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OKAY LISTEN… this might be the most TOE-CURLING one shot i’ve EVER written 😭😭

the idea literally came from that post i made yesterday (This post) and ofc inspired by the STUPIDLY TALENTED @sleepyfortress ✨

LIKE… IT’S TOO MUCH. even i was BLUSHING while editing it 😳💀 sometimes i scare myself with the things i write LMAOOO CRYING SCREAMING THROWING UP—HOPE U GUYS ENJOY 💌🔥

WATERBOMB

Saja Boys x Idol! reader

You’re kneeling on a road case that doubles as a mirror stand, hair stylist pinning the final unruly strand behind your ear. The dressing tent hums—fans like turbines, cords snaking under tables, the sweet-salty smell of sunscreen and stage fog mixing with wet grass. Outside, a tidal cheer swells and crashes, and somewhere past the scrim a sprinkler rig hisses alive. Waterbomb is nothing like a regular music show. It’s a city-sized sprinkler gone feral.

“Last spritz,” Zoey says, misting your face. The droplets feel like glitter.

Rumi peeks out from behind the vinyl flap of the tent. “They’re on verse two,” she reports, purple hair still damp and curling at her collarbone. Her sheer striped top clings like a second skin, white overshirt half off one shoulder. “They’re… uh… all kinds of shameless.”

Mira laughs, adjusting her clear glasses and black crop with the rainbow streak. “Of course they are. It’s Saja Boys.”

“Be nice,” you murmur, but your smile’s already giving you away. “They worked the afternoon slot; they’re carrying the heat for us.”

“They’re carrying something,” Zoey mutters, tying the blue-and-white choker around her neck. Her sport top reads HUNTRIX in small block letters, the pastel ribbon at the hem already dark with spray. “Come on—good luck circle before you combust.”

You press in, foreheads touching, their hands warm and damp in yours. Rumi squeezes twice. Mira whispers, “Crush them.” Zoey, grinning, adds, “Cradle to grave.”

When you pull back, your silver outfit throws the tent lights into flashes. It’s sleek—a two-piece with a liquid-metal sheen, cut high on your thigh, a shrug layered over it that you’ll ditch later if the sun drops and the crowd behaves. Your hair is down, thick and glossy, headset mic hugging your cheek. On the crate beside you: a neon water gun and a bandolier of gleaming, pre-filled balloons.

Another roar from the crowd. Curiosity wins. You slide toward the gap in the tent and catch the main LED screen.

They are chaos.

Abby’s on the thrust, pink hair almost electric under the lights, shirtless and glistening, a strip of caution-yellow tape slung like a sash across his bicep as if he’s a hazard sign come to life. Chains flash at his throat. He tips his head and the spray runs down his chest, the kind of careless that’s practiced.

Center-right, Mira’s nemesis, how she like to call him—Romance—has his pink hair swept wet across his forehead, white shirt open and flapping, the striped crop beneath translucent in the soaking. He sings like he’s telling a secret to fifty thousand people and winks like he knows exactly what it does to them.

Jinu, on the right, lifts the hem of his top with his teeth for half a bar and the pit detonates. The pendant at his sternum swings; he grins like a sin he can afford.

Mystery is all silver hair and sharp edges, a giant yellow water cannon braced at his hip, mouth curved in that almost-smile that says he was born for mischief. Baby—mint-green hair, rings to the knuckles, white shirt plastered to a body that looks carved—laughs into his mic, tongue between teeth, and flicks a water balloon straight up; it explodes in glitter rain.

You swallow. The little thrill at your ribs is ridiculous—you’ve been on a hundred stages, danced under worse heat, shared green rooms with legends—but something about them, all five, dripping and loud and stupidly alive, pings your pulse.

“They’re going to crack the ground at this rate,” Zoey says, following your gaze.

“Let them,” Rumi murmurs, amused.

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot even in this breeze. There’s no time to be a spectator. Your setlist is taped to your shin; your in-ears buzz; your stage manager is already counting you down. The girls hug you once more—“kill it, okay?”—and dart to the wings to watch.

On your way down the corridor, you cut behind stacks of flight cases and pass the shadowed opening where the boys will funnel off stage. For a second you’re just a sliver of silver in the dark, unnoticed.

“—did you see her sign?” Baby cackles as they rip past, voices ricocheting off metal. “The one that said ‘baptize me, Mystery’—”

“Blasphemous,” Mystery deadpans, laughter buried in it.

Abby snorts. “Better than the one that asked me to ruin her credit.”

“You would,” Romance says, flapping his soaked shirt.

Jinu’s voice is the anchor: “Hydrate, change mics, back for the outro splash. Don’t slip on the ramp—”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. The image of Abby ruining someone’s credit is going to haunt you through the first chorus.

They streak by—steam, cologne, wet leather—and then they’re gone into their own tent, busy with post-stage adrenaline. They don’t see you. It’s fine. If they knew how hard you stared at them on the LED six minutes ago, you’d never live it down.

“Two minutes,” your stage manager says in your ear. “Remember: the Waterbomb towers will fire at your count. Don’t step between the grates when the cannons lift.”

“Got it,” you say, already rolling your shoulders. You can hear the crowd chanting the festival tag—WATER! BOMB! WATER! BOMB!—as the DJ on the main platform hypes them for your arrival. Up top, the rainbow sprinkler racks spit test streams. Staffers in neon ponchos trot along the moat with extra water guns. The front barricade glitters with waterproof phone pouches and hand-lettered signs. The heat is a living thing.

You step into it.

The stage swallows you with a bass thud. The LED screen explodes into chrome ripples, and your body knows the exact line between strut and sprint. You walk to the center mark, smile so sharp it could cut, and throw your free hand—one hand on the water gun, of course—up to the sky.

“Waterbomb two-thousand-twenty-five,” you purr, voice hitting the back stands. “Are you ready to get wet?”

The response is seismic. Somewhere backstage, five heads snap up.

You don’t see it, but the boys—half-toweled, still buzzing—feel the floor vibrate and drift to the side wing in curiosity. The backlights flare. And then they see you.

Silver like moonlight. Hair down, sleek from the humidity. Headset mic at your cheek, gleaming. Water gun balanced on your shoulder like you were born with it.

“Who is—” Abby starts, and then loses words as your first beat drops and your hips answer.

The choreography hits like a pulse through your bones—liquid-sharp, a blur of shoulders and heelwork—a tease of control as the overhead cannons arc streams that find your skin. The top clings; your shrug darkens; droplets bead the hollow of your throat. You cut across the thrust stage and the crowd’s hands go up to meet you. You spray a curtain of water and they scream like absolution.

Romance’s jaw has been on the floor for an entire eight-count. “She’s—uh—wow.”

Zoey materializes at his elbow, smug. “That’s our friend.”

“Our?” Jinu echoes, eyes not leaving you for a second.

“Soloist extraordinaire,” Mira supplies, tone airy and proud. “She closes the night. We warned you.”

“You did not warn us enough,” Abby says faintly.

Rumi leans on the railing, chin in her hand. “This is her restrained.”

Mystery watches without blinking, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Huh.”

The boys shuffle closer as if proximity will answer the questions rattling their ribs. Your second verse slides into a low run, your feet gliding like the stage is a river that belongs to you. The crowd answers every call you toss them, a choir of delirium. You play the front left corner, fingers brushing out over a thicket of hands, and a ring of girls breaks into tears because they meet your gaze for half a heartbeat. At the bridge you drop into a crouch, water gun resting on your thigh as you roll your spine with a grin that sells sin. The sprinkler rack overhead kicks into a wave cycle; the rain sweeps downstage to upstage and back.

“Okay, but how—” Baby’s trying not to shout and failing. “How does she move like that, she’s not slipping, she’s—”

“Practice,” Zoey says, but her eyes are fond. “And because she’s a menace.”

“She’s dangerous,” Abby says, and for once it’s not a brag. It’s awe.

Jinu clears his throat, steadying himself in that leader way. “What’s her name?”

Mira tells him. Your name clicks into their skulls like a key in a lock.

“And she’s single?” Romance asks, painless as a gunshot.

Rumi smirks. “Who knows.”

Mystery doesn’t ask anything. He just watches you dance and catalogues the exact moment you feel the stage like a second skin. He can tell the instant you decide to kick the throttle open.

It happens at the drop. You tap your earpiece, step into dead center, and breathes hushed around the pit. Your smile cuts wider.

“Hold my mic,” you say to a staffer, swapping the water gun into both hands. “I have a present.”

You slide your shrug off your shoulders and the crowd gasps. The silver top underneath flashes like a blade, then—hook, twist, snap—you peel the overlay away and it’s all water-shimmering swimsuit underneath, athletic and indecent in equal measure, cut to move and to make people forget how to breathe.

For half a second, five separate lives separate into five clean lines of thought.

Abby: You have got to be kidding me. That’s— that’s illegal. Arrest me; I did it.

Romance: God, she knows what she’s doing. She knows we’re watching. She wants us to— okay, we will.

Jinu: Focus. Leader brain. Don’t embarrass yourself. The cameras— she looks so happy. She looks free. Breathe, man.

Mystery: Perfect timing. Reveal on the drop. She paces the walkway like she owns gravity. I want to see what her eyes do when she locks onto someone.

Baby: OH MY— I need water. More water. Give me six water guns and a defibrillator.

The pit detonates. Phones—already tucked in waterproof pouches—rise like a sea of stars. You swing the water gun into a wide arc, a glittering spray that catches the sunset as the sky slips from gold to bruised violet. A group of guys at the barricade tilt their faces up to it, laughing, and you pop a water balloon into the front row like confetti.

Your ment bleeds into the track, breathless and bright. “I’m having way too much fun,” you shout, and the crowd screams back. “What a privilege to be here with you—this weather, this light—” You spin, drink in fifty thousand shining faces. “But I can’t soak all of you alone.”

A chant starts—HUN-TRIX! HUN-TRIX!—and you laugh because they read your mind.

“Huntrix,” you call, throwing your arm toward the wing. “Get out here and help me!”

The girls don’t hesitate. Zoey barrels first, water gun cocked, double buns bobbing; Rumi struts behind her, pearls at her throat winking; Mira sprints, rainbow stripe blazing. You toss Zoey an extra bandolier; she catches it without looking.

The cheer swells again, and with it, a different one—lower, rougher, disbelieving—because Huntrix aren’t alone.

The Saja Boys stumble after them, dragged by a mix of peer pressure and destiny. Abby’s still shirtless, slinging his caution tape back over his shoulder. Romance’s open shirt clings to his waist; he’s laughing like a man headed for trouble. Jinu tugs his hem down and fails—the crowd is howling anyway—necklace catching the floodlights. Mystery brings his obscene yellow cannon, because of course he does. Baby comes last, mint hair drenched, fingers loaded with rings, grin sharp enough to scrape.

You feign innocence. “Oh?” you say into your headset, hand on your hip. “I guess I hit the jackpot.”

Abby, passing you, murmurs under the noise, “You have no idea,” and then launches a spray into the sky that rains down like a storm.

It is chaos in the best way: choreography abandoned for a water war, cameramen swaddled in plastic, the front barricade soaked and hysterical. You carve through it like it was planned, weaving between bodies with dancer precision. Mira traps Romance in a crossfire and he blocks with his own chest, then laughs helplessly when you sneak behind him to shoot low. Jinu tries to be serious for half a second and then Zoey plants a water balloon square in his shoulder and he breaks into that grin again. Rumi and Baby trade shots like flirtations—her arch eyebrow vs. his stubborn dimples—and neither of them wins. Mystery takes the corner of the thrust by quiet force; kids scream his name while he rains arcs over their heads like he’s painting.

You sing through it. You don’t stop moving. The band hits your last chorus harder; the towers fire in synchronized waves; the LED behind you turns to a moon of rippling silver.

At the final hit you lift your arm and the entire place lifts with you. For a heartbeat there’s only light and water and noise.

“Thank you!” you shout, laughter breaking your words. “Thank you for closing Waterbomb with me! Take care, drink water, get home safe!”

The track cuts. The scream doesn’t.

You turn and hand your water gun to a kid wearing a poncho three sizes too big; the security guard smiles at you like you’ve given the city a puppy. Huntrix bow their way backward. The boys, dazed, manage a coordinated wave that looks suspiciously like habit. And then you’re all herded past the wings by staff holding towels like flags, adrenaline fizzing out of your bones in sparking threads.

Backstage is its own weather system. Steam rises off bodies. The ground is a mosaic of damp footprints and gaffer’s tape. Staff pass around bottled water and soft cloths. You’re laughing with Mira about how Zoey nearly took out a speaker when the crowd on the path cleaves.

They approach as a unit, which you’ll learn is how they do everything—like a tide that decided on a direction.

“Hi,” Jinu says first, because he’s polite even when the world’s still ringing. He’s taller up close, face carved but warm, pendant still dripping. “We didn’t get to introduce ourselves before you incinerated the festival.”

“Hydrated the festival,” you correct, accepting the towel he offers. “Hi.”

Abby leans on a lighting case like he owns it. Up close the pink in his hair is brighter, almost neon. “You planned that reveal,” he says, admiring instead of accusatory. “That was criminally effective.”

“Is there a charge?” you ask, dabbing water from your collarbone. “I can plead not guilty.”

He smiles slow. “I’m the wrong person to ask about guilt.”

Baby slides in on your other side, eyes flicking over your face like he’s cataloguing expressions. Up close the lashes are ridiculous. “You’re trouble,” he decides, theatrical as a gavel. “I respect that.”

“Is this an intervention?” you ask. “Because I’m not changing.”

Zoey whacks Romance with her towel. “Don’t scare her,” she scolds, clearly kidding.

Romance beelines like a golden retriever with a mission. “I loved when you said you couldn’t soak everyone alone,” he blurts, then blushes because it sounded filthier out loud. “I mean—like—teamwork! It was good. The teamwork. Also, can you teach me that footwork? The wet stage thing? I nearly did a split I didn’t order.”

Rumi covers a laugh with her bottle. “He nearly did,” she confirms.

Mystery has been quiet, which makes you more aware of him. He bends, picks a water balloon fragment from the floor, twirls the rubber once around his ringed finger, then flicks it into a bin without looking. “You switch your center of gravity to the ball of your foot on the glide,” he says mildly to Romance, and then to you, eyes sharp and unreadable, “Nice call on the reveal at the drop. You like the control of a crowd.”

You meet his gaze and refuse to back down. “I like giving them a memory.”

His mouth does that almost-smile again. “Successful.”

Jinu clears his throat gently, herding the chaos with a glance. “We’re terrible at this part,” he says. “Talking like… adults. But we wanted to say you were incredible.”

“And to ask how we didn’t know about you,” Abby adds, affronted at the concept, as though your existence without their knowledge is a personal insult.

“Because you live in your cave,” Mira says sweetly.

“Gym,” Romance corrects, offended. “We live in the gym.”

“Then the dance studio,” Zoey says.

“Right,” Baby agrees. “And sometimes the kitchen.”

“Anyway,” Jinu rescues the topic, smiling. “We’d like your contact. For… professional reasons.” The ‘professional’ is so transparent even Rumi laughs.

You hook your towel around your neck and pretend to consider. “What would you even do with it?”

Romance leans closer, voice low. “Send you illegal compliments.”

“DMs at ungodly hours,” Abby offers.

“Ask for wet-stage tips,” Baby says, honest.

“Propose a collab,” Jinu adds, the reliable one.

Mystery’s head tilts. “Find out what your eyes do up close when you’re not looking at fifty thousand people.”

That steals the breath right out of you. You exhale slow, aware of every drop still sliding down your ribs. “Bold,” you say.

“Recovering demon tendencies,” Abby tosses in, too breezy, as if he didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.

Mira coughs once, side-eye like a dagger. Rumi’s mouth quirks; Zoey’s toe taps a warning on his shoe.

You blink. “Recovering… what?”

“Gamers,” Baby blurts, instantly. “He said gamers. We’re recovering gamers. Like, addict— no, not that— we just— we play a lot of—”

Jinu pinches the bridge of his nose, mortified. “We’re rebranding,” he says weakly. “Don’t mind him.”

You look at the three Huntrix faces: open-mouthed innocence (Zoey), practiced serenity (Rumi), irritated big sister (Mira). Their eyes say later. Your curiosity pings again, but you let it go. The world is full of strange things. And you’ve never been one to judge on rumor.

“Fine,” you say, generous. “Recovering gamers. We all have our vices.”

“Yours is being unbearable on stage,” Romance says. “And I thank you for it.”

“Give me your phones,” you decide, because mercy is its own vice. “We’ll exchange.”

That wakes them like a flare. Five phones appear with comical speed, each in a different waterproof case, each background chaotic: Abby’s is a photo of the boys mid-laugh, Mystery’s a low-res meme you refuse to examine, Baby’s a picture of three puppies, Jinu’s a color-blocked schedule app, Romance’s… is a selfie, of course, lips pursed. You’re not immune; you bite back a grin, add your number, and a short note in his contacts—do not text me after 2 a.m. unless you’re bleeding or it’s a meme that will heal my childhood—and hand it back.

“You’re going to regret that,” Zoey tells you cheerfully.

“I already do,” you lie.

“Collab?” Jinu asks, now that the world has grown kinder. “We meant it. Waterbomb special stage next year? Or something sooner. Your energy—”

“—would bury me alive,” Abby says, delighted.

“—would look good next to ours,” Romance purrs.

Mystery studies you like an answer he enjoys taking apart. “You move like you don’t believe in gravity,” he says quietly. “I’d like to… test that theory.”

“Dance practice, not whatever you’re implying,” Rumi throws in, flicking his ear.

He doesn’t deny it. The almost-smile deepens. “Both, ideally.”

Baby shoulders him. “Stop terrifying our new friend.”

“Am I your friend already?” you ask, arch. “We just met.”

“You threw water in my mouth from ten meters,” Baby says solemnly. “We are bonded.”

That earns a real laugh out of you, one that eases something tight in your chest. Outside, the crowd’s noise dims to a rumor. The evening air slips cooler under the tent flaps, lifting the baby hairs at your neck. Your silver outfit has gone soft with water, and you’re hyper-aware of the way their eyes travel and then jerk back up, how they’re trying not to stare, how they absolutely are.

“You were staring,” you say, because you prefer clarity to games.

Abby tips his head, corner of his mouth wicked. “Absolutely.”

Romance nods, shameless. “Guilty.”

Jinu opens and closes his mouth, then surrenders: “Yeah.”

Mystery doesn’t bother lying; his gaze is a steady blade. “Obviously.”

Baby—bless him—goes pink from hairline to collarbone. “I’m trying to think something respectful.”

“You’re all fine,” you assure, and mean it. It felt… good. It felt like being seen by people who understand the hunger that fuels a stage. “Just don’t get me canceled.”

“Never,” Mira says dryly. “That’s my job.”

Zoey claps, wringing out the end of her pigtail. “Okay! Congratulations everyone. New friends made, egos fed, hydration achieved.”

“After-party?” Abby asks, hopeful. “We’ll be gentlemanly. Mostly.”

Jinu shoots him a look. “We have interviews.”

“Briefly,” Romance says, already plotting treason. “And then freedom.”

Rumi slides an extra towel around your shoulders, squeezing. “We’ll see you outside,” she murmurs, eyes bright with the kind of promise that means a debrief later.

You hook a thumb into your bandolier’s empty loop and nod. “Send me the location,” you tell the boys, boldness matching theirs now. “If your DMs are boring, I’m blocking you.”

“Impossible,” Romance says.

“Challenge accepted,” Mystery counters.

Baby beams so hard it’s a hazard. Abby salutes. Jinu, relieved and impressed, bows his head slightly like a gentleman who also survived hell.

They peel off in a slow, reluctant ripple, left behind like a heat mirage. Huntrix follows, laughing, for their own schedule. You linger a second, feeling the festival air pulse like a heartbeat beneath your feet. Somewhere out there, fifty thousand people will be wringing out their clothes on the subway, grinning like idiots. Somewhere in your phone, five brand-new threads are waiting to be chaotic.

You towel your hair, smile against the cotton, and think about how the water looked, catching the last light, when you said you couldn’t soak all of them alone—and a tide of friends answered.

Outside, a chant starts up again for no one and everyone—WATER! BOMB!—and you step into the night like a promise.

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