fire-08

✩ Jay ~ she/her ~ 21yrs ~ STAY ✩

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙭𝙫. 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙪𝙡𝙩 𝙞 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙

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

「Contents List」 「Act 1」  「© January 2025 by jl-micasea-fics」

You thought your struggles prior to the liquor were bad. Oh, silly girl. Silly, silly, soju-sodden girl.

With every peachy shot it’s harder to draw your eyes from the man. Much less when he complains of being too hot and stretches the neck of his shirt, fanning himself. A sheen of sweat glistens over his nape, dampens the light strands of hair. He rolls his sleeves to shoulder, the swell of bicep and veins in his forearms visible. It’s inappropriate to sit and salivate, but the little black box is none deterred. Doctor Kindelle would tell you to sit with your feelings and understand them. You’re not sure doing so is safe, in this moment.

Down with the next shot.

“You know what? You were right.”

He turns back to you, the move requiring some effort until his legs are tucked under him and his right arm is propped on the sofa.

“This is a bad movie.”

“Mhm. People only think it’s good because the remakes and sequels have been so fucking terrible. Makes them appreciate it more.”

“It’s just so... cheesy. Everything is so overdone.”

“Yeah. Nobody remembers that when they’re telling you what a cult classic it is, though.”

“I guess we only ever recall the good about the things we used to love, huh?” he says. His gaze falls.

“I guess.”

He fingers his glass, swallows thickly. Tension infects the moment. The bloody finale plays out in the background. The screams somehow help.

“Say it, Min,” you whisper. “I don’t know how much longer I can bear this.”

His starry stare coils around your self-control and squeezes. He understands perfectly what it is you struggle to contain, for he feels it himself. He’s just better at hiding it. Has always been. He’s always been better at everything than you.

“I miss you,” he says.

Fuck.

“I see you every day, and I miss you. I’m with you now; you’re right here, and I still miss you.”

Blood coagulates in your veins.

“I don’t think ending things was a mistake,” he says, voice thick. “But I'd be lying if I said I didn’t have my regrets. I wish I'd tried harder to understand how you felt about everything.”

“I didn’t even understand it, Min. You stood no chance of working it out.”

“Do you now?”

You nod. “I think so. I know that I miss you too. Terribly.”

He smiles.

“When you told me about what happened with Jisung—”

“My delivery left a lot to be desired.”

“It did. But I... should have controlled myself.”

Minho looks at you quizzically, as he has looked at you so many times before and with such desire to simply be let in.

You take a deep breath. Better late than never, you suppose.

“I have these... compulsions,” you say. “Urges. Fantasies. Call them whatever, but they make things difficult.” You can’t look at him. If you do, you’ll stop. “I managed it fine for years, but then things changed. With us. We met 3racha. It was all so much at once. Things that I'd only imagined—things that were supposed to stay as imagination—were actually happening, and I… It overwhelmed me. The heat. The lust. The endless possibilities. I wanted to do things, Min. Shameful things.”

“Like what?” he whispers.

“I wanted to be used. By all of you. In every way imaginable. I wanted to be fucked until I could no longer tell who was fucking me. Until I was nothing but sensation.” You swallow. Can’t look at him still. “But more so than that… I wanted to watch you using each other. The beauty of it just— It is sexual, but it’s more. It’s heavier. Like watching stars die out. You’d be… you would all be fantasies, right in front of me, shimmering and untouchable, and I’d watch, waiting for you all to explode right as your pleasure peaks and your bodies slide together. Then you’d die out. And that would be okay. It wouldn’t be fair to the world for you to keep existing. For me to keep watching. But I’d want you to take me, too. One bright flash and we’ll be nothing but red mist.”

Minho’s eyes shimmer in the light of the lamp. You keep going.

“When you told me about Jisung, the compulsions came back. They overcame me. I had to remove myself, and I know that made you think that I was upset or jealous. I wasn’t. I was just... trying to keep it all together. Trying to shove all the urges back into their box before I lost myself to them.”

Minho takes a breath. His mouth opens and shuts, he bites his lip. “Wow. That’s…”

“I know it’s a lot. I’m sorry. I don’t blame you for being disgusted—”

His jaw locks as he frowns. “Why couldn’t you have told me all this weeks ago?”

“You know why.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Goddamn it.”

“All I’ve ever known is having you by my side. If I'd told you the truth of what made me, who I really am, I— I couldn’t stand to lose you.” You huff a breath. Almost laugh to think of it. “Then I did anyway.”

“You haven’t lost me.”

“But we—”

“I love you, you stupid girl. I love your fucked up way of thinking and the things you try to hide from me. I love them. I love you.”

Oh.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙭𝙞𝙫. 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙪𝙡𝙩 𝙞 𝙧𝙪𝙞𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜

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

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

You spend the morning drifting.

Reading, cleaning, fussing and tidying. Nothing occupies you properly, your mind too wired and body too unsettled to focus. You still feel to be walking on razor blades, and beneath those are the long-abused shells of rotten eggs.

When your phone rings, you pounce on it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, baby.”

Changbin’s voice scrapes pleasantly against your ears.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Oh, you know.” You shrug. “Surviving.”

“Surviving is good.”

“So I've heard.”

“What are you up to today?”

You start pacing. “Nothing much right now. Hanging out with Minho later.”

“Minho, huh?” He pauses. “That a good idea?”

Seriously.

“It’s kind of overdue. We need to talk. We haven’t in so long.”

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“You saw me a few days ago,” you laugh.

“Still too long.”

“Greedy.”

“Damn right.”

God. Everyone should have a Changbin. Just not yours.

“How is Chan?” you ask.

“He’s good. Like, actually good. He asks about you. So glad you managed to work things out.”

“Me too. I wish we’d done so sooner.”

“You couldn’t have known what was going on with him. Even I only had suspicions. Though, if it had gone on much longer, I’d have been forced to lock you two in a room together until you fought it out,” he laughs.

“Glad it didn’t come to that, then.”

“Me too. My money would have been on you.”

You laugh gently. “I’d like to see him.”

“Yeah. He’d probably like that too. I was thinking about suggesting we all do something together. Like, the five of us.”

“You don’t think that’d be disastrous?”

“Nah, man. It was only ever you and Chan that had beef, and now you guys have squashed that and are working through your shit, everything should be fine.”

“In theory.”

“In theory.”

Silence falls, prospects settle.

“Maybe one day?”

He hums. “One day. For sure.”

The rattle of keys draws your attention.

“I better go. Minho’s home.”

“Boo. Have a good time.”

“Text me?”

“Of course, baby. Later.”

Minho traipses into the apartment; loose dance gear drowns him, the vest sleeves so wide it reveals every bump of his ribs and the occasional flash of nipple. His hair is swept back under a wide-rimmed bucket hat, his earbuds snug. The little black box swoons on the spot.

He startles on the sight of you, right earbud falling out. “Jesus.”

“Forget I live here?” you laugh.

“Just not used to seeing you here.”

He picks up the rogue bud, drops it and the other into a case retrieved from his pocket. You wince when he snaps it shut.

“Are we still on for—”

“Bad movies and bad food?” You point to the kitchen counter where plastic bags of snacks are gathered. “Way ahead of you.”

Minho nods, eyes flicking from the counter to the television, where Netflix scrolls idly through the top ten selection. “Alright. Let me go shower.”

“Want me to bring you a towel?”

Risky. Last time you cracked that joke he lost his mind. Referral to past affection gets him that way lately, and you’ve a good idea why. You think. This time there are no such dramatics. He simply huffs, strips his vest from over his head, soft waves of abs and honey skin setting your blood to a low simmer.

“Only if you plan to get in with me.”

He disappears down the corridor. Leaves you to stew in arousal with a pinch of shock. If not so committed to chastity you’d see yourself cleared of it by three fingers.

Half an hour later, Minho emerges. Ashy hair fluffed and light. Comfortable shirt and loose sweats. No glasses. Fresh and soft. You could eat him alive.

He joins on you on the sofa, foot slung to the coffee table, long legs stretched out.

“What are we watching?” He eyes the snacks laid out. All his favourites.

“I thought we’d start with an oldie.” You scroll to the end of the ‘horror’ genre row, where you last saw Friday the 13th.

“Oh yeah? Interesting.”

“You’re not down?”

“No, I am. I just thought this was about bad movies.”

So ensues a debate on the alleged glories of the 1980’s original (genius cinematography among them, according to Minho), until you’ve no choice but to settle in the middle, where proof may be found in the proverbial pudding.

Settling into it is easy. Minho rests comfortably, a bowl of chilli Doritos in his lap. At the other end of the sofa, you’re curled up with your blanket. Never used to be space between you. You want to fill it with flowers or bricks or something that makes you feel less alone. Your focus is diverted, split between the dramatic happenings of Camp Crystal Lake and his stunning side profile. At this late afternoon hour the sun is on its lazy descent, golden rays trickling through the blinds. The standing lamp casts him in shadow where the natural light falls short, his features so striking all emphasised. Soft yet cutting. His jaw feathers as he chews, pink tongue sweeping Dorito dust from his lips. His blinks are slow and heavy, the fan of his lashes framing curious eyes. When he swallows his Adam’s apple bobs; you used to press your tongue to it and feel the life in him.

He shifts, sinks into the cushions, thighs flexing. You feel it in your centre. The little black box salivates like a starving lioness.

“Thirsty?”

“What?”

Minho blinks. “Are you thirsty?” he asks again.

“O— Oh. No. I mean; yes. Please. Water.”

“I was thinking something a little stronger,” he says. “What do we have?”

You pause the movie. “I don’t know. Might be some of your soju left somewhere.”

Minho rises, pads across the hardwood, rifles through cupboards until he exclaims in delight. He emerges from the kitchen holding two shot glasses and two clear bottles labelled pastel pink. The brand names are in Korean.

“Peach soju,” he grins.

“Told you.”

He sets the glasses down, gives the bottles a wicked shake for the bubbles inside to spin and twirl. For whatever else has changed about him, drinking rituals apparently remain.

“You partaking?” he asks; an afterthought as he’s about to fill the second glass.

“Sure.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Pour me the damn drink, Minho.”

He smirks, does as instructed, and passes you the tiny glass. Fingertips brush as he hands it over.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Cheers.”

The sweet, sharp liquid slides down your throat. Minho smacks his lips, pours another round. He sits cross-legged on the floor, thighs thick and strong. Straining against his sweats. Muscled.

You play the movie.

Pretend the pillows in your lap are covered in grass.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[linkinbert]

waterfight

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙭𝙞𝙞𝙞. ‘𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙮

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

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

All still feels like a dream. A wonderful, fucked up dream straight from the recesses of your little black box, fresh out of the pit from disuse.

Thinking about it sets your heart to a cool pound. Makes your skin thrum as though electric insects crawl and skitter. Makes you giddy and just a little lightheaded, even more so because you can’t seem to stop thinking about it.

Jisung never seemed to express much interest in you beyond the platonic. He did once tell you that he falls fast— not so fast as to a lone act of chivalry, surely? Maybe he’s just lonely. Maybe the absence of intimacy from his boyfriends is having more of an impact than he realises, driving him to find the next warm thing. A disservice to think of him that way, perhaps, but he’s as human as you when all is said and done, and you know well the nature of your own proclivities.

Today is a rare day off. No shift at the coffee shop, no session with Doctor Kindelle, no plans other than to make them. The apartment is peaceful. Early light beams through the drawn blinds, slicing the cream carpet. Rich notes of coffee hover, drawing you to the kitchen where your roommate sits at the table, a newspaper folded in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. Gold-rimmed glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, the planes of his upper body on bare display, for he’s neglected a shirt. Silky strands of hair are pushed back from his face; he’s the very image of domestic bliss. Toned. Lean. He has the build of a dancer, God forbid you should forget. The little black box trembles with glee, drools with want.

He looks up on your entrance, his serene features shadowing.

“Morning,” you say.

He looks back to his paper.

You help yourself to coffee—nobody does it quite like Minho, he even barista’s better than you—and debate sitting at the table with him. If the hostility rolling from him isn’t hint enough of his wish to be left alone, his downright miserable posture would be. Still, Jisung was right: you need to talk to him.

“Any plans for today?” you ask from the kitchen.

“Teaching soon.”

You hum gently. After a minute, you ask, “Are you okay?”

He scoffs under his breath, sips his coffee.

Okay.

You pull out the other chair at the table. He glances at you.

“Can I?”

He nods. “Sure.” And quickly finishes his mug with one gulp, folds his paper and rises.

“Minho—”

“What?”

“Could you stay a minute?”

He blinks. “What for?”

“We don’t have to avoid each other like this. We’re supposed to be friends.”

“Supposed to be,” he says. “There are a lot of things that are supposed to be.”

“So we’re not even friends now? Is that what you’re saying?”

Minho chucks the paper to the table. “Things are just... different between us.”

“Of course they’re different.” You almost laugh. “Everything is fucking different. You made it different when you kissed me.”

“Right. It’s all my fault. Sure.”

“That’s not what I—” You stop. Rephrase. Remember what therapy taught you. “I acknowledge the part I played in making things different, too. I kissed you back. I consented to everything that happened after that. I wanted it. But it’s changed us, and that’s a fact. We are not the same people we were a few months ago, and it’s dumb to pretend otherwise. I just thought that, despite it all, no matter how different we became, we’d always be best friends.”

Minho nods. “Yeah. Me too. But that’s not how it ended up working out. I don’t feel close to you at all.”

“What can I do to fix that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if we— You said you were teaching this morning?”

He hums, hand running over his gently muscled bicep. You tear your eyes from him when the heat begins to flush your nape. Perhaps if he were a touch less beautiful, this might be easier.

“Let’s hang out,” you suggest. “After.”

He blinks, long lashes grazing his cheeks.

“Just the two of us,” you press. “Like we used to. Bad movies, bad food.”

“You don’t have anywhere else to be?” he asks.

“No.”

He looks surprised. “Alright.”

“Okay. Good.”

Relief brings a smile, albeit tentative. The boot lifts from your lungs, and the next breath doesn’t feel like it’s through a pinhole. Minho’s lips twitch, but he turns from you before anything more is conveyed. It’s not right, right now. You know that. But it’s a start. Sunlight streaks his broad, tan back as he crosses the room. The gentle closing of his bedroom door seals the moment, but you’re left with hope.

Bad movies, bad food.

Bad people, wanting nothing more than to be good for once.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙭𝙞𝙞. 𝙞 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨

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

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

Out on the street and several paces ahead, Jisung is a man driven by something. All the caffeine, you presume.

He glances over his shoulder, catches your eye and ducks around a narrow, branching alley.

“What the hell is he doing...?”

You jog to keep up and round into the alley; there’s a mesh metal gate closing it off. Jisung stands behind it, mischief lighting his eyes. “Come on!”

“Jisung, you shouldn’t be back there!”

He reaches around the gate, pulls you through it, hand warm around your wrist. He checks the street, and void of passersby or anyone with reason to scold you for your trespassing, he pulls you in deeper, to a nook stacked high with cardboard boxes and discarded packaging.

“What are we even doing here, this is—”

He crowds you against the closest brick wall, concealed in shadow. Your heart springs to your throat, the iridescence of his eyes so unfamiliar— heavy and wanting, he searches your burning face, cups your cheeks.

“This is your fault,” he whispers.

He gingerly captures your lips: can hardly comprehend it until he pulls back, breath slow and warm, tinctured strawberry. It’s too quick. So soft. Seconds pass where the gravity of what he’s done sinks in, and finding nothing other than a well of creamy anticipation, you find purchase in his collar to drag him close, to feel the press of his chest and the cold stone at your back. Jisung grins lazily, nose nudging yours.

“That was so hot of you,” he mutters, voice silken treacle.

You blink at him, dumb.

“Standing up for me. Protecting me.”

“I... I just did the right thing.”

“You’d be amazed how many people are too chicken shit to do that.”

His heavy lids slide closed; still unconvinced that this isn’t a wonderfully realistic hallucination, you refuse to do the same. He kisses you again. Plush and warm, he explores the shape of your lips, hands releasing your cheeks to curve around your waist. What is first so tentative soon devolves; arms around his neck you indulge in the smoothness of his skin, hands wandering from his nape into his hair. You drag his beanie off, his hair lush between your fingers. His listless groan sets something to swell in your belly, arousal thickening when he nips your bottom lip and tugs for the flesh to spring back. He huffs a wanton breath, maps the indents of his teeth with his tongue. Presses against your thigh, the rigidity of his groin so thick and long.

Fuck. The little black box dusts itself off, comes out of hiding.

His right hand drops to your thigh, fingers skimming the hem of your skirt to lift it gently. Your skin zings where his fingertips linger, a gathering of heat in your lower belly such that you haven’t felt since beginning your therapy. It makes your head light and your hands tremble; when he touches where you ache, a featherlight pressure over your underwear, you gasp as though drowning.

“Jisung—”

He hums, nudges your jaw, nuzzles the sensitive skin of your throat. Every sense is attuned to him, exacerbated by the tenebrous alley. There’s nothing to take away from this. Nothing but the trill of your senses that, despite every instinct crying at you, urge you to do the right thing. It would be easy to fall into him. Easy to let old habits dictate your next choice. He wants you, and there’s nothing so empowering as the feeling of being desired. If only it didn’t wear off so quickly.

The little black box wails with despair as you press gentle hands to his (surprisingly) broad chest, firm enough to indicate needing a moment. Jisung withdraws but stays close, nose and cheeks glowing with want.

“We shouldn’t.”

He hangs his head. “I know.”

The pulse of his heartbeat is strong under your palm, rabbiting intently.

“I want to.”

He huffs a gentle laugh, gaze flicking up. “I know.”

“It’s just—”

“I get it. There’s too much right now.” He straightens up, kisses you once more softly, steps away. Sweeps a hand through his hair and pulls his beanie back on. “Let me walk you back?”

You pull your skirt down with a shiver. “Won’t the others be missing you? You’re supposed to be recording.”

He shrugs. “I’m already late.”

He holds his hand out expectantly. You take it when he urges, fingers slotting together, and so it is that J One takes you home, his jacket pulled close and collar risen, head ducked when passing groups of girls that look to be in the right age bracket for recognising him. If only they knew what their beloved rapper had just been up to. If only they knew what he usually got up to.

At your apartment lobby, he kisses the back of your hand.

“Call me.”

You promise you will.

“No regrets, right?” he asks before he leaves. The little black box pouts, and this time, you almost feel sorry for it. This is for the best. It is.

“Never.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[luvtak]

fade into you, lmh

genre/tw est. relationship! suggestive, pure sugar cane fluff (like high fructose corn syrup fluff), minho only knows how to talk with his hands </3, gn!reader!! minho calls you kitty and honey <3!! seriously cavity inducing fluff be warned !! mostly unedited…

w/c 848

omg i haven’t posted a fic in so long nor have i written anything in months :(( but i’m finally a lot more settled after a busy drama filled couple of months! I hope you love this fic as much as i loved writing it. I’m not kidding when i say i wrote this in an hour on my phones notes app, don’t be afraid to tell me how you feel hehe 🩵

It’s cold outside your sleeping bag, frigid morning fog seeping into the once cozy tent. You shiver at Minho’s nose pressing into your neck, his face as cold as a dog who’s been outside too long. 

You’re not sure why you let your boyfriend convince you to camp in the middle of autumn… less sure why he insisted it was just the two of you, but you could never refuse Minho when he asked you so nicely— hands easing sighs while his mouth asked the question; the only thing you could say was yes, over and over. 

Unfortunately, the ecstasy of being asked was not akin to the actual experience.

Insistent rain stormed down from the second you arrived to the last minute before your eyes closed, Minho in all his excitement forgot the cooler and was forced to drive all the way back—leaving you to shiver in the tent alone. No, it was not the romantic getaway your boyfriend promised, but being here now—warm despite the wilderness’s wishes—you think it could be.

“Are you still cold, honey?” Minho asks, his voice just a whisper amongst the whistling trees. 

With your eyes still closed, you can only imagine what he looks like… Soft with sleep, his eyelashes cascading shadows across the slopes of his skin, beautiful like hypnos after creating dreams. You can feel his breath against your neck and his hands clutching at your waist, so safe despite how strong he is. 

“No, min, I’m just right” you say, and you can feel his laugh, rumbling through him, feel his smile against your skin. 

You wish he knew how much you cherish him… how much you treasure these little moments with him. How you’ll think about this moment every time he’s away from you; rolling the memory around your tongue like it’s a piece of candy. 

Sometimes, you’re sure you can see a cord running from you to him, wrapping around the two of you like cling wrap—like every moment you’ve ever had was crafted by the fates, your story weaved by the gods themselves. 

“Just right huh?” he says, before he’s lifting his head to look at you, eyes open and beautiful. “Well goldilocks, look how pretty you are this morning.” His smile is mischievous and if you didn’t know better you may think he was joking, but his tone gives him away: too quiet to be anything but the truth. 

“Minho!” you cry, embarrassed by compliments this early, “lay back down, I need you to keep me warm.” He smiles down at you, knowing you well enough to see that you’re flustered, it’s always too easy; one compliment, and your skin is hot, his kiss lasts a second too long and you’re pulling away shaking. 

Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of making your blood rush, enjoying the chase even when he has you. 

When his skin gets closer to yours again, chest to chest/heart to heart, you find yourself breathing his air like you share one pair of lungs. He’s so close to you, searing your skin even as the sleeping bag pulls awkwardly around your legs, letting cool air settle around your figure. 

His lips are so close to yours, one breath away from a kiss, so close you can feel his words flow into your open mouth. 

“Are you warm now, kitty?”  he asks, his eyes boring into yours before flitting down to look at your skin; miles and miles of it under his hands, valleys of skin that are his as much as yours.

“I’m warm, Minho, are you?” Just a whisper.

“just right.” A smirk. 

One breath, two breaths, three, and then he’s kissing you. Lips urging gasps to flow out of you, hands grasping at his tension filled spine. You’ve shared many kisses, sweet and sultry, frantic and lust filled, but something about this hunger is foreign to you. 

His kiss is filled with wanting yes, but it’s almost like he’s trying to tell you something but forgot the words. His hands on your thighs urging you to listen, please please please understand, they say, clutching at the muscle like he’s afraid you’ll never know. 

But you do, and so do your lips and your hands and you try your hardest to speak his language; responding to every bite with a nip of your own, gasping when his hands ask, kissing away the sleep still in his eyes. You know what he’s saying, I love you, I’m sorry you’re cold, I’m sorry I made you come on this rain coated trip, I love you I'm sorry, I love you I love you.” 

Your boy, always so embarrassed to tell you how he feels, but never afraid to show you. 

When you pull apart, hands locked together still, eyes gleaming with an inside joke, a shared confession; you can see he wants to say something, see he’s trying to build the courage to split his heart open. Instead he flits his eyes up to the sky and smiles. 

Look honey, the suns coming out” 

And you understand. 

© LUVTAK 2024

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙭𝙞. 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙬𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙞 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚

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

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

Han Jisung— rapper, charmer, ringleader of the clowns. He dons many titles, and loves them all equally.

“Why didn’t you just tell him?”

His head is in his hands, his phone on the table. “I don’t know, dude. I clammed up. Shit.”

You’d laugh if it wasn’t so painful.

“You realise you’ve just made this a whole thing, right?” you sigh.

“Yeah.”

“When it didn’t need to be.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like we’re fucking on the cake display.”

Jisung snorts. “You wish.”

“I think too highly of carbs to do that.” You sip the froth from your cappuccino, the mug warm in your hands. “Seriously, though. We’re only hanging out. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

He sighs, scratches under his beanie where dark strands peek. Perpetually possessing a healthy glow, simply being around him is enough to lift spirits. No wonder Minho does so at every opportunity.

He pouts into his strawberry Frappuccino.

“Do you feel like we are?” you ask.

“No, man. Come on. I love that we’re friends now. I just— Don’t you feel kind of bad for Minho?”

“In what way?”

“In the way that we’re, like, hanging out behind his back.”

“Behind his back?”

Jisung grimaces. “Without him, I guess.”

You set your beverage down, fold your arms. “I never asked you to keep this a secret.”

“I know—”

“I’ve never stopped you from inviting him, either.”

“Right.” He rubs his right eye. “But wouldn’t inviting him be, like...”

“Awkward? Probably, yeah. He and I have stopped fucking, but you two continue to. Of course, it’ll be awkward. We’ll get over it. I told you, I'm happy for you.”

Jisung quirks a brow. “I don’t know about that.”

“About what?”

“Him and me. Fucking. Continuing to.”

“... You’re not?”

“We get close, but no. Not since you two broke up.”

“Well, I mean; that’s fine, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s fine.”

“Changbin and I haven’t really had sex either. It’s not the end of the world.”

Jisung shrugs, lips wrapped around his straw. He talks around it. “I’m not suggesting it is.” He swallows. “I just feel like there’s more going on with him than he’ll admit to. Dude’s so stuck in his head all the time. It worries me.”

“I... hadn’t noticed.”

“No, well; you guys aren’t as close you used to be. Figures.”

Sickness stirs. You swallow it down.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” you ask, because Jisung seems to know better than you.

“If I had to guess, he misses you.”

“We see each other every day.”

Jisung glares at you.

“He’s the one that ended things, Ji. As much as it hurt at the time, he was right to do so. I’d never have spent the last few weeks focusing on myself otherwise, and I'm a better person for it.”

“If you say so,” he sighs, swirling his straw through pink cream.

“Besides, I don’t see why his missing me should have any effect on his relationship with you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’ve never missed someone so much it takes you away from everything else?” he says. “You and Bin hyung aren’t fucking either, remember.”

“That’s got nothing to do with Minho.”

“Right. Whatever.”

“I used my pain to my advantage,” you urge. “Let it lead me into changing things.”

“Good for you. Maybe Minho can’t do that. People handle grief in different ways. And that’s what this is, by the way— he’s grieving.”

You slide your hands around your cappuccino, bring it close.

“You should talk to him,” Jisung says quietly.

“And say what?”

“Tell him that we’re hanging out, for a start. Put his mind at ease.”

You roll your eyes. Not worth pointing out Jisung’s role in setting it off-kilter in the first place.

“Tell him you still have feelings for him, too.”

“He knows that, Ji.”

“A little reassurance never hurt,” he says.

You sip froth from your coffee. “Fine. But—”

“Excuse me?”

A voice to the right draws yours and Jisung’s attention: two teen girls huddle closely, phones clutched in their hands, all aflutter. They inch towards the table, wide eyed stares fixed to Jisung.

“You— You’re Han Jisung, right?” One of them says. “J One?”

Jisung nods, bows in his chair, adjusts his beanie. “Yeah.”

The girls squeal, drawing dubious glances from customers. Jisung shrinks into himself.

“Oh my god!” The other exclaims. “Oh my god, oh my god! We’re huge fans. We love you so much!”

“Ah, thank you.”

“Can we, like, get a picture with you?” They’re shuffling closer, now too close to be comfortable.

Jisung falters, panic paling him. “Oh, I— I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“Just one picture!” The girls raise their phones and turn, frame a selfie, and unable to bear it any longer, you rise and quickly pose in front of Jisung, a victory ‘V’ held up in frame.

“What the hell?!” One girl complains, whirling around. “Do you mind—”

“Do you mind?” you hiss. “I believe he just told you that he can’t give you a picture.”

“We were just—”

“Just disrespecting the man’s boundaries? Just fishing for your five minutes of fame?”

The girls glower, their mouths opening and shutting like floundering fish.

“Let him drink his coffee in peace,” you say acerbically.

“Come on.” One girl grabs the other’s arm. “Let’s go.” She turns to Jisung, bows low. “Sorry.”

With that, they scarper from the café, eyes of curious customers following them. A smartly dressed barista approaches, asks if everything is okay. You reassure them it is. When you sit back down, Jisung is staring.

“What?” you deadpan.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“That’s the strangest ‘thank you’ I've ever heard.”

He snorts, colour returning to him. He takes one long sip of his Frappuccino, hurriedly pulls his jacket back on. He smacks his lips and gestures to the door. “Come on.”

“We’re leaving? But I haven’t finished my—”

He’s already getting up, weaving through the café and breezing out.

“Hey! Wait for me!”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙭. 𝙞 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚

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

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

“I’ll get you back, bestie. Count on it.”

But, like... when?

A fortnight on from the declaration and the discomfort of separation is so settled under Minho’s skin he’s tempted to carve it out. He doesn’t want to get used to what is gradually becoming routine; her frequent shifts at the coffee shop align perfectly with his own professional obligations and so their days are spent busy and apart, their evenings rarely under the same roof— she has engagements, she says, and fuck if he knows what those are. All he knows is that she glows when she returns, and it makes him feel less than worthless.

The most obvious conclusion he finds himself hopping to: she’s fucking someone else. Someone removed from the dramatics of ‘3racha x everyone’, and honestly, how can he blame her for that? Regardless, he backs himself. Feels her affection in the fleeting looks and passing touches. Clutches at the affirmation like it’s damn life support.

He pours himself into dancing, as a man so in need of distraction is wont to do. He hangs out with Jisung where their schedules align, finds peace and an unfettered joy there for as long as they’re together. Jisung is sunlight incarnate. So giving it makes Minho’s body ache. There’s nothing the rapper wouldn’t do for him, and he knows it well, but it doesn’t seem to stop hesitation staying his hand when intimacy becomes the moment. Jisung is patient, understanding. Knows that it’s not his fault that his sexual appetite has plummeted, but rather the blame of the heartache he suffers, so dense and dark as to eclipse any thoughts of wrapping himself around another. The irony of it all isn’t lost on Minho; he ended things with her in hopes it would grant them both romantic freedom, yet in her absence he feels ever more imprisoned by the obligations he sets upon himself— how can he indulge with Jisung in good conscience when he feels so fucking incomplete? He also hoped that removing sex from the table would encourage her to open up to him about what it is she keeps to herself. No such luck, it seems.

He loses himself to these thoughts in moments of isolation. Fearful of them he does his utmost to ensure he’s not left alone for long. Surrounds himself with clients, with strangers in the depths of neon bars, with Jisung wherever possible, with things he knows he loves, even if he never quite feels it in the moment.

Tidying the studio following a particularly hard lesson—the inclusion of children is a challenging adjustment to his client base, but the parents with bottomless wallets make it lucrative—he mentally plans the next; a budding dance troupe preparing for a competition, always so fiery and full of ambition. He wonders how far over they’ll run this time. The two-hour slot is never enough. Doesn’t think he’ll mind it today. Taking things just like this—a day, an hour, a minute at a time—helps keep him grounded. If he thinks too much of what awaits him when he gets home, he’ll ruin much more than the lessons.

With a half hour before the troupe arrive, Minho takes his chances on his boyfriend. Nothing is quite as effective a salve to nerves as the rapper’s honeyed voice. He retrieves his phone from the sound system desk, dials the contact, perches on the corner sofa. Takes a few rings longer than usual for him to answer.

“What’s up, man?”

“Hey.” Minho grins. “Just thought I'd call.”

“Oh, yeah? So sweet. Always thinking about me.”

Minho’s about to gush, when in the background he hears clinking crockery, quiet chatter, the rush of a coffee steamer.

“I thought you were recording today?” Minho says.

“Yeah. We are. I just dipped for a bit. Caffeine calls, you know how it is.”

“Do I ever. You by yourself?”

“Oh, uh...”

He hesitates.

“Jisung?”

“I’m just with a friend.”

“Okay? Who?”

“Hey, uh, my order’s about to come out. I’ll call you later?”

“Jisung—”

“Bye, baby.”

Like that the call ends, the dull dial tone sounding off in Minho’s ear. His stomach rolls over uncomfortably, tightening, pulling. It’s unlike Jisung to be secretive. So unlike him to be so bothered. He’s not the jealous type, as recent endeavours with his ex have demonstrated, but courtesy of the same timeline of events, has discovered that he most definitely is the suspicious type. And now he has reason to be. Impulsively, he calls Jisung back twice straight away. The first call rings off. The second clicks straight through to voicemail. A wave of unease sends Minho to his feet, to pacing, where he spends the next fifteen minutes until the dance troupe arrive. They’re loud and raring to go. Minho’s head throbs.

“What’s up, man!?” One of them hollers, all smiles and lovely energy. Nothing in their world is going tits up, clearly.

“Let’s get started,” Minho grumbles. “We cannot run over today.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[bang-chan-my-man]

Stray Kids for Dicon

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙞𝙭. 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙

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

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

“Why hate me so instantly?”

He draws tense.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he mutters.

“I know that. I don’t think I'd even said hello before you decided I was enemy number one.”  

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s no easy way to explain it. I don’t know if I even can.”

“Try.”

“Alright.” He thumbs his empty glass, hand trembling. “When... I was a trainee, I had a girlfriend.”

He stands and rounds the bar, rapping his knuckles over the surface. Understandable that he should require the forty percent proof of courage.

“We dated for two years, and she was my first everything.” He picks up the same bottle, this time foregoing the glass to swig straight from the neck. “I planned my entire future around her. Debuting took a backseat; shit, everything did. I was so in love, I just... I don’t know. I made her the centre of my world.” He drinks again. “To cut a long story short, things changed.”

“It ended?”

Chan laughs. “No. No, it didn’t end. I didn’t get that kind of closure. She debuted in a girl group, and it was like I never existed at all. Like I was a—” He swallows, veins in his neck straining. “A fucking stranger. I was cut off, ignored. Ghosted, I guess they’d call it now. We didn’t have that word back then. Things came to a head when I tried the only thing I could think of and went to her dressing room after her show. I asked her why.”

“...And?”

“And, I’m still none the wiser.”

He drinks again, lips moist. You reach for the bottle and he passes it, a sip of your own steeling what nerves are wavering with his tale.

“She was so...” He falters. “She just screamed and shoved me like an animal. Hit me. Accused me of assault. Tried to press charges. Branded me a sasaeng.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

“I lost everything. My career, my home, my reputation, my mind. There was no sense to any of it, no heart in her. That girl; she wasn’t Jia. I still don’t believe it was her.”

“You should try to.”

Chan quirks a brow.

“When people show you a side of themselves you don’t like, it’s not for you to try and warp that into something you can understand.” You take another swig. “I had to learn that too.”

“So I just make peace with the fact that she was probably always a monster? That she never loved me as much as I loved her? That the two years we spent together were for nothing?”

“I don’t have all the answers, Chan. I just know that in convincing yourself she wasn’t herself then, you’re clinging to something you probably never had. You remember her as your ‘first everything’— she was also the first person to traumatise you so badly, you’re still broken up about it. So much so that it’s affecting the way you live.”

Chan blinks, head hung low.

“You called me a sasaeng.”

He nods.

“Projecting?”

“Christ. I don’t think I can face the idea that your being a fan was enough to trigger me like that. Out of nowhere.”

“Can’t have been out of nowhere.” You slide the bottle back; he catches it against his palm. “I think you felt threatened.”

He says nothing, face sombre.

“We met under conditions your boyfriends negotiated, but I don’t think you were ever really prepared for it. I wasn’t either, in a way.”

His brows knit.

“You panicked when the time came and lashed out at me—a stranger, a fan—the way someone you loved once lashed out at you. Your unhealed trauma made me the homewrecker trying to take what was yours. Made me the enemy. Made me the sasaeng.”

“Wow,” Chan mumbles. “What am I paying Doctor Kindelle for again?”

“I just call it as I see it.”

“Wish you saw it weeks ago.”

“Mhm. Me too.”

“I’ve been carrying this rage around for so long,” he says, turning the liquor bottle over. “It’s a wonder Changbin and Jisung still put up with me.”

“They love you.”

Chan scoffs.

“You don’t believe it?” you ask.

“It’s hard to when all they seem to want are other people.”

Guilt wrenches your chest, bitterness on your tongue.

“You don’t have to feel bad about it,” he says, taking a generous swig of liquor. “I know you and Bin are good together.”

You fidget on the stool. “I— I don’t know if I'd go that far.”

“Fine; the sex then. He’s happier than I’ve seen him in a while. You must be doing something right.”

Something. Sure.

“It reminds me of when we first started dating,” he sighs. “Back then, nothing else mattered so long as we were together. We were so happy.” He swigs again. “Then other things did start mattering. We got older, our lives changed. I fought it so hard. I’m clinging to it; all the memories, waiting for things to go back to how they were, but I know they won’t. They can’t. I hear the things they say to me— that they’re suffocating, they need more than what our bubble can give them or it’ll be the end of us. I know that.” His voice breaks. “Just because I know it doesn’t mean it’s easy to accept. I’m doing my best. Trying to give them what they need without losing my mind again.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think any of us are playing with a full deck, Chan. I’m certainly not.”

“Seriously. They drive me crazy. But I truly would rather share them than lose them altogether. Losing them… it’s not an option.”

“I know.”

“Does Minho get you like this? Have you questioning everything?”

You laugh weakly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Chan falters. “Really?”

“We split.”

“What? Why?”

You shrug softly. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It just is.”

Chan straightens, expression unreadable as he rounds the bar. Footsteps echo—one, two, three, four—they number past transgressions and sink to the still pool of water that lives under the flaming bridge. He opens his arms and takes you in them; between your legs he stands and close to his chest you are drawn, the stool creaking beneath you. It’s not familiar, but neither does it scare you. A new brand of comfort, brought by a soul as damaged as yours.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispers. “Somehow, it’ll all be okay.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙫𝙞𝙞𝙞. 𝙬𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙮 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚, 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 ‘𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮’

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

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

This is the right place. Chan’s pin says so.

You’re at a brick building, its metal shutters drawn. A marked lack of life and general gloom sits over it. An unlit neon sign hangs sadly. Wild flora has made itself a lush home on the moist brick. The alley stretches far from the street, tenebrous and oppressive; what little natural light is here claws through the criss-cross of overhanging fire escapes, casts the cobbles in disconcerting patterns. Warm though it is, you shiver.

As per Chan’s request, you text him. Silent moments pass in which you consider leaving; this may turn out to be a waste of time. When the shutter door gives way and rises, you step away. A few feet from the ground and Chan ducks under it, his red hair stark against the colourless building. When he's pushed the shutter the rest of the way, he turns to you and nods.

“Come in.”

“Where are we?”

He scratches his nape. “Our hideout.”

He disappears inside, and left little choice, you descend the entrance staircase. Looks like it was carpeted once. Only scraps cling to the wood. Lit by suspended, naked bulbs that flicker haphazardly, it’s hardly the most inviting. At the foot hangs a heavy velvet curtain, tattered and worn; Chan holds it aside for you.

“What is this place?”

“The guy we bought it from said it used to be a sex club back in the day. Like, before it was abandoned. Either way, now it’s ours. Our hideout. Like I said.”

Wow.

A space large enough to accommodate a crowd is furnished with fabric sofas and bean bags, cushions and rugs over the speckled, polished floor. Electric heaters, standing fans, a coat rack and wooden units of shelving; a mishmash of homely comforts. Lighting rigs run the ceiling with spotlights long since dead; strings of fairy lights are wound around the metal. A vast stage dominates the room, with seven elevated lanes and podiums with high poles which themselves have been strung with faux flora, decorated with ribbons of variegated pink and purple. Central to the stage is a massive television, one hundred inches across and slightly curved, flanked by tall speakers.

“A hideout, huh?”

Chan rounds the rear bar—a relic from the sex club days no doubt salvaged—and rifles through the liquor bottles.

“You want a drink?”

“No.”

He turns to you briefly. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head, settle on one of the velveted stools. There are more fake flowers in glasses along the length of the polished bar; roses, daises, sunflowers. You pluck the nearest one, thumbing the bendy, plastic petals.

“Those are Jisung’s doing,” he says, pouring himself something. Can’t quite make it out with his back to you. “He says they brighten the place up. I think he does that well enough on his own.”

You agree. Chan finishes whatever he’s making and turns with two drinks; pale amber swilling in short crystal glasses.

“I said I didn’t want a—”

“Both for me,” he says, rounds the bar. He takes the stool beside yours; not too close, but not so far as to feel removed from whatever this is going to be. He takes a sip from the closest glass, lips curling back over his teeth. You don’t know what to say. Why should you be the one to talk first? He called you here, this was his—

“I’m sorry.”

He stares into his glass.

“I want to preface with that.”

You swallow, heart in your throat.

“The way I treated you, the things I said to you. What I... called you. I’m sorry for all of it.”

“Minho told you to apologise?”

“No. I mean; yes. But that’s not why I'm doing this.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

He drinks again.

“Because I saw you at Doctor Kindelle’s. I saw you in that waiting room, and to put it plainly, I was ashamed.” He hangs his head. “I don’t know why, but seeing you in a place I've always associated with... I don’t know. I guess, recovery? It was like seeing you for the first time. Like I'd forgotten that other people have feelings and troubles and I just—” He falters, drinks. When he speaks again, his voice is thick. “Everything I'd ever said to you, all that hatred; it felt so empty. I thought that maybe I was the reason you were in that seat. Maybe I was the one that had driven you there. I was so... fucking ashamed.”

“There are many reasons I'm going to therapy, Chan.”

“And you don't have to tell me. I— I’m not asking you to. I just want you to know that... for whatever part I played in putting you there, if any, I'm sorry.”

He drinks again. Finishes the glass. With so sallow a complexion the colour begins to return to him in the liquor’s embrace; his tired eyes are sunken and bloodshot, his hands at a perpetual tremble.

“This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

Chan hums. “Pride is a bitch.”

“But you’re trying. That counts for something.” 

“Does it?”

“I accept your apology, Chan.”

And the man finally looks at you. Tired. Glad. You smile, and Chan squeezes his eyes shut, tears rolling free to be promptly swept by his sleeve. Your stomach rolls over.

Fuck it.

You reach for the second glass and knock it back with a grimace. Tastes like paint stripper and apples, but the burn soothes the emotion. Chan watches quietly.

“I’m glad this is what you wanted to say.”

“Thought I was looking for another fight?” he scoffs softly.

“A little.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that wicked right hook again.”

“God. I’m sorry. I’ve never done that before.”

“I deserved it.”

“Still—”

“Still; I deserved it.”

Unable to too much contest, you let out a sigh.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask.

Chan nods.

“Why?”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[baby-yongbok]

✧ 5 Minutes - Bang Chan Soft Thought

⤷ Content warning - Themes of pregnancy ⤷ WC - 0.7k ✧ Masterlist ✧

 "What does it say?" 

"Chan, it's only been two minutes." You huff, smiling over towards your wide eyed boyfriend on your computer screen. 

"How long does it take again?" You chuckle, picking up the box to the pregnancy test and holding it up to the Webcam. "Five minutes, see. Five sets of sixty seconds."

The boba eyed boy whines, slumping into the hotel chair. "That's too long. I need to know now."

"Patience, Channie." You lean in, getting closer to the camera with your chin resting on crossed arms. "Are you nervous?"

"Of course." His voice is soft as he stares up at the ceiling. "But I want this."

"You want a baby?" You shift your tone to match his, soft and gentle. 

"I want a family with you." His eyes find yours through the lens. "It's been on my mind for a while."

"Why haven't you said anything?" He leans in, sparkling eyes looking into yours from miles away. 

"Didn't wanna seem like I was rushing things. I didn't want you to feel... I don't know, just, didn't want there to be any pressure." You smile at him, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall as the timer counts down the final seconds. "But I want this so badly. I only want it with you."

Just as you're about to respond the timer beeps and Chan jolts straight up in his chair. "It's done?"

"It's done." You smile, sitting up and picking up the test without revealing the result. "I want this with you too, Chan. I can't imagine any of this with anyone else." 

His eyes soften and you can make out a faint glimmer at his waterline. 

"Do you think I'll be a good dad?" You nod, a tear escaping and sliding down your reddening cheek. "I do."

His tears betray him seconds after yours did, following the same path down his cheek. "You'll be an amazing mom." He whispers and you nod, fighting back the sobs that burns at the back of your throat. 

"Ready?" He hums, sitting up and leaning in towards the camera. 

"One." He joins in, counting with you. "Two, three." You turn the test over, observing it carefully with wide eyes before turning it towards the camera. 

It would be silent if it weren't for your sobbing. Chan follows suit, bursting into a fit of waterworks seconds after you. 

"We're gonna be parents." You mumble, sitting the test down and covering your mouth with both hands. Chan stands from his spot. Walking away for just a second, leaving you by yourself. 

"We're gonna be parents." He practically screams, not caring one bit about the possible noise complaint. He picks up his phone, coming back into view swiftly. "I'm coming home. I'm coming home tomorrow and I'm going to hug you both."

You're smiling behind your hands. Tearfully chuckling as Chan smiles at you. "I'm going home to my family tomorrow." 

You're sobbing again, speechless as you watch him. "I love you, okay? I love you so fucking much." He runs his hand through his hair, revealing his red ears to match his even redder cheeks. 

"I love you too." You manage to speak through the sobs. You steal a glance down at the test and a wave hits you again. You've never really felt an emotion like this. It's unrecognizable yet welcome. 

"Can I tell the boys? Can we go tell them?" You nod, mumbling a small ‘of course’ before Chan is rushing off to another room where the rest of the boys seem to be gathered. 

"Woah, hyung, are you okay?" You recognize Felix's voice as Chan bursts through the door. "What's going on?" Minho follows. 

"Show them, baby." Chan turns the phone towards the boys and they all look towards you with fresh confusion plastered on every feature until you hold up the test. "We're gonna be parents." 

"You're gonna- WAH!" Changbin is the first to break into hysterics before the others follow. You can't help but laugh loud and hard at the mess that's unfolding on the screen. They're tackling Chan, coming from left and right to hug him and congratulate him as your boyfriend sobs in their hold. 

You hug yourself, filled with joy as you watch them. Chan is surrounded by his family while you hold the newest addition with you. 

Thank You For Reading! Please Reblog or Comment to let me know how you liked it! It makes my day! 💕

Solid Black divider is made by @rookthornesartistry

Perm. Tag List:

@dreamingaboutjisung @kayleefriedchicken

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@krayzieestay, @soulsbbg , @stay-bi , @yzsqu , @gho-ster , @lghtdarling ,

[hyunluvbug]

neck kisses

pairing: yang jeongin x gn reader

content: sfw, just some neck kisses and cute fluffy-ness :)

premise: jeongin is obsessed with finding new places to kiss you. he notices your neck seems to be your most desired place. he takes that to his advantage.

word count: 356 words

author's note: this is short af but i wrote this a while ago and never uploaded it so here u go <3

to say jeongin is distracted is an understatement. his arm is lazily wrapped around your waist as you both lay on the couch. the tv lit up the dark living room around you. the movie on the screen had only been playing for twenty minutes and he is already growing antsy.

ever since the two of you started dating, jeongin wants nothing more than to kiss you. you both have kissed several times already but sometimes he feels like it’s never enough. he always has the craving to have your lips on his.

you are too entranced by the film that you don’t notice his gaze. his hand was intertwined with yours. your fingers always felt so soft in his, another one of his favorite things about. being able to hold hands felt so intimate to him. always being able to feel your warmth in the palm of his hand.

everything about you is addicting to him and he never seems to get enough.

“y/n.”

“hm?” you ask, your eyes still on the television in front of you. too engrossed by the beginning of the film.

“can i kiss you?”

“mhm?” clearly you weren’t paying any attention to what he just said.

jeongin sighs and moves closer to you. he comes close to your neck and admires how pretty it is. how could everything about you be so beautiful? he brings his lips to your neck and begins to place tiny kisses down it. he feels you shudder from his touch.

“jeonginnn” you whine and he chuckles, the feeling vibrates on your neck.

“what?”

“stop, you’re teasing.”

“how?” his kisses become more sloppy on your neck. the sounds echoing throughout the space. his lips feel soft and amazing on your skin.

“feels good.” you sigh and he smiles. he moves away from your neck to look into your eyes.

“yeah?” he places his thumb on your bottom lip. “what about if i kiss here?”

you nod quickly, waiting for his lips to come into contact with yours.

“say please.” he teases and you groan.

“stop playing around and just kiss me already.”

he does just that.

[giddyfatherchris]

📱skz texts — best friends to lovers with bang chan

type. gn!reader, not requested

warnings. none

a/n. kay so started making these for my random skz texts series but then realized its way too different than what i did for the other members (which annoyed me a lot) so i decided to post these separately and who knows… might make a series out of this concept 👀 anyway! hope you guys will enjoy these!!! mwah xx

a/n 2. i’m also thinking of starting a tag list for my skz texts and fics, if you guys wanna get on it just tell me!

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙫𝙞𝙞. 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙥𝙤𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙮

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

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

How is one supposed to feel after their first therapy session?

A question you should have posed to your new therapist, perhaps, but in keeping with her advice— “sit with your feelings, try to understand them”—you take to the window seat of a quiet coffee shop nearby the clinic. Can’t quite face going home just yet.

Predominantly, there is relief. Doctor Kindelle— ‘can’t spell Kindelle without kind!’, a cheery poster on her wall had declared—was as attentive as her hourly rate suggested she ought to be, gently prompting when you faltered, which when discussing the extreme range of your sexual and emotional proclivities happened more than once. Credit to her; she didn’t so much as flinch. Not even when you tried to explain how the knowledge of your friends all over each other sparked in you something so visceral and hedonistic it threatened all your relationships and your ability to function like an adult. To even put it into words, despite your practice with Jisung, was the strongest test of fortitude you’d ever taken.

So gross. “Let’s not use words like that. We are primal beings at our core, all of us.”

So shameful. “This is a safe space. You’re safe here.”

So regressive. “Regression is part of acceptance. To grow, we must regress. It empowers us.”

Work on self-acceptance, she’d said. Self-love. Don’t punish yourself when your thoughts wander. Just examine them— as though they are but passing clouds through your calm, pellucid sky. What brought them on? What are you feeling right now? If you’re feeling bad, what can you do to feel better about their presence? Understand why you feel the things you do instead of battling them only to violently cave when your control slips, for none of us are built to withstand such constant and exhausting wars. You'll be happier for it, apparently. To be mindful is to be present; to be present is to be far from anxious thoughts of the future that not one of us can control.

“It’ll be a long road. We’ll walk it together.”

You send Jisung a quick text:

<< first session done. she was great. thank you again. i owe you so much x

In the next moment, your phone rings. Certain of the caller and so not bothering to check the ID, you answer immediately:

“Hey. You were so right, Ji. I really needed that. Thank you.”

Silence.

“Hello? Jisung? You there?”

“It’s me.”

Your heart lurches as though thrown through a speeding vehicle’s windshield.

“Chan...?”

“Yeah. Hi.” He clears his throat. “Is this a good time? I figured you’d be done at the clinic by now...”

“Y—Yeah. Yes. I just left.”

“Cool.”

Silence creeps in, your mind begins to race. Your last conversation with him so far from cordial, so much so it escalated to the physical, you can’t fathom the reason for his contacting you beyond wanting a second round, and in your current state, you’d rather not. Something about throwing hands after a therapy session feels counterproductive.

“Was there something you needed?”

“I, uh... wondered if you could make some time to meet with me.”

“Why?”

“I... have some things to say to you.”

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say, Chan.”

There’s a huff of exasperation. “Right. Touché.”

But it’s not half as vindicating to give him a spoonful of his own medicine as it should be.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I know that. I also know I’m very lucky you didn’t immediately hang up on me.”

“Chan—”

“Please meet with me. An hour is all I need. Just... give me one hour, and after that you’ll never have to hear from or see me again. I promise.”

Your stomach twists on his insistence. You’d rather shit in your hands and applaud his confidence than spend any time alone with him. Minho would certainly warn you off it, plucking the red flags from the ground to make pom-poms and cheer dance out the letters ‘f’ ‘u’ ‘c’ ‘k’ ‘n’ ‘o’. And he wouldn’t be wrong for it. To be fooled once, and so on. You wonder what Jisung would say— if he’d encourage this. If Changbin would.

Regardless; you know a desperate man when you hear one, and Chan’s desperation is the most intriguing thing you’ve encountered in a while.

Sorry, Doc.

“Fine. Where?”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙫𝙞. 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚

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

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

Drugs don’t hold a candle to the efficacy of adrenaline.

The aftermath of a gig is more intense a high than anything else Chan has tried; and there’s not much he hasn’t. His breathing spikes like an asthma sufferer and his heart pounds, and if he pushes himself beyond that, to just where the pain lives, his skin will start to shimmer and his vision will white and he’ll lose sensation in his legs. It’s nice for a while. Nice until it’s not.

“Drink?” Changbin asks, rifling through the assortment of liquor provided by the venue, bottles and cans of beer and mixed spirits.

Chan rakes a hand through his wet hair. “Yeah.”

Jisung tears off his red flannel and bounces around the room, full of the chaotic zest that Chan has relied on more than once to bring 3racha to where they are now. As good as he is at the music, he’s never been the biggest showman, and that’s half the deal. Jisung’s honey skin is slick and his body tense. He glows with life; a bulb too fat with electricity, fit to burst at any second. Any other night, Chan would be content to just watch him as he comes down from the buzz of performing, observing with quiet and unashamed delight all the delicious muscle he’ll mark when they get home. Tonight, he can’t seem to muster the want. He discards his blazer, lets his skin breathe through the heat, and sits on the loveseat. Tries to just be. When Changbin hands him a beer, he cracks it and sips slowly, the cold hops on his tongue a pleasant grounder.

He peers at Changbin. “Not drinking?”

“You know I don’t, man.”

“Right. Sorry.” He takes a swig of beer. Doesn’t know why he forgot. “You’d probably be okay with one though. It’s been a long time.”

Changbin shrugs. “I don't miss it. Why risk it?”

Chan supposes that’s fair. It’s not for him to try and sway; especially not a man so convicted as Changbin. He envies him in that respect. Imagine being so aware of your self-destructive habits, you put steps in place to stop it. Couldn’t be him.

“You okay?” Changbin then asks.

“I will be.”

Changbin nods. “Gig was good though, right?”

“Yeah. Always is.”

Changbin grins, brilliant white and endlessly charming, and bends to grasp Chan’s chin, tilting him into a soft kiss that’s as brief as it is tender. Can’t risk too much in public. Even after so long. For the second it lasts, things feel normal. Better.

“Hey,” Jisung hops over, his big eyes wired with sparks. “Minho hyung will be here soon.”

Except tonight isn’t normal. It’s everything Chan’s been dreading since its inception. His gut plummets. He supposes now is about the right time. He grabs his blazer, fishes the joint from the inside pocket, still beautifully intact. Changbin watches him light up, disapproval darkening his handsome features.

“I’m going to change,” he says, and stalks off.

Chan knows he hates it. Kind of doesn’t care. Not right now, anyway. He’s compromised for them. Has to have something of his own to keep him contained, and all things considered, a single innocent joint isn’t a big ask. Not as big as theirs was. He floats to distant pastures as he breathes it all in, the smoke filling his lungs and high carrying him so far from the dressing room and the imminent testing of his relationship he gives no legitimate fucks when Minho and his friend do eventually arrive. He hears introductions being made, hears the wanting in his boyfriend’s voices that’s so sticky and desperate he almost laughs out loud. Maybe he’ll throw up first. He could at least blame the weed for that.

“It’s nice to meet you both.”

That was a female voice.

Jisung calls her ‘babe’. Changbin asks if she enjoyed the show. Chan smokes, swigs beer. Is six feet under and wrapped in cotton.

“Very much. You guys are incredible. Hearing your music in person is so much more powerful than I expected. I mean; it’s powerful anyway, of course, I just mean that—”

“You know us?”

“Know you? I love you guys. I’m a huge fan.”

A huge fan.

A fucking fan.

Chan’s stomach twists. His veins ice up and his skin pricks with dread and not even the cotton wool can warm him. He’s stone-cold sober. He’s nineteen again. He’s staring down a corridor of harsh fluorescence and from beyond the door at the end, hears the screams that took everything from him—

“You never said she was a fan, man.”

“You never asked.”

Sasaeng.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[jl-micasea-fics]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙭𝙫. 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙠𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙚

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

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

Summer 2023

“This place is such a dive, man.”

Chan suppresses a laugh. And Changbin calls him a diva.

“You’re the one always saying a gig is a gig, hyung,” Jisung sighs, smearing black glitter liner over his lids through the vanity mirror. “When did you get so picky?”

“I’m not picky,” Changbin huffs, pacing the dressing room. “Guess I’m just used to bigger and better setups. You know how it is.”

“And he says the fame hasn’t gone to his head.”

“What? Shut up.”

Jisung glances at Chan. “Hyung?”

Chan shrugs— gently so as not to mess rolling his perfect joint. “You’re being a bit precious.”

“It’s not a good look on you, man,” the younger adds.

“Oh, so it’s gang up on Bin hour, huh? Noted.”

“Do you want to do this gig or not?”

“Yes, that wasn’t what I—”

“Then stop bitching in my fucking kitchen,” Jisung snaps.

Chan smirks with a laugh, finishes his roll and tucks the lovely little package into his inner blazer pocket for later. Changbin’s not wrong, is the thing. Sinner’s is a million miles from the venues they’ve sold out. About as much of a downgrade as one could imagine. But isn’t it good to bring it back to the roots now and again? Something about staying humble and all that? He thinks so.

 “What the hell are you smiling about?” Changbin peers over Jisung’s shoulder.

“Minho hyung just texted me.”

Changbin doubles back, near breaking his neck in the movement. “No shit. What did he say?”

“Just that he’s looking forward to tonight.”

“He’s coming to the gig?” Chan asks.

“I invited him. And his hot roommate.”

Chan swallows. “Cool.”

Jisung swivels in his seat, toned planes of his bare back twisting. “You’re still okay with it, right?”

“I suggested it, didn’t I?” Chan replies over his chest clenching.

He’s doing this for them. Has to. He’ll lose them if he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if it makes him want to run face-first into the nearest sharp object or peel his skin off with a rusty utensil or dive into a vat of acid. Not even he can deny that resentment is sprouting where once adoration bloomed, and in the name of staying together they must momentarily part.

Apparently.

Jisung purses his glossed lips. “Hyung—”

“Minho is a good guy. He’s discreet, professional. If you have to do this I'd much rather it be with someone who has our reputation in mind,” Chan says.

“And his roommate?” Changbin asks.

“Minho doesn’t associate with clowns. Any close friend of his can be trusted, too.”

“I’m just saying though, if you’ve changed your mind—”

“I haven’t changed my fucking mind, Sung. Stop asking before I do.”

Changbin’s pats Jisung’s shoulder. “We appreciate you meeting us halfway on this, hyung,” he says. “And I know you said you won’t, but if you, like, do end up wanting to be involved with someone else, you have our blessing.”

Chan nods. He might fucking throw up. The idea of even touching someone that isn’t one of them just— No. He can’t. Wishes they couldn’t either, but it’s selfish to wish for such a thing, and Chan’s not supposed to be selfish. He’s supposed to be better. Supposed to smile and wave while his boyfriends cheat on him in front of his face only it’s not cheating because he’s blessed it so they call it something else— they call it ‘ethnical non-monogamy' or ‘opening things’ or ‘branching out’ and just like that the guilt is gone and they can fuck to their hearts’ content and skip into the sunset with their new beaus and empty balls and a lighter heart, laughing all the while. Like everything's not fucked. Like Chan will ever feel adequate again. Like he’ll ever be able to look at them without wondering if he’s enough.

Whatever.

Done with the conversation and the spiral of anxiety, he sprawls over the cheap loveseat, pulls his snapback low. He tunes out the chatter of his boyfriends, focuses on the impending performance. Thinks about how good he’ll feel on stage, performing to swathes of people that actually do love him. What they see of him, anyway. Even if he loses all else, he’ll always have the adoring fans.

Beyond that, he can’t think too hard. Doesn’t want to.

He just wants to get through this without losing himself.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

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