│ STATUS: [Active] — in containment, location [DATA EXPUNGED]
│ HAZARD CLASS: Safe
│ EFFECT TYPE: Object and personality transformation.
1. DESCRIPTION
The object is a 2008 Blue Bird school bus, school yellow, with 72 passenger seats. Externally, it is indistinguishable from a regular bus. License plate: [DATA EXPUNGED]. The windows, including the windshield, are tinted. The interior is visible only from the inside. The presence of a driver is unknown; the bus moves independently using [DATA EXPUNGED] and [DATA EXPUNGED].
Trigger: entry through the front door. It does not matter whether the engine is running. The victim can enter voluntarily or be carried in by an unauthorized person. The effect does not trigger if the victim is carried in unconscious. It was discovered and described in 20■■ in the city of [DATA EXPUNGED]. The object traveled along regular routes, picking up unsuspecting students and passersby.
1. PROPERTIES / ANOMALOUS CHARACTERISTICS
Upon activation, the victim experiences a sharp tingling sensation throughout the body. The transformation takes up to 7 minutes. Observers see a flickering yellow light through tinted windows.
Stages:
1. Musculoskeletal restructuring (1-3 minutes) – height change to a range of 180-195 cm.
2. Adipose and muscular correction (3-5 minutes), as well as changes to the skin and personal markings – tattoos, piercings, and scars disappear. Teeth straighten. Minor visual defects disappear.
3. Identity formation (5-7 minutes) – high PSI influence. Further research is required in the PSI Threat Department.
4. All stages are accompanied by physical changes to clothing, footwear, and personal belongings.
Final form: a physically perfect member of a college football team, aged 18-22. The victim's gender changes to male with a 98% probability (regardless of their original gender). In 2% of cases, the victim becomes a female cheerleader. Victims are fully aware of who they were before the transformation, remembering their name, family, and profession. However, the skills [DATA EXPUNGED] are "added" to their brain.
Reversibility: Not recorded.
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
Stephen Cunningham wasn't supposed to be on that bus.
He rarely took the bus to school. His roommate usually picked him up, but today his roommate went to visit his parents, and Stephen's alarm didn't go off. He overslept. He got ready in a hurry, rushed out of the dorm at 8:47, threw an unwashed hoodie over his shoulders, and ran to the bus stop.
The bus pulled up a minute later.
Steven didn't pay attention to the number or the route. He was looking only at his phone, opening a lecture on quantum physics he hadn't finished yesterday. He hopped up on the step, swiped his student ID card at the validator, and plopped down in the nearest window seat.
The bus pulled out.
Only a minute later did Stephen look up and realize: the bus was empty. Absolutely. Not a single passenger. Just him, the driver's cabin behind the tinted glass, and the cloudy, scratched windows.
"Strange," he muttered. "An empty bus at rush hour?"
He wanted to get up and go up to the driver, ask where they were going. But then he felt something strange: his legs wouldn't obey him. Steven looked down. His legs and arms were starting to tingle and go numb.
Steven had time to think, "Cramping? I need more potassium." And then his spine cracked. He let out a cry of surprise. Steven watched as his height increased, his hands changed right before his eyes. His thin, pale fingers thickened, the skin on his palms became rougher. Veins stood out on the backs of his hands. His calves and thighs strained against the fabric of his skinny jeans, and the fabric dug painfully into his crotch—Steven felt himself growing bigger there too. He felt his muscles begin to bulge and grow larger. Not enormous, but still, he was becoming more athletic. His biceps and deltoids grew, straining against the fabric of his hoodie. His back broadened. Rounded pectorals and six-pack abs appeared.
His buttocks rounded out, straining against his jeans so tightly that he could hear the fabric crunch.
"What... what the...?" he choked out in a strange voice. Low. Hoarse.
He jumped up. The pants were his favorite jeans. On his feet were some white sneakers with dirty laces. A bomber jacket replaced his hoodie, and a necklace appeared around his neck. A ball appeared in his hands instead of a phone...
And then he realized: this strange bus. He had to get out...
He ran for the exit. His body was unresponsive. It felt heavier. Broader in the shoulders.
The bus stopped at a traffic light. The doors opened. Stephen tumbled out, sprawled on the pavement, scraping his palms. He jumped up. He ran. He tripped over the curb and fell to his knees in front of a flower shop window. He raised his head. And he saw his reflection in the glass.
A stranger was looking back at him.
Steven had never had red hair. His was dark and long. A boy with a short, sporty red haircut stared back at him in the reflection. A pale, frightened face. The face was still his, but now it looked slightly more masculine.
Steven touched his cheek. The reflection repeated the gesture.
"No," he said. "What happened? How?"
Then Steven felt a slight twinge in his neck, dizziness, and caught a glimpse of two uniformed figures above him.
INCIDENT SUMMARY
Date: May 17, 20■■, City of [DATA EXPUNGED]
A subject named Steven Cunningham was found by agents monitoring the STR-793 anomaly immediately after his transformation. He was tranquilized and brought to the facility. He was interrogated. The subject is fully aware of his personality and memory. He expresses deep concern and anxiety about his new appearance. He notes behavioral and cognitive changes, namely a desire to exercise, a craving for light alcohol, and a desire to get onto the field to play football. He actively suppresses these desires, successfully. He was informed of the threat of information dissemination. Protocol 47 was used to contact civilians. He was released for observation.
METHOD: Subject instructed to enter STR-793 to test the selectivity hypothesis.
RESULT: After 7 minutes, a man 188 cm tall and weighing ~102 kg of muscle mass exited the bus. When asked, "Do you remember your name?" he replied, "My name is... Margaret," after which he burst into deep baritone tears. After 20 minutes, the subject began performing voluntary push-ups, commenting on his condition.
DURATION OF OBSERVATION: 3 months. Referred to the PSI Threat Unit for further research. Report pending.
4. TECHNICAL DEPARTMENT CONCLUSION
Object STR-793 cannot be destroyed without risk. Two detonation attempts resulted in [DATA EXPUNGED] being released to all personnel within a 500-meter radius. Containment is safe unless the anomaly is interacted with.
Containment protocol recommended: secure parking in Zone [DATA EXPUNGED].
TW- SMUT *plot takes place during season 4 however we used season 5 Mike for what he looks like so for his face/hair/outfits/etc. For all intensive purposes all characters are 18+* lowkey im destroyed over the finale it was so sad, so for all other purposes. i hate life. co-writer @ch0llies
The basement feels quieter without him.
Dustin flops back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I still can’t believe that worked.”
I smile, leaning back against the table. “You should believe in me more.”
“Oh, I do now,” he says immediately, sitting up. “Trust me.”
Mike’s still standing near the table, hands resting on the edge like he forgot what to do with them. He looks… lighter. Less wound tight. The sharpness from earlier dulled down.
“That move you pulled at the end,” he says, nodding toward the board. “The timing—most people would’ve panicked.”
“I hate panicking,” I reply. “It wastes turns.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh before he can stop himself.
Silence settles again—but this one’s comfortable.
“So,” Dustin says suddenly, sitting straighter. “Where do you live?”
I tell him the street name.
He squints. “Oh. Yeah, no. That’s like—completely the opposite side of town from me.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I can walk.”
“It’s dark,” Dustin argues instantly. “You’re new. And you don’t have a bike.”
I open my mouth.
“And,” he adds, pointing between us, “you literally live like a block away from Mike.”
I blink. “I do?”
Dustin’s already decided. “Yes so, Mike can take you.”
Mike stiffens. “What?”
“You have a bike,” Dustin says like this is airtight logic. “She doesn’t. She’s a girl. And new. And you’re basically neighbors.”
“I—” Mike starts.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “Really. I don’t want to—”
“It’s not a big deal,” Dustin insists. “Right, Mike?”
Mike looks at me.
Really looks at me.
Then he exhales. “It’s not a big deal.”
Outside, the night air is cool, quiet. Crickets hum somewhere nearby. Mike wheels his bike out onto the driveway, movements careful, like he’s hyper-aware of me standing there.
Dustin straps his radio project onto his own bike again, already halfway gone. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says, grinning. “Don’t die.”
“Encouraging,” Mike mutters.
Dustin pedals off, leaving us alone under the streetlight.
Mike holds the bike steady. “Same deal as before,” he says. “Just—hold on.”
I step closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him again, familiar now.
As I reach for the back of the seat—
That’s where it stops.
The bike is steady beneath his hands.
I’m just about to climb on when I stop myself.
“Mike,” I say softly.
He turns around.
And—oh.
The streetlight above us washes him in this warm, amber glow that feels unfair. The sharp angles of his face soften, shadows cutting just enough to make his eyes look darker, deeper. His hair’s a mess, curls falling into his forehead, and finally he isn’t scowling.
He just looks… good.
Really good.
“Yeah?” he asks.
I swallow. “Are you, like… super busy right now?”
His eyes flick over me before he can stop himself. Not rude. Not obvious. Just a quick, quiet assessment—like he’s clocking that I’m standing closer than before, that the night feels different than it did five minutes ago.
“Not really,” he says. “Why?”
I hesitate for half a second—then go for it.
“Could you… maybe give me a quick tour?” I ask. “Of the town. Just for a little bit. While no one’s around.”
His brows knit together. He should say no. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts his weight like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.
But then I look at him.
Really look at him.
And something about the way his shoulders drop tells me he’s already lost.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. “Fine.”
I smile, slow and pleased. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he repeats, quieter this time.
I climb onto the back of the bike again, settling in. He starts pedaling, the tires crunching softly against the pavement as we roll down the street.
We don’t get far.
Suddenly, he slows—and then stops.
“What—?”
Before I can finish, he reaches back and grabs my wrist gently, fingers warm against my skin. He guides my hand forward, pressing it against his jacket, closer to his waist.
“You’re gonna need to hold on more,” he says. “I’m gonna go faster this time.”
I freeze.
“I—”
He glances back at me, mouth tilting into the faintest smile. Not smug. Just teasing. Almost shy.
“What?” he says. “I’m not gonna bite you.”
I hesitate.
Then I slide my other hand forward too, fingers curling into his jacket properly this time. My chest presses lightly against his back, close enough that I can feel his breath hitch.
“Better?” I ask.
He swallows. “Yeah.”
The bike lurches forward, faster now, the wind rushing past us as Hawkins blurs into streaks of light and shadow. His body leans into turns with easy confidence, and I move with him instinctively, holding tighter when he accelerates.
And for a moment, as we disappear down the street together, it feels like the town is ours.
Just us.
Just the night.
And the way Mike somehow, inexplicably, can’t say no to me.
The bike moves faster this time.
Not reckless—just enough to make the wind bite and my fingers tighten in his jacket. Hawkins slips past in pieces: dark houses, porch lights, quiet streets that feel abandoned in the way only small towns can at night.
Mike keeps glancing back at me as he rides. Not fully turning—just those quick looks over his shoulder, checking if I’m still there.
“So,” he says, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the wind, “that over there is the middle school. Where Dustin set a trash can on fire in seventh grade.”
I laugh.
“And that,” he adds, nodding toward a darkened storefront, “used to be a RadioShack. It closed. Obviously.”
“Wow,” I say dryly. “You really know how to sell this place.”
He huffs. “I never said it was impressive.”
We slow at a stop sign, and he plants one foot on the ground. The streetlight above us flickers, bathing him in that same warm glow again. He looks stupidly good like this—hair wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes brighter than they were earlier in the day.
“You cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it back to me like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t leave him in just a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, veins faintly visible along his forearms.
I slide it on.
It smells like him.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes flicking away a little too quickly.
We keep riding.
The banter comes easy now—snide comments about Hawkins, jokes about teachers, quiet laughs when our knees bump at stoplights. Every once in a while, I catch him looking at me in reflections—store windows, dark car doors. Every time I do, he looks away like he got caught doing something illegal.
Eventually, the streets change.
Trailers replace houses. Gravel crunches under the tires. The air feels heavier out here, like the town forgot this part existed.
Mike slows.
“This is the trailer park,” he says. “Eddie lives here.”
“Eddie from Hellfire?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
We stop just as a trailer door opens.
Two figures step out.
I recognize Eddie immediately—messy hair, leather jacket, animated even when he’s just walking. The girl beside him makes my stomach drop a little.
Perfect hair. Cheerleader jacket. Pretty in a way Hawkins worships.
Mike stiffens beside me.
“What the fuck,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
He stares as Eddie holds the door open for her, laughing, letting her walk inside first.
“That’s Chrissy Cunningham,” he says slowly. “She’s dating Jason Carver.”
I blink. “The basketball captain?”
“Yeah,” he says, disbelief sharp in his voice. “And Eddie is—”
“A loser?” I finish quietly.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
We watch the door close behind them.
The trailer goes dark.
Something uneasy settles in my chest, like we just witnessed something we weren’t meant to see.
“Huh,” I murmur. “Guess people aren’t always what Hawkins thinks they are.”
Mike glances at me. Really looks at me this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess not.”
The silence between us stretches—not awkward. Charged.
He clears his throat. “We should probably… keep going. I still owe you the rest of the tour.”
I smile, tightening my grip on him again. “Lead the way, Wheeler.”
We ride away from the trailer park like nothing just shifted in the universe—even though it definitely did.
The road smooths out again, quieter now. Mike relaxes, shoulders loosening as he starts pointing things out again like he didn’t just short-circuit five minutes ago.
“That’s the park,” he says, nodding to a dark stretch of swings. “We used to camp out there all summer.”
“I’m sensing a pattern,” I say. “You guys did everything everywhere.”
He scoffs. “There’s literally nothing else to do here.”
I laugh, leaning in closer so he can hear me. Somewhere along the way, my hands slide lower—less jacket, more him. My fingers hook casually into one of his belt loops, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He stiffens immediately.
“Uh—” he starts, then clears his throat. “You good back there?”
“Yeah,” I say innocently. “Why?”
His ears turn pink. Actually pink.
“N-no reason.”
The bike wobbles just a little.
I grin to myself.
We keep talking—about music, about how much Hawkins sucks, about how Dustin never shuts up. Mike’s wit sharpens when he’s relaxed, dry and quick, and I find myself smiling more than I mean to. Every once in a while, he laughs fully, head tipping back just a bit, and it does something unfair to my chest.
By the time we turn onto my street, it feels too soon.
He slows in front of my house, rolling to a stop under another streetlight. He hops off first, steadying the bike.
“Here,” he says, offering a hand to help me down.
I take it.
His grip is warm. Careful. Like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing.
I land, still close, his jacket hanging off my shoulders. For a second, neither of us moves.
“Thanks for the tour,” I say softly.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Anytime.”
I take a step back. Then another.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
I turn.
“I think you’re forgetting something.”
I hesitate for exactly half a second—then walk back to him, heart pounding. I reach up, fingers curling lightly into his hoodie, and kiss him.
It’s soft. Quick. Just enough.
When I pull back, he’s frozen—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned in the most endearing way. Like a puppy that just got surprised with affection.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
Then he blinks. “I—I meant my jacket.”
I laugh.
“But,” he adds quickly, stepping closer, hands finding my waist like he finally decided to stop overthinking it, “that works too.”
He kisses me again—longer this time, surer, like he’s figured something out mid-motion.
When we part, he’s still flustered, still pink, still looking at me like he can’t quite believe this is real.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
Mike barely lets me—his hands still warm at my waist, forehead resting against mine, lips chasing like he hasn’t caught up yet.
“Mike,” I murmur.
He opens his eyes.
Up close like this, he looks wrecked—in the best way. Hair mussed, mouth pink and swollen, pupils blown like he forgot the rest of the world exists.
“Yeah?” he says, breathless.
I glance toward my front door, then back at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
His breath stutters.
“…Inside?” he repeats, like the word needs a second to load. He doesn’t look away from me when he asks, quietly, “What about your parents?”
“It’s fine,” I say easily, fingers sliding up into his hair. “My dad’s not home yet. Bar night. My mom’s not… around.”
That’s all it takes.
He swallows.
I don’t wait for him to overthink it.
“C’mon,” I whisper, already stepping back and tugging him with me.
He follows.
The door barely clicks shut behind us before he’s kissing me again—harder this time, like the permission flipped a switch. His hands find my waist, my back, pulling me flush against him as we stumble down the hallway.
We bump into the wall. I laugh against his mouth.
“Sorry,” he mutters, not sounding sorry at all.
I grab his collar and pull him with me, kissing him as I walk us backward, toward my room. He makes this quiet sound—half laugh, half breath—that sends heat straight through me.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re—”
“Mike,” I warn softly, smiling.
He shuts up immediately. Kisses me deeper instead.
By the time we reach my room, we’re both a mess—hands everywhere but never crossing a line, tension coiled so tight it’s almost dizzying. He backs me toward the bed, then stops himself, forehead dropping to my shoulder like he’s grounding himself.
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I’m trying really hard to be cool.”
I smile, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “You’re doing great.”
He looks at me like that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.
We kiss again—slower now, deliberate, like neither of us wants to rush what we’re building. His hands settle at my hips, steady, protective, and I realize how rare it is to feel this wanted and this safe at the same time.
Outside, Hawkins stays quiet.
Inside, everything feels like it’s just getting started.
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing the world out.
Mike’s hands stay on my waist like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that we’ve stopped moving. He’s breathing hard, forehead resting against mine, a crooked smile tugging at his lips like he can’t believe any of this is happening.
“This is—” he exhales, chest rising against mine. “Definitely not how I thought tonight was gonna go.”
“Disappointed?” I tease, brushing my mouth over his again.
His laugh is low, a little wrecked. “Not even close.”
We stumble back together, kissing. His hoodie bunches in my fists as I drag him closer, his fingers skimming up my sides, slow and intentional, like he’s memorizing every reaction I give him.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my jaw, lips trailing heat down the side of my throat.
I moan, tugging him by his belt loop again—slow this time, deliberate.
He freezes for half a second. A sharp inhale. His hand tightens on my hip.
“You keep doing that,” he says, voice deeper than before, “like you don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I know exactly.” My thumb hooks under the denim again, pulling him closer, watching the way his breath stutters. “What I’m asking for, Mike.”
His self-control cracks right there.
He kisses me harder, pushing me back onto the bed, the two of us landing in a messy tangle of limbs and laughter that dissolves instantly into heat. His mouth finds mine again—hungrier now, focused. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and sure, and the sound he makes when I arch into him goes straight through me.
“Damn,” he whispers against my skin, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I tug at the hem of his hoodie, and he sits up just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside. His hair is even more ruined now, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.
“Come here,” I murmur.
He does—immediately, like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
The weight of him settles over me, careful but wanting. His hands slide down my thighs, slow, teasing, as he kisses me again, deeper this time. Every brush of his mouth feels like a question he already knows the answer to.
“You sure?” he asks quietly, breath warm against my lips. “Because I’m not stopping once you say yes.”
I cup his face, pull him back down, and kiss him like I mean it.
“There’s your answer.”
He groans—soft, relieved, almost disbelieving—before his lips crash into mine again. His hands explore with intent now, bolder, slipping beneath clothes with purpose. I feel his breath hitch when I pull him closer, our bodies aligning perfectly.
The room gets smaller, warmer, quieter except for the sound of our breathing and the soft hum of the mattress under us. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, everywhere I react, and he smiles against my skin each time I do.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers, voice low, honest.
“Good.”
He laughs, short and breathless, before rolling his hips against mine, slow but unmistakable. The tension snaps like a live wire. His forehead drops to my shoulder as he exhales a shaky sound he tries and fails to hide.
“Okay,” he mutters, smiling into my skin. “Yeah. I need you.”
His hands guide mine to his waistband, helping, inviting, giving me control even as he trembles with how badly he wants this.
His hands guide mine the rest of the way, fingers brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding himself through the contact. The click of his belt opening feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He exhales, slow and shaky, watching my face the entire time—checking, reading, trusting.
“You don’t rush anything, do you?” I murmur.
He huffs a breath of laughter. “Not this.”
He closes his eyes briefly when my palms slide over his chest, jaw flexing like he’s holding something in.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re killing me.”
My turn comes next, and he’s reverent about it—slower than I expect. His fingers hook under the hem of my top, lifting it carefully, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment. When it comes away, he pauses, just looking at me, eyes dark and steady.
He leans in again, kissing me deep and unhurried, hands warm and confident as they trace curves like he’s committing them to memory. Clothes start to disappear without ceremony—dropped, kicked aside, forgotten—until there’s nothing left between us but heat and breath and the soft press of skin against skin.
He nudges me back onto the bed again, following immediately, bracing himself over me without smothering. His mouth moves slow and purposeful, like he’s savoring every reaction, every sound I don’t quite manage to hold back.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine. “You’re unreal.”
Mike’s mouth finds mine again, but this time there’s no hesitation in it—just heat and purpose. His hands settle on my bare hips, firm, guiding, pinning me beneath him without using any real weight. He doesn’t have to. The intention alone sends a rush through me.
He shifts, settling between my legs, and the press of his naked body against mine is slow, deliberate, undeniable. His breath drags against my neck as he moves, and the quiet sound he makes when my hands grip his shoulders is low and satisfied.
“Stay right here,” he murmurs, voice rough for the first time.
He lowers himself, one hand bracing beside my head, the other guiding my thigh up around his waist. The shift pulls our bodies flush, and he exhales sharply against my cheek as he settles into me, slow and controlled.
His hand slides beneath me, lifting my hips to meet him as he runs the tip between my folds. When he finally puts it in, the sound that slips out of him when our bodies align sends heat straight through me. He buries his face at my neck, breath warm as he sets a steady, deliberate pace—each movement rolling through both of us with building intensity.
His fingers lace with mine briefly before he presses my wrist into the mattress beside my head, not forcing—just holding, guiding, anchoring me there as his other hand stays firm on my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
“God,” he murmurs against my jaw, more to himself than to me, like he’s adjusting us into perfect sync.
Every shift of his hips is stronger now, more certain, his breath hitching each time my body responds to the force and angle he uses. His control is unmistakable—tight, consistent, the kind that leaves no space for second-guessing.
He moves with intention, with weight, with purpose—his forehead dropping to mine for a moment as the pace deepens, steadier, more consuming. The bed creaks softly beneath us; his hand tightens on my hip to keep me grounded; his breath grows heavier against my skin.
The room feels smaller with the way he’s moving, the way he holds my body under his, the way he doesn’t break rhythm even when the tension builds sharply between us.
His grip adjusts, fingers spreading wider over my hip as if to lock the angle in place, and every movement after that lands deeper, surer. The rhythm he sets is unbroken, each roll of his body controlled and deliberate, like he’s counting it out in his head. The mattress dips beneath the strength of his movement, the soft creak underscoring how firmly he’s got me.
His mouth drags from my jaw to my collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath stutter. One hand stays planted beside my head, keeping me right where he wants me, while the other slides along my thigh again, thumb pressing in, steadying me as he drives the pace forward.
The heat between us builds fast now—slick skin, shallow breaths, the sound of him exhaling hard through his nose each time his hips pull back and push forward again. He doesn’t break contact, doesn’t pull away to look—he stays close, chest to chest, the tension living in the way his muscles tighten and release with every movement.
His lips brush my ear.
“Just like that,” he mutters, voice thick, almost breathless.
The grip on my wrist tightens—not painful—just enough pressure to remind me he’s there, anchoring me, keeping me open to the rhythm he’s chosen. His other hand slides beneath me again, lifting my hips higher, changing the angle until the response from my body is immediate and unmistakable.
His breathing turns uneven, heavier now, the control still there but strained at the edges as the intensity climbs. His forehead presses to mine again, jaw clenched, movement stronger, deeper, still measured but relentless.
The room fades down to sensation—heat, pressure, the steady sound of skin meeting skin. He keeps the pace exactly where it is, refusing to let it slip or falter, holding you there with him as everything tightens and builds.
Mike stays over me the entire time until the tension peaks sharp and consuming, both our bodies finally giving into it with a low sound against my throat as he holds me still through it.
Only then does he slow.
Not all at once—just enough to keep me there with him, breath to breath, bodies still pressed close, his hand lingering on my hip like he hasn’t forgotten for a second exactly where I was.
Morning comes too fast.
I wake up tangled in warmth—sheets twisted, sunlight leaking in through the blinds in thin gold stripes. For half a second I forget where I am.
Then I feel him shift beside me.
Mike.
He’s on his stomach, arm loose around my waist like it belongs there, hair completely wrecked, expression soft.
There’s a bang on the front door.
Then another.
“Y/N—HELLO—OPEN UP—”
I jolt upright. “Oh my god.”
Mike groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Is that—”
“Yes,” I whisper. “That’s Dustin.”
The knocking gets louder.
“I’ll get it,” I say quickly, already reaching for clothes. I yank on a shirt, shove my feet into shorts, and point at Mike. “You—put something on.”
He fumbles for his sweater from last night, tugging it over his head, then steps into his jeans like he’s still half asleep. He looks unfairly good like this—rumpled, flushed, very obviously just woken up somewhere he didn’t plan on waking up.
I rush down the hall and open the door.
Dustin Henderson stands on my porch, pale and panicked, mid-breath.
“Thank god,” he blurts—then freezes.
His eyes flick past me.
To Mike.
Standing behind me. In yesterday’s clothes.
Silence.
“…What,” Dustin says slowly, “is this.”
My stomach drops.
Mike reacts instantly. “Nothing.- She asked for a town tour,” Mike continues, talking quickly now, hands shoved in his pockets. “And by the time I got back here it was really late so I just—crashed. That’s all.”
Dustin looks between us.
Then at me.
Then back at Mike.
His mouth twists like he absolutely does not buy it—but whatever’s on his mind is bigger than that.
“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Sure.”
The pause hangs there, heavy and weird.
Then Dustin exhales sharply. “Anyway—this is bad. Like, really bad.”
Mike straightens immediately. “What happened?”
Dustin swallows. “Chrissy’s dead.”
The words hit like a slap.
“What?” I breathe.
“They found her this morning,” he says, voice shaking now. “In Eddie’s trailer. And no one knows where Eddie is.”
Mike goes still.
“Dead how?” he asks.
Dustin shakes his head. “I don’t know. No one does. They’re saying it’s… it’s messed up. Like nothing I’ve ever heard.”
The porch feels too small. The morning was suddenly too quiet.
“They’re already blaming Eddie,” Dustin adds. “Jason’s losing his mind. The cops are everywhere.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, eyes dark, brain clearly racing. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” Dustin says. “That’s why I came here. We need to figure out what actually happened.”
I glance at Mike.
He looks back at me—something unspoken passing between us, something that didn’t exist yesterday morning.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. We will.”
Dustin nods, then hesitates, glancing between us again. “You guys… good?”
“Yeah,” Mike says immediately.
The silence after Dustin’s words feels wrong—too heavy for a sunny morning.
I turn slowly toward Mike.
“…We saw them,” I say.
Both of them look at me.
“Last night,” I continue. “At the trailer park. Eddie and Chrissy. Together.”
Mike nods immediately. “Yeah.”
Dustin’s head snaps between us. “You what?”
“We were on Mike’s bike,” I explain. “We watched them walk into Eddie’s trailer.”
Dustin pales. “Okay. Okay—then we definitely can’t tell the cops.”
“What?” I snap.
Mike shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if we should—”
I stare at him. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
My voice rises despite myself. “Mike, a girl is dead. We’re witnesses. That’s not optional.”
Dustin steps forward quickly. “No—no, listen to me. You don’t get it yet.”
“Get what?” I shoot back. “From where I’m standing, your freak-show friend probably killed his secret girlfriend and ran.”
“That’s not funny,” Dustin says sharply. “And it’s not true.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Because it looks pretty bad.”
Dustin’s voice breaks just a little. “I know Eddie. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not—he’s not like that.”
“You don’t know that,” I argue. “You just like him.”
“I do know that,” Dustin insists. “He’s weird and loud and everyone hates him, but he’s not a murderer.”
I turn to Mike, expecting backup.
He doesn’t give it.
Instead, he looks torn—hands flexing at his sides, eyes darting between Dustin and me. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
My chest tightens. “So you’re just… what? Protecting him?”
“I’m protecting the truth,” Dustin says. “And you can’t tell anyone. Not the cops. Not your friends. No one.”
“That’s insane,” I say. “This isn’t a game.”
Mike finally looks at me fully.
And his expression—
It kills my momentum instantly.
No anger. No defensiveness.
Just that soft, worried look. Brows pulled together, eyes dark and earnest, like he’s silently begging me not to push him away right now. Like he’s already scared of losing something he just found.
“Please,” he says quietly. “Just… trust us. For now.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
He steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “I know how it sounds. I know it’s messed up. But if we’re wrong—and we tell the cops—Eddie’s done. Forever.”
Dustin nods desperately. “They already hate him. They’re looking for a monster, and he fits what they want.”
I look between them.
Logic tells me this is stupid.
But Mike’s eyes don’t leave mine—and there’s something in them that wasn’t there yesterday. Something fragile. Something asking me to choose him.
“…For now,” I say slowly.
Both of them exhale at the same time.
“But,” I add sharply, pointing between them, “if I find out you’re wrong—if you’re hiding something from me—I’m going straight to the police. No warning.”
she frequently captures public attention by pairing hyper-feminine, "coquette" elements like frilly pink babydoll tops, lace bows, and plaid mini-skirts with oversized, streetwear-inspired staples such as baggy distressed denim, chunky sneakers, and even Ugg boots.
While walking through Incheon Airport, Yeoni wears a delicate white and pink lace tiered top over extremely wide-leg, vintage-wash jeans adorned with oversized pink bows at the hem. She completes the look with high-top sneakers and thin red-rimmed glasses.
Bang Chan and Changbin walk slightly behind her, sharing a look of amused bewilderment Changbin jokingly asks if those are his jeans she borrowed and "bejeweled," while Hyunjin is busy taking aesthetic photos of her for the group's Instagram.
Photographes take more pictures of her in her new outfit while in the AirPort live comments Goes crazy The look immediately goes viral on Twitter under the tag #YeoniCore, with fans debating whether the "dress over baggy jeans" trend is back or if Yeoni is simply a fashion time traveler.
Yeoni starts a surprise V-Live wearing a pale pink puffer jacket with a faux-fur hood, a plaid scarf, and a matching pink-and-tan plaid pleated mini-skirt over patterned white tights and slouchy brown Ugg boots.
Then Han and Felix crash the stream, immediately pointing at her , Felix starts looking at her outfit with Adoration while Han tries to figure out how she isn't cold in such a tiny skirt, eventually draping his own oversized hoodie over her legs like a blanket.
V live Comments flood in with "Is she a Bratz doll?" and "Only the Stray Kids maknae could make 2005 look this high-fashion," leading to the boots selling out in Japan by the time the stream ends.
Yeoni arrives at the dance studio in a pink-and-white checked button down shirt tucked into knee-length, dark wash baggy denim shorts, accessorized with a sparkly pink belt, chunky pink-striped sneakers, and a silver watch.
The boys look at her Immediately Lee Know does a double take, jokingly checking his own wardrobe to see if his shorts are missing, while Seungmin records a video of her "clunky" walk in the oversized shorts, calling her "The Tiny Menace" in his head.
while the skz talker later on released with Some comments being like , Expectation vs. Reality" memes showing how most people would look messy in that outfit, but Yeoni somehow makes it look like a high-concept fashion editorial, solidifying her status as the industry's most unpredictable style icon.
