that.”

Jisung lets out a soft, helpless sound — somewhere between a whine and a whimper.

Minho grins.

“We make her feel everything. We kiss her slow. We touch her like she’s breakable. And when she’s trembling? When she’s begging?”

His fingers drift down, teasing the waistband of Jisung’s sweats.

“We don’t let her finish until she knows exactly who it was that finally made her cum.”

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, hips twitching forward instinctively, chasing contact. “Minho—please…”

Minho pulls back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“You too, huh?”

Jisung blushes deeper, his hand twitching toward his own waistband. “I—yeah. I need…”

Minho hums.

“Oh, I know what you need, baby.”

He dips his head lower, lips brushing against Jisung’s jaw now.

“But you don’t get it. Not yet.”

Jisung whines, softly. “Please…”

Minho steps back, smug as ever, eyes dark.

“Not until we make her beg first.”

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, tilts his head, and grins.

“Then maybe I’ll let you beg for me too.”

“So This Is War”

It starts small.

You barely even notice it at first.

Minho’s hand brushing your lower back every time he passes behind you.

Jisung leaning his head on your shoulder when you’re watching TV, his fingers just barely grazing your thigh.

A smirk. A wink. A joke that feels a little too heavy, a little too close to something more.

They’re not doing anything new, not really.

But something’s different.

And the worst part?

They’re suddenly everywhere.

Minho starts walking around shirtless.

Not unusual — but now he does it with his sweatpants slung so low on his hips you can see the sculpted V-cut leading down beneath the waistband. His body glows — pale, smooth skin, lean lines, strong forearms, chest defined enough to make you choke on your morning coffee.

He catches you looking. Every time.

“You good?” he asks one day, when you’ve been staring at his abs for way too long.

“Peachy,” you mutter, looking away fast.

But then Jisung joins in.

Except with him, it’s worse.

Because Jisung’s tan, tattooed, and stacked like he was carved from heat and sweat.

His chest is broad, arms thick, abs sharp — and the ink curling down his ribs only makes it worse. When he stretches? You can see the cut of every muscle down his sides, the way his sweatpants hug just right.

And he stretches a lot.

Especially in front of you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper under your breath one day when he reaches up to grab a cup and his entire back flexes.

You don’t think anyone hears.

But Minho smirks behind you.

You try to keep it together.

You really try.

But one day, you’re sitting on the couch and both of them — shirtless, in grey sweats — come in laughing about some inside joke, brushing past you to grab drinks from the kitchen, all tan skin and defined muscle and cocky grins—

—and your thighs squeeze together involuntarily.

Hard.

You suck in a breath and clench your fists in your lap, trying not to make a noise.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s just the lack of sex. The drought. The desert. It’s not them. It’s me.

It’s not just you.

And when you catch Minho watching you squirm?

You know it.

—

So the next day, you fight back.

You grab one of their shirts from the laundry — oversized, soft, smells like a mix of laundry sheets and masculine warmth — and wear it.

Just it.

No shorts.

No bra.

You walk into the kitchen like it’s nothing, yawning, pretending you don’t notice the way the hem barely covers your ass.

Minho glances up from his cereal.

Freezes.

Jisung does a double take from the sink and nearly drops his mug.

You stretch, arms overhead. “Morning.”

They both respond at the same time.

“Good morning.”

“Holy shit.”

You smirk, turn around slowly to reach into the cabinet, letting the shirt ride up just enough to flash the curve of your thigh.

When you glance back, both of them are staring.

And neither says a word.

Because they’re trying not to fold.

They’re trying to wait you out.

And all you’re thinking is:

Let’s see who breaks first.

“Just Watch the Movie”

Minho’s bed has always been the biggest, the comfiest, the default for group hangouts — but tonight? It feels more like a battlefield.

A slow, sticky, silk-and-skin battlefield.

The lights are off. The screen glows soft and blue, casting flickers across the walls as some random action movie plays — explosions and gunshots you’re not paying attention to at all.

Because you’re sandwiched between Minho and Jisung.

Again.

Only now?

You’re in your favorite black silk nightgown. Thin straps, low neckline, barely brushing mid-thigh. Soft as sin.

Minho’s wearing loose grey sweats, nothing else. His pale chest rises and falls slowly, one arm thrown behind his head like he’s not doing anything wrong.

Jisung’s in gym shorts, shirtless, golden skin on full display — broad chest, solid arms, side tattoo visible and staring at you like a dare.

They’d invited you in with matching smirks.

You should’ve known.

It starts small.

Minho tugs the blanket over your legs, hand brushing up your bare thigh — casual, almost careless.

Jisung shifts beside you, leaning into your shoulder like he’s getting comfy, but his fingers trail lightly along your arm, then down to your wrist.

You try to focus.

You try.

But their hands keep moving.

Minho’s fingers start stroking slow circles just above your knee, thumb dragging lazily over your skin like he’s petting a cat.

Jisung starts playing with the ends of your hair — gentle, rhythmic — his knuckles grazing your collarbone when he tucks a strand behind your ear.

Your pulse is pounding.

“Comfortable?” Minho asks, voice low and warm.

“Mmhm,” you manage, not sounding convincing in the slightest.

Jisung shifts again, this time letting his hand rest on your bare thigh — just resting, but warm, and big, and intentional.

You clench your jaw.

The movie plays on. You couldn’t name a single character if someone paid you.

Minho leans closer, his mouth near your ear now. “You’re really tense, kitten.”

You swallow hard. “Just… focused on the movie.”

Jisung chuckles against your shoulder. “You sure? You’re squirming.”

You turn your face, trying to glare, but Jisung’s grinning — full lips, hooded eyes, messy hair, and he’s so close you could count his lashes.

Minho’s fingers trace the edge of your nightgown now, teasing the thin fabric, like he’s curious how far it rides up when you breathe deep.

You shift again, thighs pressing together, heat blooming low in your stomach.

They don’t say anything.

But they know.

And worse?

You know they know.

Jisung presses a kiss to your shoulder — innocent, featherlight, like he’s not driving you insane.

Minho exhales a soft laugh, eyes glued to the screen but fingers sliding higher by the second.

And you?

You’re trying to keep your breathing even.

Trying to keep your thighs still.

Trying not to melt into the sheets and moan out loud.

Because this is a game.

And you’re still trying to win.

“Not Gonna Break”

You don’t know how much time has passed.

Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.

The movie plays on — indistinct background noise, flickering shadows on the wall — but your brain hasn’t registered a single frame. Not when Jisung is currently lying with his head pillowed on your chest, warm cheek against your collarbone, arm draped across your stomach like he belongs there.

And his hand…

Is on your thigh.

Massaging.

Not lazily. Not teasingly.

Expertly.

His palm kneads into the muscle with slow, soothing pressure, fingers spreading warmth through your entire leg as he works his way up and down your thigh like he’s really trying to help.

“You keep tensing,” he murmurs against your chest. “You’re all tight. I’m gonna help, okay?”

Your breath catches, but you nod.

“Mmhm,” you hum, barely holding it together.

He squeezes your thigh a little harder, just under the hem of your nightgown. His skin is so warm. His hands so big.

Focus on the movie.

Beside you, Minho shifts.

He’s been quiet — too quiet — stretched out along your other side, one hand behind his head, the other still lazily resting just above your knee. But you feel his gaze now.

You feel it when it drops to your shoulder.

The one where the silky strap of your nightgown has slipped down — exposing the smooth curve of your skin, your collarbone, the faint outline of the top of your chest. You didn’t even realize it had fallen.

But he did.

And now?

Minho lifts his hand.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Fingers brushing against your bare shoulder as he hooks the strap with his thumb, sliding it back into place.

He doesn’t rush.

He lingers.

The backs of his fingers trail up your neck, grazing the edge of your jaw, the heat of his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

But your thighs press together again — instinctive, desperate — and Jisung notices.

He hums low against your chest. “Still tense, baby.”

You nod once, throat dry. “Just tired.”

Minho smiles beside you, voice soft. “Mm. Sure it’s not something else?”

You stay silent.

Jisung’s thumb strokes along the inside of your thigh now.

Minho’s fingers casually draw shapes on your shoulder.

And you?

You’re overheating.

You’re melting.

You’re gripping the blanket in your lap so hard your knuckles ache.

Because you refuse to fold.

You refuse to moan.

And you refuse to let them win.

Not yet.

—

You woke up the next morning tangled in silk sheets, warm and still buzzing slightly from the night before.

They’d teased.

They’d touched.

They’d pushed.

But you?

You won.

You fell asleep between them like it was nothing — calm, composed, lips sealed shut even when your thighs were clenched so tightly it hurt.

Now, the living room is filled with sunlight and fake peace.

You’re curled up on the couch with your phone, scrolling idly through your feed, coffee in hand. Trying to pretend the night before didn’t exist.

Trying to pretend you’re unaffected.

Meanwhile, Minho and Jisung are standing across the room — sweaty, shirtless, freshly back from the gym — and so clearly up to something.

You hear it first in their voices.

The tone.

The deliberate lightness.

“I think I pulled something,” Jisung says, stretching dramatically, sweat glistening down his chest.

Minho smirks, slapping his shoulder. “That’s because you never stretch before lifting. Amateur move.”

“You were the one grunting through squats like a porn star.”

Minho shrugs. “I was lifting heavy. Don’t be jealous.”

You glance up from your phone just in time to see Jisung walk behind Minho, arms snaking loosely around his waist in mock-affection.

“Oh, I’m so jealous,” he says, pressing his cheek dramatically to Minho’s back. “You’re just so strong and sweaty. Who wouldn’t want you?”

Minho laughs low in his throat, hand covering Jisung’s where it rests on his stomach. “Careful, babe. Say that again and I might start thinking you mean it.”

You blink.

Stillness.

They’re not looking at you.

They’re fully focused on each other — too close, too flirty, too much.

Touching like they’ve done it a thousand times.

Comfortable. Warm. Intimate.

You swallow.

Your thighs press together.

Again.

Your brain protests. They’re your best friends. They’re messing with you. This is just a bit—

But your body?

Your body is burning.

You don’t even realize you’ve been staring until Minho glances over — meets your eyes — and smirks.

“Oh, morning,” he says, pulling away from Jisung just slightly. “We were just talking about the gym. Got real hot in there.”

“So hot,” Jisung agrees, stretching his arms behind his head, chest flexing, sweat still glistening along his collarbone. “Dripping.”

You say nothing.

“Actually,” Minho adds, grabbing a towel from the back of a chair and wiping his neck slowly, “we should probably shower.”

Jisung nods. “Yeah, especially if we’re going out later. Shopping, right?”

Minho turns to him. “You go first?”

Jisung tilts his head, smiling. “Why don’t we just shower together?”

You choke on your coffee.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “To save water?”

“Yeah,” Jisung grins. “And time. We don’t wanna keep her waiting.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Minho lets out a soft, thoughtful hum. “You’re right. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

They turn.

Walk toward the bathroom.

And just before disappearing down the hall, Minho glances over his shoulder.

“Unless you’d rather join us, kitten.”

You don’t breathe.

The bathroom door clicks shut.

And you’re left on the couch, heart pounding, legs tight, coffee forgotten.

What the fuck.

Minho x Jisung — third person POV

————————————————————————————————————————

Minho didn’t speak when they stepped into the bathroom together — didn’t need to.

The silence between them said enough.

Jisung hesitated just slightly, fingers fumbling at the waistband of his gym shorts. Minho noticed, eyes gleaming. He stepped in close and reached down, his knuckles brushing lightly against Jisung’s hip as he curled his fingers under the fabric.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice low and smooth.

Jisung’s breath hitched.

Minho dragged the shorts down slowly, past the swell of his ass, down thick, toned thighs — letting his hands linger, teasing the skin just enough to make Jisung tremble. He peeled them off completely, gaze flicking up as Jisung stood completely bare in front of him.

“Look at you,” Minho said softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Already flushed.”

Jisung swallowed, eyes wide. “I—”

“Shower,” Minho interrupted, tugging off his own sweats and stepping into the water like it was nothing. “We need to get clean.”

He didn’t wait. Just reached for the soap, lathered it between his hands, and moved in behind Jisung.

The first touch made Jisung shiver — Minho’s slick palms dragging slowly down his back, massaging the lather into his skin like he had all the time in the world.

Then lower.

Over his hips.

Around the front.

Minho’s hands slid over Jisung’s chest, fingers pressing into the muscle, thumbs brushing his nipples before moving lower again.

Jisung bit his lip, thighs trembling.

Minho leaned in, lips ghosting his ear. “Still holding it together?”

Jisung’s head dropped back against Minho’s shoulder, a soft whimper escaping. “No. Minho, please—kiss me, just—something.”

He turned without waiting.

Minho caught him, both hands gripping his waist now — and then their mouths met.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. Full of moans swallowed and lips bitten and Jisung pressing forward like he couldn’t get close enough.

Minho groaned, hands sliding down to grab Jisung’s ass, squeezing tightly, dragging their hips together until their cocks brushed — hard, hot, aching for more.

Jisung gasped into the kiss.

Minho broke it only to kiss lower — trailing down his jaw, to his throat, then lower still, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of Jisung’s chest.

When he reached a nipple, he bit.

Jisung cried out, hand flying to Minho’s hair.

Minho sucked harshly — then licked over it, soothing the sting before switching sides.

“Fuck—Minho—please—don’t stop—”

His mouth moved with purpose now, kissing and sucking all over Jisung’s chest, hands roaming his sides, hips grinding into him with each flick of tongue.

Jisung’s body was shaking.

Every moan echoed in the tile and steam.

Every breath sounded like begging.

And when Minho finally pulled back, lips red, eyes dark, Jisung looked ruined.

“Needy little thing,” Minho whispered, brushing hair from his face. “You’re gonna come undone before we even get started.”

Minho’s gaze swept over Jisung like fire licking across paper — slow, consuming, inevitable.

His hands stayed firm on Jisung’s hips, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his waist, holding him steady even as his legs threatened to give out. Steam curled around them, the sound of water splashing against tile almost drowned beneath the sounds pouring from Jisung’s mouth.

Minho bent again, pressing his lips to Jisung’s chest — not kissing gently, not even sweetly — but claiming, with his teeth and tongue and heat. Every time Jisung moaned, Minho dragged it deeper, lower, letting his hands slide over Jisung’s ass, gripping hard, grinding him up against the firm line of his own cock.

“Minho, please—fuck—please,” Jisung choked out, hands buried in Minho’s hair, hips twitching helplessly forward, desperate for any friction.

“You’re already falling apart,” Minho murmured, voice soaked in that sharp, dangerous calm. “We haven’t even touched your cock yet.”

Jisung whimpered.

Minho licked a slow, deliberate line across one nipple before dragging his teeth gently against it. He felt Jisung’s whole body jolt, legs trembling harder now.

“Fuck—Minho, please, I’m so close—”

That made Minho pause.

He leaned back, looked up at him — water dripping down his temple, lips flushed and wet from kissing, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

“No,” he said simply.

Jisung blinked through the haze. “W-what?”

Minho’s hand moved between them. Not to stroke. Not to finish. Just to hold him — his palm wrapping firmly around Jisung’s cock and keeping him still.

“You don’t get to cum yet,” Minho said, cool and smug, brushing his thumb just barely over the head. “Not until I say so.”

Jisung whined loudly, body jerking forward involuntarily, cock twitching in Minho’s grip. “Fuck—fuck, Minho, I can’t—”

“You can.” Minho’s voice was like velvet-covered steel. “Because I said so.”

He gave one slow pump — not fast enough to satisfy, just enough to remind him who was in charge — before pulling his hand away completely.

Jisung almost sobbed at the loss of contact.

“You’re gonna stay nice and hard for me,” Minho continued, licking across his own bottom lip as his eyes dragged slowly down Jisung’s body. “And you’re not gonna cum until I make you beg for it like you mean it.”

“Minho, please—*please—*just a little—”

“No.”

Minho turned him around suddenly, pressing Jisung’s chest up against the cool tile wall, keeping his body flush behind him.

He leaned in close, voice right at his ear.

“You’re mine to play with,” he whispered. “And we haven’t even started yet.”

Jisung whimpered again, chest heaving, cock dripping, thighs shaking.

He was wrecked.

And Minho?

Minho was just getting warmed up.

Jisung’s forehead rested against the cold tile, chest heaving, body trembling from the denial and heat surging through him. His cock throbbed between his legs, so painfully hard it ached. Every breath he took fogged the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t move.

Because Minho was still pressed to his back — solid, slick skin, warm breath at his ear, one hand wrapped tight around his waist to keep him right where he wanted.

“I warned you,” Minho murmured. “Told you we weren’t done.”

And then—

He slid inside.

No teasing.

No preamble.

Just the thick press of his cock as he bottomed out in one, long, devastating thrust.

Jisung cried out — sharp and wrecked — a raw sound that echoed against the tile like it meant something.

Minho didn’t flinch.

He simply moved.

Steady.

Hard.

Fucking him into the wall with slow, brutal precision, each thrust deliberate and deep. Jisung moaned again — louder this time, voice breaking.

And that’s when Minho’s hand clamped down over his mouth.

“Shut up,” he growled against Jisung’s ear. “You wanna be loud? Then I’ll make sure no one hears you.”

Jisung’s eyes rolled back as Minho’s other hand wrapped around his throat — firm and unforgiving, not cutting off his air, just holding him there, keeping him in place like a prize.

Jisung moaned helplessly against the palm covering his mouth, muffled and soaked with need, his body twitching under the pressure, hips arching back into every thrust.

Minho groaned, voice hot and breathless against his skin. “You feel that? How deep I am inside you?”

Jisung nodded desperately, his muffled cries high and urgent behind Minho’s hand.

“You’re taking me so fucking well, baby,” Minho whispered, licking a stripe along Jisung’s jaw. “So tight. So desperate.”

His hips snapped harder, pace brutal now — the sound of skin on skin echoing between the moans Jisung couldn’t stop.

“Stay loud,” Minho growled. “I dare you.”

He tightened his hand just slightly around Jisung’s throat — enough to make his breath stutter, to make his entire body go tight — and thrust in again, even deeper, watching Jisung fall apart from every inch.

And under Minho’s hand, Jisung moaned like he was dying for it.

Because maybe he was.

Readers POV

——————————————————————————————

You’re halfway through getting dressed when you hear it.

A faint sound.

— to be continued…

[thequeenofcurses]

Cracks In the Mirror (I See You) Headcanons or

Blind!Gojo x Reader Headcanons

These headcanons were written with a female reader in mind, but they're 95% gender neutral. The actual full fic will continue with a female reader. This is read best in light mode!!!

cw: MAJOR SPOILER WARNINGS FOR CITM/ISY. okay, i should have wrote/posted this before starting the fic, but oh well >~<. if you plan to wait for this fic (which i don't really recommend because i am a slooow writer) DO NOT READ THESE HEADCANONS. Again, these headcanons are basically the whole plot, so SPOILER ALERT!

masterlist | jjk masterlist | read on AO3

Satoru Gojo, once the world’s most sought-after model, had it all: fame, fortune, god-like beauty, and an ego so obnoxious it practically walked into the room before he did. But underneath the glitz and glamor, he was unbearably full of himself and totally blind to everything that truly mattered.

Satoru Gojo was a total jerk the first time you meet. You accidentally bump into him at the doctor’s office, spilling your drink all over him. He’s dressed in very casual clothes, leaving no possible way to tip you off; and he instantly gets in your face, flaunting his reputation like it’s a trophy. You have no idea who he is, and you don’t care. His attitude is enough to turn you off instantly.

Satoru Gojo later finds out you're a model too — not nearly as famous, of course — but all that could change, he claims, when you’re both scheduled to audition for the same campaign. His plan? Take over the audition, show off his charm, and “help” you shine… in his shadow.

Satoru Gojo ends up auditioning with you. The chemistry is undeniable. The way you move, the tension in your eyes, the spark. Everyone in the room is breathless. For a moment, even he forgets it’s all just a scene. But the second the director calls cut, he’s reminded: it’s fake. You’re not real. He has a fiancée waiting at home.

Satoru Gojo, spiteful and cocky, picks you as his costar for his upcoming commercial, knowing that you dislike him. You’re surprisingly flattered until you realize it’s all a setup. He was planning to humiliate you in front of the entire Hollywood cast and crew. The result? A total fucking disaster. You’re the headline on TMZ: “Unknown Model’s Meltdown Caught on Camera!” It’s career-ruining.

Satoru Gojo goes to the bar to celebrate his recent engagement to another supermodel. The drinks are flowing, the congratulations never end… but his mind keeps drifting back to you. The audition scene you two filmed replays on a loop in his head, and for a fleeting second, he wishes it had been real. That it had truly been you and him in that moment, and not just two characters.

Satoru Gojo tries to call you, just to apologize, an extremely rare moment of vulnerability,  but when his fiancée catches wind of it, she shuts it down. She demands all of his attention, and just like that… he forgets all about you. Or pretends to.

Satoru Gojo sneaks out of his fiancée’s bed one night and tracks you down. He’s curious. He wants to see you without the glam, the studio lights, the pressure. He finds you walking your dog at a park, dressed in sweatpants, a tank top, messy hair, and to his surprise, he thinks you’re gorgeous. He almost approaches you… but he turns around and walks away.

Satoru Gojo shows up to set the next day for a makeup/screen test for his upcoming film. Impatient and irritable, he berates the makeup artists and crew, insisting everything be done “his way.” But when filming begins, there’s a loud CLINK — something shatters above him. Before anyone can react, a cascade of chemical-laced glass falls onto him. It hits his face and eyes. He screams as it burns and he’s immediately rushed to the hospital.

Satoru Gojo goes into shock from the tragedy of it all. He falls into a short coma. You hear about it from your doctor (who knows you were a fan of his, once), and you're allowed to visit. You speak to him even though he can’t respond. You don’t owe him kindness after what he did to you, but you offer it anyway.

Satoru Gojo wakes up to darkness. Panicked, he yells for someone to turn the lights on. Nurses rush in, trying to calm him down. Eventually, Shoko arrives and breaks the news: she saved his life. But the acid caused irreparable damage. He’s permanently blind now. And he was lucky to survive at all.

Blind!Gojo, doesn’t feel lucky. He’s furious. He asks for his fiancée… only for Shoko to tell him she hasn’t shown up at all. Just a singular voicemail. No visit. No flowers. No love.

Blind!Gojo weeps for the first time when he’s alone. He touches his once-perfect face, now marred by acid burns and scarring. The world’s most beautiful man is now reduced to a tabloid tragedy. Another cautionary tale. Without his looks, who is he? If he didn’t have his beauty, what did he have?

Blind!Gojo is visited by you again and this time he’s awake. You chat with him casually, and reveal that you come to the hospital weekly for vague checkups. You offer to help him program his phone, show him how to use voice commands, even call a few of his contacts for him. Most don’t pick up.

Blind!Gojo offers to hire you as his personal assistant. With no more offers left for you in the modeling and acting industry and bills piling up, you take the job.

Blind!Gojo who despises you so much at first because he thinks you pity him, just like the rest of the world, but you don’t. You’re one of the only people who still sees his soul, not his past image. Working for him was awkward at first. He's cold. You're distant. But little by little, something shifts. With the money you save on the side, you start a podcast in your free time. Something just for you. Something with your name on it. You never imagined it would blow up.

Blind!Gojo who starts depending on you for more than just scheduling and errands. You're the only one who doesn’t tiptoe around him, who doesn’t pity him. You call him out on his attitude (even though he’s blind he’s still such an asshole sometimes), and for the first time in a long time, he listens.

Blind!Gojo, who gets even more depressed than he was when his fiancée, Mei Mei, sends a text that she wants to break the engagement. His phone read the words to him out loud, breaking his heart even more. She didn’t even have the gall to tell him face to face or at the very least a phone call so he could hear her actual voice.

Blind!Gojo, who accidentally stumbles across a podcast while scrolling through the voice commands on his phone: your podcast.

Blind!Gojo, who instantly recognizes your voice, soft, sweet, and unbearably honest. You talk about healing, about loss, about finding purpose after the world gives up on you. You never name him, but he hears himself in your words. One episode ends with a quiet confession:

“Sometimes the people who hurt us the most are the ones who need the most love. And sometimes... we give it anyway.”

Blind!Gojo, who doesn’t say anything for a while, just listens. Every episode. It becomes his nighttime ritual. He finds comfort in your voice in a way he never expected. He couldn’t find a better way to drift off to sleep than hearing the sound of your voice.

Blind!Gojo, who finally brings it up one day while you're helping him button a shirt for an outing. “So... this podcast of yours. You’ve got a good voice for radio.”

Your hands still on the last button, and instead of responding right away, you gently brush your fingers over the back of his hand. You admit it’s your side project, something that gave you hope when you had nothing else. You confidently offer:

“If you ever wanted to say something on there... I could set it up. Just to talk. Might make you feel better. And less of such an ass,” you say the last part quietly, but he still catches it

Blind!Gojo, who scoffs at the idea. Him? Opening up? But your voice lingers in his head long after you've left for the day. That night, he sends you a voice message, something short. Just a thought. A memory of his. You weave the audio into your next podcast, but leave the audience guessing who’s the owner behind the mystery voice.

Blind!Gojo, who becomes an unexpected hit! Your listeners fall in love with his dry humor, sarcasm, and moments of vulnerable honesty. From then on, he becomes a regular co-host, and for the very first time in his life, it’s not about his face, his body, or fame. It’s about his words. About him.

Blind!Gojo, who begins to heal through the podcast. Through you. You both start laughing more, talking more (off the mic) too. You start to have long, late-night conversations and early mornings filled with delicious coffee and soft smiles. You start to become his best friend, his lifeline, his anchor. He still got visits here and there from his other friends, like Suguru Geto, but you were something different, someone special. You were more than just his assistant.

Blind!Gojo, who is blindsided (ironically) when, one day, during a recording, you announce you're stepping away from the podcast. He stiffens beside you, the mic still hot. You don’t say why to the audience. But after the recording, you pull him aside and finally tell him the truth: you’re dying.

Blind!Gojo, who stands frozen, unable to form a sentence. You sit him down and tell him gently, with the grace only someone who’s accepted their fate can muster. Your voice is soft but steady, carrying the weight of truth like you’ve been holding it for a while.

Blind!Gojo, clenches his jaw, but he doesn't say a word. You continue and tell him your story because you have to, because he deserves to know.

It’s terminal: stage 4 cancer. It’s been coming for a while. And you didn’t want to be remembered as someone fading away; you wanted to live until the very end. If your parents had it their way, they would’ve had you locked up, hooked to machines, and waiting for miracles that wouldn’t come; but you didn’t want to just exist, you want to live. 

Thankfully, Doctor Zayne always took your side, allowing you to live your life freely as long as you came to your weekly checkups. Satoru Gojo becoming your best friend gave you something to live for.

Blind!Gojo, who finally breaks down, and for the first time, you let him hold you. The realization hits him like a truck. That day at the hospital – the day you two met, when he brushed you off like just another forgettable voice. You were there because you were dying. And he, blind in more ways than one, was cruel to the only person who truly saw him.

He’s come a long way since then, you both have, and he thanks you for it. That night, you share an intimacy that’s more than physical. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s everything that could have been. He uses his hands to explore your face, body, and every crevice he can find. And for the first time since the accident, while you both make love together, he feels he can truly see again.

“I… see you,” he whispers, large hands gently scanning your face. “I see you.”

Blind!Gojo, who wakes up to an empty bed weeks later. You're…  gone. You passed peacefully, but not without preparing something first.

Blind!Gojo, who receives a call from your doctor. You’d already signed the forms and left behind instructions. You wanted him to have your eyes. A match was possible (something you secretly discovered while making preparations). A chance, however slim, to give him back a part of what he lost.

Blind!Gojo, who undergoes the transplant, and for the first time since the accident, opens his eyes to a world that’s both brighter… and lonelier. The first thing he sees after his eyes are healed is your photo on the podcast desk.

Satoru Gojo, who returns to the podcast, now titled “Through Her Eyes”. He speaks about grief, growth, humility, and healing. He no longer talks just to be heard anymore. He talks because you taught him how to feel.

Satoru Gojo, once the world's most sought-after model, now just a man with a heart full of regret and eyes that only see because of the woman who changed him.

a/n: this was the first time i ever did headcanons before and it was lwk fun. it also helped me overall (as a writer) to thoroughly outline the story for the full fic (+ the full fic will have the extended spicy scene). im still working on it among my other million drafts, im just really slow whenever I don't have motivation.

not sure if you guys want to be tagged in this so PLEASE read the above cw notes so you don't get spoiled! tags: @emochosoluvr, @mashtura, @pickledsoda

[greypistacchio]

NAOMI.- And yet, you haven't warded this place against us. I know. You're hoping Castiel will return to you. I admire your loyalty - I only wish he felt the same way. I know you don't wanna believe it, Dean, but we're on the same side.

the lion. the witch. the AUDACITY of this fucking BITCH

what exactly does she think she's going at!!? is she fucking BLIND. is she OBLIVIOUS TO THE POINT OF ACTUALLY SAYING THIS CRAP.

like. "i only wish he felt the same way" are you stupid naomi. are you really this fucking stupid. you are talking about Castiel who broke free from Heaven's mindfuckery fOR DEAN. you are talking about Castiel who rebelled against Heaven a second time fOR DEAN.

you are talking about Castiel, who resisted your commands time and time again, after you made him murder Dean one thousand times in a row. you are talking about Castiel, who spilled the beans about your bullshit and confessed to having been tortured and brainwashed by you specifically. you are talking about Castiel, whom Dean trusted with his life when he chose to not fight back.

look, Naomi, you absolute buffon, even you couldn't shut down Dean and Castiel's profound bond. it only took Dean acknowledging that Cas wasn't acting like himself for Castiel to start talking back to you, and as soon as Dean admitted to needing Castiel, you and your mindgames were COOKED.

and the whole thing you've pointed out about Castiel being gone with the wind?? yeah, girl, Dean was there to witness Cas' disappearing act, and he still didn't ward the Kevin Cave against your kind. he did not keep angels out because he still trusts Castiel to do the right thing, and to show up if Kevin needs rescuing, and most of all? he's most definitely hoping that Castiel will come back. he knows Castiel better than you white-winged bitches ever will, and that's precisely the reason why he will welcome Castiel with open arms when he comes back to him because you can bet your goddamn bureaucrat outfits that CASTIEL WILL COME BACK TO DEAN.

this is the gay love that pierced the veil of your mindfuckery to save the day, and spared Dean's life, and ripped your bullshit to shreds, so naomi dear yOU CAN KISS MY ASS

[debilsposts]

I am currently busy hating my JayTim week fics, but it's time to take a small break and focus on something silly. You guessed right, it's time for another dumb long-ass hc, one that I might actually consider making a full fic out of, if you want:

Tim and Jason want to get married.

That's it, that's the hc, thank you for your time 🙏

Just kidding.

It's more like... Tim wants to get married. Jason is there for the ride, but he's also known for not half-assing anything. So he DOES IT RIGHT! Idiots in love, please, I need some idiots in love, right now 😭

Tim shows up to Jason’s place one afternoon and says, deadpan, “Will you marry me?”

Jason blinks. Then stares. Then, because it’s Tim, he checks the calendar, just in case it’s some kind of National Be a Dumbass holiday he forgot about. But no. It’s a regular Monday, and Tim is standing in his living room like he didn't just ask Jason to marry him.

“…What the fuck?” Jason says eventually.

Tim doesn’t miss a beat. “My income is too high. If I get married, I can file jointly and pay less in taxes. Bruce said I’m not allowed to commit any more fraud this fiscal year, so. You’re the next best option.”

Jason just stares at him. Tim continues.

“You’d get benefits too,” he adds. “I have a generous insurance plan. And you haven’t been to a dentist since you came back from the dead.”

Jason scowls. “That’s fucking rude, Tim.”

“I’m not finished.”

Jason shuts up, mostly out of morbid curiosity.

“The Gotham Gazette keeps calling me Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor. Not Bruce. Not Dick. ME. And now that Dick’s in Blüd, and Bruce is like, too old, I’m apparently the new prize. And I’m tired of the questions. Also, Alfred’s been asking you when you’re going to settle down, so I know you’ve been suffering, too.”

There’s a long pause.

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers. Because somehow, somehow, this all makes a weird kind of sense. Like, horrifying, deeply concerning sense, but still.

“We’re not even in a relationship,” he says finally.

Tim shrugs. “If we get married before Dick does, we have bragging rights for the next century.”

Jason honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him or laugh at him. Instead, he ends up at the Manor later that night, standing outside Bruce’s study like he’s fourteen again and about to confess to crashing the Batmobile.

He doesn’t wait for Bruce to answer before letting himself in.

“I need to talk to you about something,” he says.

Bruce barely looks up from the mountain of tax paperwork he’s elbow-deep in. It’s only when Jason adds, “It’s important,” that he pauses.

Jason hesitates. “If someone proposed to you, what would you do?”

Bruce frowns. “Did someone propose to you?”

“No. I want to propose. To Tim.” He shifts, awkward. “And I want your blessing.”

There’s a silence. Then Bruce blinks. Slowly.

And then he starts smiling.

Not just smiling. Beaming. It's… strange seeing him in this state.

Jason takes a step back, automatically uneasy.

“Oh, Jason,” Bruce nearly sobs, already halfway out of his chair. “Of course. Of course. I never thought this day would come. You’re finally coming home-”

Bruce hugs him.

Jason goes rigid. “Please stop doing that.”

Bruce sounds like he’s about to cry. “This is a joyous moment. Tim is going to be so happy! Alfred is going to lose it! We’re family again-”

“So… you approve?”

“Of course! Jason, it would mean you're part of the family again! See how wonderful that is?”

“Do you think we should… go for it?”

“Are there any reasons not to?”

“Well… I don't want him to regret it.” Jason winces. “I mean, I don’t know if he’s going to be happy.”

Silence.

Bruce pulls back. The warmth evaporates from his face like a switch being flipped.

“Why would Tim ever regret it?”

“What if… What if he changes his mind? He's not in love with me, so when we marry… And he finds someone actually worth being with, what then?”

Bruce suddenly pulls back. His expression turns sour.

“He doesn't love you? Why would you want to propose, then?”

Jason shrugs. “He said it’s for the tax benefits. And maybe the dental.”

Bruce looks at him like he just admitted to committing treason. “You want to marry for tax benefits?”

Jason blinks. “He- he’s the one who-”

Bruce raises a hand. “No. I cannot allow this marriage, then.”

Jason stares. “Didn’t you just say-?”

“If there’s no love, there is no blessing.”

Jason, now very much regretting everything: “Are you even allowed to not give a blessing-”

Bruce has already turned back to his paperwork, muttering something about annulments and betrayal.

Jason… doesn't know what his next move should be.

He doesn’t want to be married. Not really.

But he wants this to work. Because, god help him, everything Tim said makes sense. It’s practical. It’s logical. It’s the least messy solution to both of their increasingly ridiculous problems. And maybe, just maybe, Jason is tired of being alone.

So the next day, he calls Tim. Flips open his notebook and starts doodling on the margins while the phone rings.

“Bruce doesn’t want to give us his blessing,” he explains.

On the other end, Tim just groans. “Who cares, Jason? I don’t need his approval. We’re adults.”

“Yeah, but-” Jason presses the phone between his cheek and shoulder, scribbling absently. “It’s important to me, okay? That’s how things are done. You get the blessing. Then you get married.”

“You get dental insurance,” Tim corrects.

Jason sighs. “It’s tradition.”

There’s a pause.

“…What if we asked Agent A instead?” Tim suggests, dry.

“I tried. Bruce already got to him. Said we’re not in love, so it’s fake or whatever.”

Another pause. Then, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

“What if we pretended to be in love? Do you even use your brain sometimes?”

Jason stops scribbling.

Because, yeah. Yeah. That actually could work. If they just pretend to be stupidly, disgustingly in love, just long enough to convince the Bat Council, it’ll all smooth out. He’ll get the insurance. Tim will get his tax break. And Alfred can stop asking him when he’s going to “settle down and find someone worthy of his best, most cherished boy.”

It’s brilliant.

“Okay,” Jason agrees slowly. “But how? What do we do to look in love?”

“I don’t know,” Tim says, clearly already pulling up a spreadsheet in his mind. “We’ll go to dinner at the Manor next Sunday. We’ll hold hands. Smile a lot. Say some disgustingly sweet things to each other. You’ll even make heart eyes at me. That should throw them off.”

Jason opens his mouth to argue and then pauses.

“…Can I still go to that dentist downtown? I really did crack my tooth the other day-”

“Focus, Jason.”

Right. Focus. Sunday dinner. Hand-holding. Acting.

Jason thinks about it long after they hang up. About how easy it is to imagine pretending.

Not that it matters.

It’s just a practical decision. A business arrangement.

For taxes.

And dental.

(And, you know. Maybe a little bit for love. Eventually. Should I write this?)

[horny-marbles]

Hiiii I just found ur blog, ur stuff is DELICIOUS I LOVE the way you write EJ (the way hotter Jack tbh) !!!! I was thinking about how well he’d get on with a reader/someone who is similar to him in personality, who keeps to themselves and doesn’t start shit but always finishes it, but I realize that’d probably be a lesbian sheep situation. Curious what you think about that. Hope you have a lovely day/night and drink some water if you haven’t in a while, us horny bitches gotta stay hydrated 🤝

hiiii omfg tysmmm eekkk!! i did actually have a glass of water while writing this 🤝 lol

BUT dude you're so right, it would be the longest, most agonizing game of chicken known to man 💀 because the tension is so high everyone else can feel it from a mile away. the moment both of you are in the same room, everyone's laser focused on every little breath like it's reality TV. because COME THE FUCK ON ALREADY, can it be more obvious?

of course he starts gravitating towards you soon after you show up. you're grounded, you do your job and don't get involved in anyone's business, you shut the fuck up when you need to. you're a dream to be around in a house of aggressive, obnoxious psychopaths that don't have the first clue about decorum.

so he notices you, slowly, quietly. that's more than he has to offer to anyone else. there's always this air of recognition whenever you pass each other or get assigned a team mission. maybe that's when it clicks for him that you compliment each other in more ways than expected. it's more of a switch to him rather than a gradual realization that you have potential for something he's always pushed to the back of his mind.

thing is though, as subtle as you are, as closed off as you keep yourself, the moment it hits you as well, he clocks it. not because he's so good at reading people—he's the embodiment of obliviousness when it comes to interest in body language—but because he smells it. your scent already stands out to him in a crowd by this point, and now it flares up sweet and tangy and hormonal when you realize he's around you, and it's like oh.

would jack ever go as far as to hope to get closer and finally sinking his teeth into you (figuratively but also literally, eventually maybe perhaps)? fuck no, of course not, because he doesn't need that, right? he already has to deal with missions and feeding and the general mayhem surrounding him at all times. add the weight of caring for another—because there's no casual with him, it's either complete, life long devotion or nothing—and it's a recipe for disaster.

but your presence has started becoming an anchor in a rowdy room, and you don't expect anything from him, and you always speak to him like an equal, and fuck you smell so fucking good when he's close and your pulse jumping sounds like angels singing in his ears.

it's either you make a move, or it fizzles out. because not even during his mating season does he try to get closer. he thinks about it, obsessively, busting load after load after load in his fist thinking about how you'd sound finally admitting it, screaming it at the top of your lungs in his pillows. but he locks himself in his room and suffers because fuck that.

so yes very much lesbian sheep situation lmfao

[sharksfrommars]

In your reverse portal Au why did it take them so long to prove Ford innocence and that stand is not dead, i feel like you could just bring him to a hospital after they come up with a great story about where the fuck he was for the past 30 years to poop that hey stanley Pines is Alive and not was eaten by his brother, like I understand they would still be setbacks because even though again those evidence that one Stanley Pines is still alive ford did confess to eating him so don't have to look into why he said that and also they might think that oh Ford did eat his arm but I feel like Stanley could be like yeah no that's not what happened that's not how I lost my arm, like you know it wouldn't be completely simple but i feel like just bringing Stan to a hospital would be enough to reopen the case

Especially considering how little evidence there was to convict Ford of cannibalism in the first place,

The only way I would understand it is if they had to jump through so many hoops just to prove that no Ford did not eat Stan's arm, especially since again they cannot tell them what actually happened because Stan lost his arm in the portal

Also, I have dyslexia, so ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes

reopening the case is easy. But closing it again, and actually clearing Ford’s record is much, much harder.

Ford needs his records clean so he can do people things again. The courts decided that Ford couldn’t get a passport after his court case. They stuck him with as many felonies as they could, mostly to make a point. It was a massive story at the time and there was loads of pressure from the public. Because of that, Ford legally isn’t allowed to travel, or do a bunch of other things. Like vote. Or drive, or buy a gun.

most importantly, Ford is denied decision making ability when it comes to his own healthcare. That belongs to the asylum he’s registered to and Shermie. Ford can’t pick up his own prescriptions.

of course, Stan doesn’t think this is a problem. He claims he “knows a guy” who can get Ford a fake ID, and that they can just steal the drugs. Shermie shuts that down immediately. So they push for a retrial, to drop all previous charges against Ford. Give him a clean record. That’s the bit that takes a while.

The biggest obstacle in the retrial is explaining where Stan had been 30 years ago, and what actually happened that night Stan disappeared. They have to come up with explanations for a lot, like Ford lying in court, the blood they found, the strange and erratic ways Ford was acting. It’s hard to come up with something believable to a jury, many of which only know the bare bones of the case.

Also they had to prove that it was actually Stanley Pines, and not someone who looks like him. that in itself takes ages.

in the end, they tell the truth. Mostly. The story is that Ford was in an abusive relationships (ignore the triangle thing) and had contacted Stan for help. Stan and Ford argued over their estrangement, and then Ford’s abusive ex “took Stan away” ( technically true, if you look at it sideways). They say that Ford was psychologically tortured for years leading to a break in reality (which actually happened, if you asked his therapist). Stan claims to have been “travelling abroad” the past 30 years after being taken to Siberia (the first thing Stan thought of) by said abusive ex.

It takes a while with arguing, then processing, then arguing again. Turns out, the legal system really hates admitting they were wrong. But they did manage it, at the end.

Don’t worry about the grammar mistakes lmao. I love them, they add a certain creative flair. It’s FLAVOUR. And I’m also really bad at spelling and grammar so I probably didn’t notice lmao

[jovalencia]

hello I am back here is an overview of my beautiful day

my friend has a big huge massive academic article style paper due tomorrow and needed to lock in and work on it but they didn't wanna do it alone and I had nothing at all going on today so I told them I was down to go to campus with them bc I could work on my diary or stare at a wall or something while they worked.

so we went to campus at 1:45ish and hunkered down in a computer lab in the creepy basement of a building and got to work. and by got to work I mean they started to work on their paper and I insisted on finding a very specific image of dan and phil on bing images on one of the desktops. which was kind of hard but I did end up getting the pic I wanted. but I had randomly saved a bunch of other ones in the process and I was like "why did I even do that" and my friend was like "you should print them" bc I haven't used any of my printing credits all quarter and I was like fucking genius.

so I printed out big versions of the like twelve photos I had but I did them double sides and didn't feel compelled to keep them so I just hid them around the lab. but I had more print credits and one of the pics (the one I went looking for in the first place) printed really small so I just. made a google doc and printed a fuckton of that picture and printed it out and cut them all up. and my friend decided that whenever they needed a break they would hide these pics around the lab. cutting them out was quite a process so I took breaks by saving more pictures to add to the slideshow of photos on the desktop. which they were getting g thorough enjoyment out of even though they have barely any idea of who dan and phil are

I went to the bathroom and couldn't resist wandering around the basement a bit so I came back with a whole landline phone I found on a shelf and my friend was so excited they decided they were gonna take it home. not the point to anything but it did happen. anyways I went up to the main desktop at the front of the room and connected the microphone and talked into it for fun and fucked around with the document camera. as my final act up there I put on the poppy playtime video so my friend could have some extra enrichment. they didn't ask for it but they said it did help.

at this point I was bored again so I printed out another 60 or so pictures to cut out and put in random places. my friend and I went on a basement adventure to do this. when we got back for some reason a ton of people were walking by in the hallway even though it was night and we had only encountered two other living souls since we got to campus (one person sitting completely alone in the dark in the adjacent computer lab that i discovered when I pulled back the rook divider and one girl in the bathroom) and we were just wondering who the fuck these people were.

but imagine our surprise when one guy walked in to our room to see us settled into the corner with a dan and phil video playing on silent on the projector. my friend refused to look up from their paper and I was like "oops haha sorry" and he was like "oh I would never judge I'm just trying to print somebody" and I asked if he wanted a printed dan and phil picture and he said no and was like "why the fuck did you print out a bunch of dan and Phil pictures" and I was like "because it's fucking funny and I wasn't gonna use my printer credits for anything else" and for some reason he couldn't just fucking print whenever he came into the room for so he sat at one of the desktops and was like "oh I could tell you guys are psych majors" bc my friend and I were talking about the title of their paper about justifications for murder. but he was just weird and at some point his friend came in and said nary a thing the whole time he was there and he never did print anything so idk what was up with that. and at this point my friend and I had set up a little dan and phil picture at every single desktop in the room so hope he saw that and hated us more than he already did.

but I cut all my dan and phil pictures and stressed myself out by looking for places I should move after I graduate and found a website for my university where you can see every room that's booked on campus at what times and what it's booked for. and for some reason on this website it also showed who had rented the fucking button makers from the student union. good stuff.

by the time we left at like 8 the room had a lot Lot of hidden pictures the poppy playtime video was almost over we were starving I was out of candy crush lives and I had done not a single productive thing for over six hours.

but it was fine we got burgers at this drive in. and for almost the whole time we were there this guy in the car across from us was on the phone while this horn just sat awkwardly in the seat next to him so when the car finally pulled away my friend and I did the "hang up the phone" gesture (I wish they did it with the actual phone which they had sitting in their lap the whole time for some reason) at the exact same time. which wouldn't be notable if we didn't make the decision to do that independently of one another when we saw that phone guy was looking at us. we also got ice cream because fuck it and my dipped cone was dripping all over the fucking place it was horrible.

it was a good night and afternoon though I love being cringe I love being free here some pics we took and yes one of the places we "hid" the dan and phil pictures was in the expired hand sanitizer (hand phanitizer)

also if you're worried my friend assured me that they were very grateful to have me there with them bc if I wasn't they would have spiraled over this fuckass paper. glad to be a grounding force🫡

[cescalr]

Oooh, definitely glee for the fandom asks! <3

Always with the hornets' nests with these ones, I see! Though i don't think there's a fandom out there that isn't in some way a hornets' nest once it gets large enough... hm. Alright. I'm just gonna be as honest as i can be about this, and tag accordingly.

Glee:

my favourite female character: augh. argh. ouph. so difficult. so hard. Since I'm working off of half-remembered show and half recently-rewatched show... its a tossup. Mercedes, Santana, Quinn. Probably Mercedes. She did nothing wrong ever in her entire life <3 well okay maybe except that one time she smashed kurt's car windows (but it was a banger song, though). Can't say Santana because of the Biphobia TM and other things like excessive use of bigotry-based insults, and Quinn. Oh god girl. Cheating is not cool! Funnily enough! So I find them really interesting but 'favourite' is hard to say. Mercedes. Mercedes for sure <3

my favourite male character: Blaine sam blaine sam blaine sam yes. I am imitating ripping petals off of flowers and coming to a conclusion based on which is the last name i said. So I guess that means Sam! But really this is a tie.

my favourite book/season/etc: Mannnnn idk. I don't like shows for seasons as-a-whole. Also i could not tell you what happened in any given season if you held a gun to my head. I'm not good at that. The only shows i know 'seasons' of are Buffy and Teen Wolf because i've watched them like 100000000000 times (exaggeration) for various reasons (mostly fanfiction research).

my favourite episode (if its a tv show): I can tell you my LEAST favourite episode (blame it on the alcohol, thank you Kurt king of biphobia! this is a persona foible it's not the worst episode in the show. by far. by far. it's kind of an average one. I'm just angry at it.) BUT er. Favourite? Idk. Genuinely some of the earlier Kurt-centric stuff was really well done (his convo with Burt... <3) and the Quinn giving birth accompanied by bohemian rhapsody was obviously iconic, but if I'll be honest I couldn't name any episodes of this show (other than That One previously stated, anyway). And yeah most of the time they were named after song titles and No i don't remember those song titles either. I'm just so bad at this. My memory is that of a goldfish's being haphazardly bounced around on a sieve.

my favourite cast member: it would be really funny if I said Demi Lovato [she counts!] but the truth is N/A: i don't know these people !!! They are strangers!! (i don't. follow celebrities. at all. I couldn't even name most of them. They're just people doing a job and their lives are irrelevant to me beyond their ability to perform that job well. I do not need to know where they live and what coffee they drink. Stalker shit tbh. I'm kind of a very private person myself, so rpf-adjacent stuff just... creeps me out. I've never watched a single cast interview in my lifetime and I'm not about to start!)

my favourite ship: Difficult to say! Grave and obvious lie. Blam. It's blam. Quintana is a close runner up though Santana really needs to stop dating people who cheat on the regular (I'll accept Quinn has grown enough not to do this by the time a Quintana coupling would be viable - and satisfying in terms of character arcs - narratively speaking).

a character I’d die defending: Blaine Anderson did something wrong for sure but like Kurt did it first so shrugs. Cancels out. Bad for each other! Case closed!

a character I just can’t sympathize with: genuinely don't remember if I had one of those the first time around because I was like 10 and just didn't pay attention if I didn't care, but Terri and her racist self take that 'prize' this time, alongside the obvious predator in the room [original choir teacher. Sandy? I forget his name immediately after hearing it. He doesn't deserve to be remembered]. Also JBI is just.... a yikes character all around. I mean, he's a blatant stereotype for one, in a the people who wrote this person don't like jews kind of way. Unfortunately common stereotype too, for the era, so not only is he that, he's also lazy. Just a one-note pervert who's the butt of various antisemitic 'jokes' you've heard from era-peer shows a million times over, tired and awful and a sour reminder of bigotry that continues to this day. Really regrettable character who's lack of redeeming qualities was probably purposeful. (I know Rachel and tina are also jewish, but this comes up very rarely and mostly only when santana needs to say something kind of fucked up, as is her modus operandi, for 'comic relief'. Tina's jewish-ness wasn't even canon for several seasons, because she didn't have a surname or a family or anything resembling complex character depth for several seasons. The one time I really remember Rachel's religion being important was when she was pressuring Kurt into believing in some kind of god, which??? don't do that. Bad example. Trying to guilt trip a friend into faith sucks. I take back what i said earlier Mercedes did that too. Boo. Girls try again that was a bad showing all around. Though i have no idea why Kurt went the acupuncture route as his 'secular' option but i think that has to do a lot with the writers doing literally no research ever once in their lives (you can tell they don't by the way they write the football segments of the show, which make no sense according to football fans who watch Glee, of which there are numerous because real life isn't like fiction where you can only like music or sports. Most of the kids in my school year were doing the most of everything ever if they were the 'popular' ones - we do that differently; popularity isn't really based on who know know; for some bizzare reason literally everyone knew who I was? Even people I'd never spoken to?? - but more about like... how much you can do, I guess. Overachievers, but I'm not saying that negatively; these people were generally - generally - very nice, and surprisingly chill for people who had no spare time whatsoever. I'm not entirely sure when they slept; A* across the board, at least one sport, at least one instrument, several extracurriculars, parties every weekend, dozens of friends and an s.o. . Eh? Way too much going on. Scary lifestyle! Impressive burnout rate, probably. Er. Tangent! Back to the scheduled programming).) There's uhhhh there's a lot of bad characters on the show, but i'd say Sandy and Terri and her equally but more loudly racist sister are truly completely irredeemable ones. Like they're not interesting or anything, they're just there to be narrative annoyances (which, in the case of Sandy specifically, is insane. Arrest that man!!! He has actively sexually assaulted minors!!!).

a character I grew to love: difficult to say because I tend to just make an opinion and stick to it. Also i don't remember who i liked at first and who i didn't, this show came out when i was eight. I didn't watch it until I was a little older than that, of course, but I frankly have spotty memory until my late teens, so! I'm not sure!! Quinn, probably. Pink-hair-era Quinn helped me understand her more, and seeing the moments of kindness hidden behind practical cruelty, when you understand her family and situation, makes things make a lot more sense. It takes a lot to get me to sympathise with a cheater, but I can see where Quinn was getting all turned around in her head about life because of her upbringing and socialisation, not to mention the profoundly negative impact cheerios had on her mentally and that the school's culture in general was not exactly a breeding ground for empathy and optimism.

my anti otp: can you tell (klaine). I don't dislike Kurt!!! Please let him have a fun chillaxed boyfriend in new york with his vogue friends. But also please stop attempting to control other people's diets thank you!! Thank you!! I'm of mixed feelings. Blaine and Kurt both did at least one bad, relationship-ending thing, and proved over and over again that they just weren't on the same wavelength in regards to life goals and ways of living it. They can't even share the same living space, which is kind of required for a functional marriage. I don't know, it just seems like they settled for their first proper, serious boyfriend even if that's not really the best match, and I... wish they'd just got to see more of life first, you know? They got married at like 20! Or something! I'm 23, I cannot imagine getting married at 20. That's a baby. Let them live first!

(same for Santana and Brittney, imo. I also don't really like them together because Santana and Brittney have very different ideas regarding monogamy, which is just never going to go down well in the long run. If your girl cheats on you like twenty times and tells you to your face its not cheating in her view of things, but you think it is, break up with her because you'll just make each other miserable. Brittney sort of seems incapable of feeling guilt but if she were, this kind of moral pressure would be Not Good, and obviously Santana isn't comfortable with the idea and doesn't have to be!! Just move on!!! Find other people!!!! Don't marry your first girlfriend if you've broken up like ten times this is simple!!!! Please!!!! But Klaine wins out over Brittana because - in my opinion, glee fandom please do not persecute me, I am known for this specific thing - I see... interactions that verge on abusive between Klaine that I don't see in Brittana. So. Oof? Ex; use of public perception to disguise attack; deliberately hurting Blaine in a stage-combat fencing match (you are not meant to make actual contact in these) and thus using Blaine's own dislike of making his difficulties common knowledge against him in order to 'punish' him. This is no good! Don't do this!!.[Also just to err vaguepost about a comment.... that is. not. what i would call passive aggressive. Physically attacking someone with a sword - no matter the type of sword, fencing foils hurt just as much, they're just not stab-you sharp... er, these days - is just straight-up aggressive.]).

Note that negative things stick in the mind better than positive ones; on a rewatch I may well alter my opinion!

But also I'm really, really stubborn. So it's not likely. Klaine.

[ratcandy]

also whats weird is like, that mushroom gotta be like ATTACHED to his brain?? no way he doesnt have brain damage from that. also its not hard to imagine that with all his intense mushroom use, that he'd have some sort of substance use disorder. and he is, suddenly, in a DEATH CULT. actually. i dont feel like anyone talks about the last part. ?? doesnt anyone wonder how hard it would be to adjust just suddenly. being in a cult? we dont really know how his life was before but if he wasnt in a cult beforehand then id imagine all the Cult Stuff would be at least a little uncomfortable.

I guess it would depend to what extent we're leaning into the parasite actually being a cordycep. Because if we're going full throttle on that, teeechnically cordyceps don't attach to the brain at all and only control the musculature; hence why I always hc'd that there's two different mushrooms involved, with the menticide doing the brain fuckery and the cordycep doing. The everything else

But at the same time it could very well just be advanced cordycep and we can make up whatever rules we want ! But YES, regardless, there is some brain nonsense happening that would ABSOLUTELY have everlasting effects on this ant. Not to mention if the cordyceps DID have control of his muscular system, then his entire body has got to be feeling the effects of it as well.

So he's here, in a death cult, probably having to re-learn how to walk and suffering extreme withdrawal symptoms as well as memory loss.

ANd no nobody ever considers the full ramifications of the death cult because everybody is a coward and won't consider how horrifying cults actually are!!!!!! And to be a disabled old man suddenly thrust into a scary ass scenario where people are being sacrificed and brought back to life around you while you can't even remember how old you are or where you've been the past few years because time was fucked while you were Shroomed, it HAS to be HORRIFYING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But at the same time it really just works out from a cultist perspective. He's already isolated, vulnerable, and probably only halfway lucid at any given point. He'd be extremely easy to manipulate and keep dependent on the cult. After all, they're keeping him safe there, it's dangerous out there. (Not to mention him just feeling some inherent loyalty to the Lamb upon becoming sober, which certainly wouldn't do him any favors)

Like what's he going to do? Leave? Stumble out, suffering withdrawl, into the Lands of the Old Faith?? As an old man??????????

He has no CHOICE but to make peace with where he is. Despite all the questions about if his FAMILY is even STILL ALIVE. Despite having no idea what he DID while under the influence. Despite the HORRORS around every CORNER

It's FUCKED!!!!! It's AWFUL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[bunnyboy-juice]

i guess this is a vent? idk I'm talk to myself some is all

the thing ab CAB is she will literally experience us having coughing fits every couple of hours overnight, waking up drowsy and dizzy with a sore throat, clutching her stomach as the sick affects the tummy and also the pre-existing GI issues, and brain empty bc sick brain fog + grief brain fog + already have brain problems. and her ass will still try to take over and be like NO WE'RE OKAY EVERYTHINGS OKAY LETS GO TO WORK OKIE DOKIE LETS GO YOU'RE LETTING EVERYONE DOWN (< who i have no idea btw. everyone in my life is telling me to stay home & rest. probably dad cus he doesnt believe in covid but he also doesnt mean shit anymore in our lives bby I promise) LETS GO. like girl. we literally cant even stand without getting dizzy and we got terrible sleep last night AND our boss is letting us "wfh" instead of exhausting our eto. could you be any more .... oh god word dont elude me now ..... whatever. anyway. CAB shut the fuck up challenge

[sspiderj]

karen wheeler defender till the day i die

[geee-three]

okay now that im actually confronting it this makes a whole lotta sense that im going to continue to ignore

[ghastbutlikegay]

dudes ive hit a point with The Horrors:tm: where im unable to convince myself that any of my friends actually like me

[izzy-b-hands]

I keep forgetting I can't seem to get the current version of xkit to work on my new laptop and going to do stuff that it let me do fjldksafjdlsaj