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Guess some things never change

Babymonster's Asa X M!Reader

Note: everyone say thank you for @wonyology for their asa fic that got me into baemon. Guess I have joined the Asa cult now.

(This girl is lethal)

You’re halfway through shovelling leftover fried rice into your mouth when your phone lights up—an incoming call. You glance at the name and blink.

Asa. At 9:52PM.

You let it ring once, twice, debating whether she butt-dialed you or if she’s calling to ask you about that meme you sent earlier. Then you pick up, still chewing.

“Hello? Enami?”

“Come get me.”

You pause mid-bite. “…Eh?”

“I want to drink.”

You blink. “Water? Milk? Gatorade—”

“Soju.” Her voice is flat. Final. Like she’s been preparing to say this line for months. “I wanna try soju.”

You nearly choke. “Ya, You said you didn’t want to drink until next year.”

“I changed my mind.”

“It’s 10PM on a Tuesday—”

“I changed my mind now.”

You close your container slowly and grab your keys. “And you’re legally allowed to do this?”

“My manager said it’s fine. I’m off schedule. As long as I’m with someone responsible.”

There’s a long pause.

You sigh. “Unfortunately, that’s me.”

Despite your tone, it took you exactly 2.3 seconds to hang off the call, toss the half-folded hoodie on the couch, and start digging through your closet for something that screams “casual but responsible adult who knows how to drink responsibly and won’t let their friend pass out in a gutter.”

By the time you pull up to the dorm, Asa’s already outside. Hoodie, cap, mask, the whole stealth mission look. But her eyes—those give her away. Wide, jittery, practically sparkling in the streetlights that is very out of her character. She’s nervous. But also… excited. Like a kid about to try cotton candy for the first time. Except this cotton candy could make her blackout if she drinks it too fast.

“You look like a celebrity trying to rob a bank, Enami.”

She climbs in wordlessly but smirks. “And you look like a broke intern who got roped into driving me around.”

You glance at her. “Tsk. You’re not wrong.”

She doesn’t say much during the short ride, just keeps glancing out the window like she’s mentally preparing herself for a test. You know she’s trying to act casual, but her leg’s bouncing slightly. That never happens. Not with Asa.

She’s always in control. Of her image, her schedule, her words—and sometimes even you.

But tonight… something’s different.

The soju bar is tucked in the side alley of some random block you remembered from late-night food runs after company dinners—quiet, not too flashy, just busy enough not to look shady.

You guide her inside like it’s sacred ground, letting her sit first. You’re not about to let her first drinking memory be one where she burns a hole through her throat with hardcore original flavour or gags over raw oysters.

Asa looks around like she’s entered another realm. The sticky tables, clinking of glass, the smoky smell of meat and oil and… whatever that sauce is that always sticks to your fingers no matter how many napkins you use.

“It’s louder than I thought,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, even though no one’s paying attention to the two of you. “Also… kinda cozy.”

You order quickly—soju, kimchi pancake, spicy pork, and tteokbokki. All the good, greasy stuff to cushion the impending regret (and also a glass of water as precaution).

She watches you pour the first shot like it’s an ancient ritual. Her fingers are toying with the paper napkin, twisting it slowly.

“You nervous?”

She shrugs. “Not really.”

“Sure, and your foot’s shaking.”

She freezes. “It’s because it’s cold.”

“It’s July.”

“Mind your business.”

You chuckle, pouring her glass carefully. Then yours. The green bottles glint under the old fluorescent light. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

She takes the glass in her hand. “You got to try it a year ago. I want to see what the hype’s about.”

You tilt your head. “What if it’s terrible?”

She smirks, finally looking at you fully. “Then I’ll blame you.”

You clink glasses. “Fair.”

And she downs it.

Immediately, her face contorts like she’s been punched by regret. Her eyes squeeze shut, lips twitching, throat working overtime.

“Oh my god. Ugh.” She coughs once, then fans her tongue. “Why is it sweet and also like death??” she croaks, chasing it with a gulp of water and a piece of spicy pork.

You burst into laughter.

“Why would anyone willingly drink this!?” she exclaims, slamming the glass down and reaching for the water.

“To forget how embarrassing they were in their rookie days,” you tease, sipping yours easily.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yet here you are, choosing me for your first drink.”

She sticks out her tongue in defiance, then winces again as the aftertaste kicks in. “Remind me to dox you tomorrow.”

“Boo hoo. You’re already in my debt.”

“How?”

You lean back, stretching. “Because no one else would take you to a suspiciously greasy soju joint at 10PM, knowing full well you’re going to either cry, confess something weird, or fall asleep on the table.”

Asa looks at you, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Confess something weird?”

You raise an eyebrow. "Eh? You actually have something?"

She picks up the bottle and pours her second glass, this time with less drama. Her voice is quieter.

“Well…I guess I just… wanted it to be with you.”

You pause, your glass halfway to your lips. “Enami, your weirding me out…”

She shrugs, playing it off like it’s nothing, but her voice dips a little. “It’s a first. I didn’t want to do it with just anyone. You’re… safe. And stupid.”

“Are you praising me or dissing me now?"

“Shut up,” she mutters, cheeks going a little pink. Maybe it’s the soju. Or maybe it’s the honesty.

And that’s when it hits you.

She always has a way of getting what she wants. Of pulling you by invisible strings, wrapped around her finger and spun like candy floss. But tonight, this isn’t control. This is… her choosing you. Not because she has to. But because she wants to. Probably.

She shrugs it off quickly, popping another piece of pork into her mouth and avoiding your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

You don’t. But your smile lingers a little longer than it should.

One bottle turns into two.

Two becomes three—split evenly, of course. But Asa’s tolerance is about as solid as a wet tissue, and you start noticing it around halfway through bottle two. The way her words start tumbling out quicker, how she stops blinking at regular intervals, and most importantly—how she starts talking.

A lot. Asa’s slipping.

A slight flush to her cheeks, blooming in splotches just beneath her skin. The stiffness in her shoulders began to soften. Her fingers, once fidgeting and tight, now lazily twist a chopstick wrapper between them like it's a ribbon. She’s quiet—not in a sullen way, but in the way someone gets when their thoughts start moving just a beat slower than usual.

“Okay,” she mutters, poking at the pork with her chopsticks. “So like—explain to me again why people like this?”

The edges of her voice softened. Still teasing. Still Asa. But without the deliberate bite. That performative lilt that usually kept people at arm’s length. You noticed it the way you always did — not in the things she said, but in the way she stopped measuring them.

“It’s bitter and numbs your brain.”

She stares at her glass, then at you. “So... like you, but in liquid form?”

You bark out a laugh. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

She points her chopsticks at you dramatically. “Exactly. You’re so easy to control.”

“You’re three drinks in. Calm down, puppeteer.”

“No,” she says, all wide-eyed and mock-serious, “because like… at the dorm, the members never listens to me. They pretend to. But it’s like…never.”

You blink. “Ehhhh… Surely not?”

“Rami keeps using my skincare without asking. And she thinks I don’t know? I do. She uses, like, three pumps. For one cheek.”

You try to hold in your laugh as she rant her heart out. "Do I have to sit here to hear you out?"

She ignored you. “And Rora keeps using my Spotify account to listen to those depressing piano ballads. Now my algorithm thinks I cry at 3AM every day. I don’t cry. I sulk. It’s different.”

You nod slowly. “Of course. Totally different emotional palette.”

“And Ahyeon—don’t even get me started on her ramen stash. That kid hides it in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yes! She thinks no one will look there. I found it, though. Who the heck hides ramen there?”

You’re wheezing now, trying to eat without choking. “Ya, you made it like it's PTSD.”

“It is.” she huffs, dramatically lifting her shot glass. “Dorm? Nah, it's a bloodbath.”

“You live with other teenage girls from hell, Enami. It’s not 'Saving Private Ryan.’”

She slams the empty glass down. “You don’t understand my pain.”

“Nah, I just endure it weekly when you spam me voice notes complaining about towel rotation.”

“It’s a serious issue,” she insists, waving her chopsticks again like a mic at an awards show. “They never wash the beige towel. The beige one. It smells terrible.”

You almost choke on your drink from laughing. “Oh my god, you’re drunk if you're complaining about that."

“Nooo,” she groans, dramatically letting her forehead fall onto the table. “I’m buzzed. There’s a difference. I googled it.”

“Did Google-chan also tell you it’s not normal to confess your entire dorm’s shenanigans after three drinks?”

She lifts her head and points a wobbly finger at you. “You said this was a safe space!”

“I said this was a soju bar. Not a confessing booth.”

She squints at you, then slowly leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “…You’re enjoying this.”

“Well duh.” you reply, chuckling. “You want me here.”

By the fifth shot, she wasn’t talking much anymore. Just resting her head against the wall of the booth, humming softly under her breath. Something half-familiar — maybe one of her group’s own songs, or something her mom used to play in the car. Her fingers still moved, idly tracing shapes on the table. Your arm. Whatever was near.

Then she’s just… staring at you. Not saying anything. Just watching. Her eyes soft, hazy, but focused in that quiet, unnerving way that makes your breath catch a little.

“What?” you ask, trying to sound casual even though your heartbeat has decided to double its pace.

“…You’re a good one,” she mumbles. “Like… the best person I could’ve had my first drink with. And….you’re kinda cute when you let me win.”

You feel that stupid flutter in your chest again. The one you keep locking behind jokes and sarcasm and poorly timed drink orders.

But before you can say anything back, she slaps the table.

“I want ice cream.”

"Eh?" You blink. “We just had food?”

“Exactly. So it's dessert time.”

She’s still swaying slightly as she stands, and you quickly stand up to catch her arm before she stumbles too hard. She leans into you with a laugh, head bumping against your shoulder. A lazy, contented kind of drunk. The kind that came with knowing you were safe — that someone would make sure you got home.

“Hey…” her tone was uncharacteristically soft.

“Yeah?”

“If I ever drink with anyone else, I hope they’re not as fun as you.”

You try not to grin. You fail. “What a weirdly sweet curse, Edamane.”

“Shut the hell up and buy me ice cream.”

You wake up to muffled giggling.

Not a good sign.

The first thing you register is a dull ache in your back.

You squint at the unfamiliar ceiling, momentarily disoriented. The lighting is too soft, too pink—definitely not your apartment. There’s a faint scent of vanilla mixed with whatever detergent they use for idol dorms, and—Wait. Dorm?

You shift slightly, only to realize your arm is firmly locked under someone’s grip. A leg’s also slung over yours. And that someone has short dark hair, a familiar hoodie, and the deeply unbothered expression of someone who passed out without consequence.

Asa.

Dead asleep. Still clutching your hoodie like it owes her money.

You blink once. Twice.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper, trying to shift, but her grip tightens in response, like even asleep, she’s not ready to let go.

“Mmnnnhhh,” she groans and immediately wraps herself tighter around you like a python. “Warm.”

“Enami,” you hiss, nudging her shoulder. “Let go. I need circulation in my arm.”

She doesn't respond. Just sighs dreamily and buries her face into your chest.

Your whole body tenses. This is bad. Very bad. "Ya, Edamane-"

Then comes a voice. Light, teasing, far too awake for this hour.

“Oh my god. She really kidnapped him.”

You freeze. Chiquita.

“Shhh! She’s going to freak out if she sees us—”

That’s Rora, now peeking into the room over someone’s shoulder. You hear another snort. Probably Ahyeon.

Then someone—probably Ruka, from the distinct sound of her boots on the floor—goes, “I knew it. I told you all that she will get weird when she drinks.”

You groan under your breath.

And then Asa stirs. Her brow furrows as she blinks herself awake, blinking sleepily at your shirt. You feel her register the warmth. The situation. The arm. The leg.

Her eyes shoot open.

“…Why are you still here?” she croaks, voice raspy with sleep and shame.

“You wouldn’t let me leave, Enami” you mutter, deadpan. “I tried. You latched onto me like a damn cat.”

There’s a beat. A slow, silent second where Asa processes it all. The fuzzy memory of soju, the booth, the confession, the awkward lean on your shoulder… then dragging you to her room and practically chaining you down like a hostage pillow.

Her cheeks go red in record time.

And then she kicks you. Hard. Right off the bed.

You grunt as your back hits the floor, pillow thudding beside you.

“GET OUT!”

“Hey! I tried!” you protest, rubbing your side as you sit up. “I was this close to calling 911.”

The door swings open fully now, and all of BABYMONSTER floods in like sharks smelling blood in the water.

Pharita has her phone out instantly, barely hiding her laugh. “This is gold. Asa-unnie, you really slept with him?”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Asa yells (which is rare). “He was supposed to drop me off, not—ugh!”

“You literally dragged him into your bed and held him hostage,” Rami says flatly, arms crossed, already sipping her morning juice box like this is just Tuesday.

“I have video,” Ahyeon adds.

Asa lets out the most undignified sound you’ve ever heard — a squeaky groan — and grabs her blanket to hide her face. Then, like she just remembered how to breathe, she scrambles up and shoves herself behind you, using your body as a human shield.

“She’s using him as a meat shield,” Ruka deadpans.

Rora snickers. “So much for ‘I don’t even like him like that.’”

“Shut up, you girls.” Asa mutters into your back.

“You know,” Chiquita pipes up, grinning. “If you like him, you can just say it. Kidnapping seems excessive.”

“I don’t like him,” Asa snaps, still refusing to show her face. “I just didn’t want him to leave while I was drunk.”

“That’s what liking someone means,” Pharita says, deadpan.

"She's not lying" You added.

"Don't even- whatever…" You feel Asa groan again against your back like she wants the Earth to swallow her whole. You’re trying really, really hard not to laugh.

Eventually, the girls begin filing out one by one, throwing in their final parting shots like siblings leaving a war zone behind.

“Next time, tell us if you're taking someone hostage.” “Use protection, please. Like a seatbelt. For your victims.” “Oppa, you need therapy.”

The door closes. Silence.

Then, Asa lets out a breath that’s somewhere between a whine and a growl and gently smacks your back. “This never happened.”

You turn to face her. “Uh, it very much happened. My ribs are bruised. And I think they solidified their conspiracy that I’m your sugar daddy now.”

Asa glares, cheeks still burning red. “If you ever bring this up again—”

“You’ll what?” you tease, leaning closer. “Kidnap me again?”

“Don’t tempt me, dumbass.”

The two of you stare at each other, tension still thick, but something’s shifted. Softer now. You’re both too aware of what happened last night. Too aware of what wasn’t just the soju talking.

You’re about to get up and sneak out with the last sliver of your dignity when her grip on your shoulders tightens.

“Ya.”

"Hm?" You glance back.

“…Stop calling me Enami.”

You blink. “Eh?”

She looks away, biting her lower lip.

“Just… call me Asa.”

The way she says it is awkward. Like she hates that she cares so much. But there’s no joke behind it this time. No teasing. No hidden manipulation. Just her, finally stepping out from behind the wall she built—even if it’s just a toe over the line. “It’s weird. Formal. You’re the only one who still does.”

“I thought you liked it when I sounded respectful.”

“I do. But not from you.”

That pulls a small smile out of you. You tilt your head. “So, what, Edamane?”

"No, you- hah…." She leaned her head against your back. “Call me Asa…please…?”

You widened your eyes at her plea. “…Asa-ah?”

She flinches slightly. “…Ew, say it less romantically.”

"Ya, what should I say when you ask me that?" You chuckled. "I wasn't even trying to-"

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You kidnapped me, Asa-ah.”

She groans and looks away, but you don’t miss the way her face softens—just slightly.

You smile. “…but Edamane is cuter, though.”

She kicked your butt again. Guess some things never change.

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