#and just... the vibes of the drama are so good

[kxsagi]

Can I request BLLK characters with a flirty and friendly reader? It’s like they are approachable and very playful with friends (both genders) and have a way with words, but they’re all platonic and they do draw boundaries when needed.

Thank you very much!

“𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨�� 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢’𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬”

a/n: yw!! though i'm guessing reader views the boys in a platonic way? either way, i'm sure they find your duality very attractive!

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae

isagi yoichi

isagi was so confused at first. 

like you casually told a barista “thanks, handsome” and he stood there blinking like “what does this mean. are we in competition.” 

but you just… talk like that to everyone? 

once he realized you’re not trying to make anyone fall in love, he relaxed. 

but that didn’t stop him from getting jealous silently. 

like you’d jokingly say “oh my gosh marry me” to reo because he paid for your drink and isagi would just lean in like, “you want to talk about that?” “talk about what?” “you proposing to other people.” 

please. you call him “lover boy” and ruffle his hair like you’re a boy band manager. 

and he acts like he doesn’t love it but that man eats it up. 

secretly loves when you say flirty things but then go “ew no, not you” to everyone else that tries to talk the same way. 

itoshi rin

the walking semi-green flag with rage issues. 

he did not get your vibe at first. 

your friendliness? your compliments?? the way you giggled with shidou over a dumb joke??? 

he absolutely thought you were the type who led people on and dipped. 

until you cut someone off with the most polite “hey, i’m just friendly, not interested, okay?” 

rin just stood there, stunned. 

you flirt like a well-read poet, and you mean none of it. 

and now? oh he’s obsessed. 

you tell him “damn, you look good enough to ruin my life today” and he doesn’t even blink. “then do it.” “oh please. i have taste.” 

he smirks. not because you rejected him, but because you still chose him. 

watches you charm a whole room and then lean on his shoulder. yeah. this is peak romance for him. 

mikage reo

lives for the drama. 

you’re his bestie and his fake girlfriend depending on the context. 

he encourages your flirtiness. 

“yeah, yeah, call him sweetheart, make him trip over his words.” 

he loves that you’re so charismatic, but what really got him was how you keep boundaries like a pro. 

like the moment someone takes it too far, you give them that smile like: “i’m here for fun, not for you, sit down.” 

and reo claps like a proud stage mom. “your honor, that’s my platonic soulmate.” 

you guys flirt with each other all the time but there’s zero tension. “damn, reo, if you weren’t rich and hot, i’d still use you for your credit card.” “and i’d let you, sugarplum.” 

sometimes people ask if you’re dating and you’re both like “ew.” 

kaiser michael

“so you flirt with everyone?” “no. just people who won’t fall in love with me.” “... you sure about that?” 

at first, he thought you were fake. that your friendliness was a mask or manipulation. 

but the longer he watched, the more he realized: you’re just like that. 

the type who can compliment someone’s cologne and follow it up with a “now scoot, i got better things to do.” 

and he finds it hilarious. 

sometimes tries to bait you. “so you think i’m charming?” “in a used car salesman kind of way.” 

he definitely tries to flirt harder just to see if he can make you fold. 

but jokes on him – you flirted with a security guard to skip a line last week, you fear no man. 

still, you never cross lines, and he respects that more than he lets on. 

shidou ryusei

ah. yes. his first words to you were probably: “you got a mouth on you, huh?” and you were like “don’t talk about my mouth unless you can handle it.” 

instant friendship. 

you both flirt for fun. he’s unhinged. you’re smooth. it works. 

the only difference is you know when to stop. 

he once said something wildly inappropriate to you in public and you hit him with that “shidou. line. crossed.” 

he was lowkey stunned. “what? but i thought–” “i flirt. not entertain.” 

he’s weirdly respectful of that boundary now. “yo this is my bestie, she’ll call you ‘lover’ then ignore your texts for a week.” 

if anyone tries to hit on you too seriously, shidou will bark. like actually. 

you two are menace duo certified. 

karasu tabito

you two bounce off each other like comedians. 

your banter is immaculate. 

he flirts, you flirt back, but it’s like a roast battle with sexual tension that doesn’t exist. 

“damn, you always dress like you have a date with bad decisions.” “i was hoping you'd be one of them.” 

everyone thinks y’all are dating. you're not. you just have mental illness chemistry. 

but karasu sees how smooth you are with other people too, and he’s always impressed with how you de-escalate situations. 

like someone tries to flirt for real and you handle it like a seasoned bartender. 

and karasu’s in the background going “get ‘em, tiger.” 

sometimes he lies and tells people he’s your ex just to see their reactions. 

you lie back and say he cried when you broke up. 

best duo. 

nagi seishiro

doesn’t get it at all. 

you called him “baby” once and he choked on his chips. “are you flirting?” “nah.” “so why say that?” “because you looked cute eating.” “... oh.” 

but he likes it?? he thinks it’s funny?? 

people try to warn him like “dude she flirts with everyone” and he’s like “yeah it’s nice.” 

you’re the first person who talks a lot that he’s not annoyed by. 

and you always defend him in public. 

someone calls him lazy? you’re like “don’t talk about my man like that. platonically.” 

you once said “he’s my son, my sugar baby, and my unpaid intern.” 

he calls you “girl boss” now. 

he’s proud of you for shutting people down politely, but firmly. 

if anyone ever got too bold with you, he’d just walk up and nap on your shoulder. possessively. 

itoshi sae

you thought he hated you. 

he thought you were exhausting. 

but then he saw how strategic you are about your friendliness. 

like, you’ll flirt with someone just to get better customer service, but the moment they think they can touch your waist, you’re ice cold. 

and sae was like oh. she’s not a flirt. she’s a tactician. 

now? he calls you “con artist.” 

you would say “you’re just mad i’m prettier than you.” sae would respond with “delusional. and manipulative. i like it.” 

he’s not the jealous type, but he is observant. 

watches your every move when you’re out. 

not because he doesn’t trust you, he just wants to see how many people fall for you when you’re not even trying. 

occasionally throws in a dry “you done seducing the world?” you grin. “not yet. wanna help?” he rolls his eyes but follows you anyway. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[mareastrorum]

This is only half a thought so far, but maybe other people want to chime in.

I’m doing Watch Machina (currently at episode 15) and Nein Again (currently at episode 21) while I also keep up with current Critical Role content (Age of Umbra episode 4) and something that bothers me a little is Matt’s current method of narration.

In C1, Matt’s style is very informal with regard to the narration. There’s little added drama via his tone, pace, or choice of words. “Toothy maw” became a meme pretty quickly, but the point of every description was to efficiently set the scene so the players could start their RP and choose what to do. There wasn’t as much precision with his descriptions, and of course that is a talent that takes a long time to hone when you’re describing lots of different things over the course of several hours. However, the narration was far less formal and calculated than his NPC dialogue, so (in combination with voice acting) it was very easy to determine when Matt was in character or not. It wasn’t a bad thing; Matt’s very casual narration and formal dialogue leading up to the Chroma Conclave’s attack on Emon was excellent because it was so sudden, leading the players and the audience to experience the exact same shock the NPCs would have. It’s not a bad way to narrate. If anything, it made the heartfelt moments so poignant, especially at the end of the campaign. That description of snow drops would not have been nearly as impactful if Matt had narrated that way all the time.

In C2, Matt started getting more descriptive and slowed down his narration to match. As Aabria would put it, he “paints a word picture” and includes more environmental storytelling for the setting itself, not just things for the characters to expressly interact with. I think this is part of what led to the Nein interacting with the set dressing more: Matt mentioned it, so it must be important! This led to some fun hijinks as time went on, and it gave Wildemount a different feeling than Tal’dorei. I couldn’t tell you that Emon had a particular vibe to it other than it being a big city, but howdy do we know that Berleben is full of nosy, bored people in a smelly swamp, and we sure know that Zadash is a bustling city with stark class segregation while Nicodranas is a beautiful trade hub with a mixture of different cultures. I think part of that may have come from working on the source books (they have similar language for the plot hooks and location entries). However, that method of narration was mostly limited to first descriptions of a new place or events (“cutscenes” like the attack in Zadash). Within a scene, Matt was still fairly casual in his discussions with the players.

But currently in Age of Umbra, and with a good chunk of C3, Matt’s narration is far more deliberate. There is a consistently slower pace compared to earlier campaigns, usually only speeding up in combat. Part of that may be for production purposes (easier for transcriptions and closed captioning), but it also impacts the pacing of the game itself. There’s also that presence of a new character: the narrator himself has a voice, and that is now part of the story. It’s extremely noticeable when the cast gets Matt to “break character” as the narrator to only be a DM. It requires a baseline level of formality for that to happen, and Matt committed to it in nearly every scene, regardless of the context of the scene. While that doesn’t feel all that strange for Age of Umbra (it fits well with the soulsborne style of game), it does make me realize that it’s part of why C3 felt incongruous. Like, sorry about the dead horse, but I was expecting C3 to be pulpy, which very much benefits from the narration style of C1 rather than the formal narration style Matt prefers currently. Punchy, informal narration sets a player expectation of “you’re here to get something done and I’ll tell you if it works,” while the current style instead lends itself to “you’re part of my story and this is the tone.” The former is great for fast-paced roleplay and the latter is suited to unhurried storytelling—which wouldn’t feel as mismatched if C3 hadn’t been a story where the PCs needed to prevent a second calamity within the course of a few weeks.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this was a mistake. Matt clearly enjoys how he narrates currently, and every DM is entitled to their preference. However, I think there’s a lesson in here that varying the narration style to match the purpose of the scene and story would benefit the players and the audience.

To be fair here, Matt is not the only DM who doesn’t mix it up very often. Brennan Lee Mulligan (Dimension 20) is far closer to the C1 style of fast, informal narration with very limited, specific instances where he would slow down for drama; there is no “narrator” character in his players’ story. D20 has a far more casual tone to its seasons than CR does in its campaigns. Luis Carazo (Tales Unrolled) narrates similarly to Matt, with a focus on instilling an emotional reaction for the players to deal with, and the players collaboratively join Luis as the narrator for their own characters; it’s a back and forth where the DM and players contribute to that additional presence. Tales Unrolled is on the opposite end of the spectrum from D20, with a clear feeling that it is a storytelling experience.

Again, choosing one narration style over another isn’t necessarily a flaw. However, I think varied narration is a tool that most DMs underutilize. If used carefully, adjusting narration styles within sessions on the fly could enhance the experience of an Actual Play campaign for everyone involved. It could be used as a signal to the players for what type of scene this will be or when a scene is shifting. It could also signal to performers in a show for pacing within an episode (hijinks are over, time for some drama; time to cool down from the tension).

But, as always, it’s easier to point stuff out like this than it is to do it in practice.

[unsolicited-opinions]

how long do you give it for the Free Palestine movement, as it stands right now, to self-implode?

I'm not going to make predictions about the Western "Free Palestine" movement, but I'll try to put it in some context.

How Long Until the Western "Free Palestine" Movement Implodes?

Pattern Recognition: Comrades Eat Comrades

Western leftist movements are uniquely good at destroying themselves from within. I don't mean in a vague "movements always change" kind of way. I mean they start off energized, decentralized, idealistic…and then flame out in spectacular fashion after turning on their own organizers for being insufficiently pure.

Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) collapsed in the 1970s when it split into warring factions…some of whom literally became terrorists.

Occupy Wall Street No hierarchy, no demands, no outcomes. Just a long, slow descent into incoherence as activists argued over process, language, identity, and whose trauma deserved the most microphone time.

The problem wasn't the cause.

It was the belief that moral clarity must always mean moral absolutism. Absolutism inevitably leads to internal purges. The only real suspense is how fast it happens. Ideological rigidity eventually leads to doom.

Say what you want about the political far right (and I do because they suck), but they do understand how to rally behind a single message and follow a demagogue without asking whether he centers each of their specific sub-groups and sub-interests.

We saw in the 2024 election how many leftist purists were willing to help sabotage an imperfect candidate generally aligned with their values...and help elect Trump.

Why? Because the candidate who agreed with 65%-70% of their positions was more offensive to them than someone who has openly expressed admiration for Hitler. (How's that been working out for you, leftist purists?) These parts of the far left have their heads firmly up their own pure asses. They can’t/won't see the forest for the trees.

They subvert the goals they claim to care about because they're too busy performing their purity and moral absolutism for each other and clout instead of trying to effect changes to policy.

An Aesthetic of Resistance

The Western "Free Palestine" movement, especially since October 7th, has exploded in scale and visibility.

While some people are genuinely driven by concern for Palestinian civilians, a whole lot of others are clearly in it for the aesthetic, the vibes, the social belonging, or the drama.

It's a chance to cosplay 1968 without reading anything published before 2010.

What the Western "Free Palestine" movement offers isn't a roadmap to peace, justice, or statehood. It offers an identity. It's a moral fashion statement. You wear the scarf, you learn the slogans, you change your bio, and…congratulations! You're part of something Righteous and you didn't have to sacrifice or even learn anything!

An aesthetic of resistance, however, is not a strategy. It doesn't change policy. It doesn't build power. It doesn't endure.

Worse, it doesn't tolerate any nuance. In a coalition built on branding, anyone who doesn't fit the brand becomes a threat.

It can't permit any introspection or growth, so while might grow in size, extremism, or tactics, it's intellectually sterile, and that can make it ineffective and/or brittle.

Pattern Recognition: Factions and Purges

Leftist movements which base their legitimacy on moral purity almost always eventually turn inward.

First they identify the oppressor, then then identify the collaborators, then they start purging anyone insufficiently zealous. Eventually, everyone's a collaborator.

That’s already happening.

Mainstream ceasefire activists have been smeared as traitors by more radical circles for not calling explicitly for the abolition of Israel. Members of groups like JVP or IfNotNow (who for years were considered the "edgy" left flank) are now sometimes labeled as gatekeepers, liberals, or even crypto-Zionists for refusing to call October 7 a legitimate form of resistance…and JVP and INN keep shifting with the overton window of their movement to greater degrees of extremism.

Arab and Palestinian organizers who speak about nonviolence, coexistence, or long-term political strategy are being pushed out of leadership roles and branded as traitors...by white cultural Christians who know far less about the matter than they do. If they suggest anything other than total victory for Hamas and the destruction of Israel "by any means necessary," they're branded a sellout or a Westernized Zionist. The movement increasingly rewards people who sound revolutionary...not people who organize effectively.

Jewish allies to their movement, even the extremely anti-Zionist ones, are walking on eggshells. Support is conditional. They're expected to show up, shut up, and definitely not talk about antisemitism unless they want to be accused of derailing and supporting genocide. The number of Jews who've been publicly smeared or privately frozen out by movements they supported is growing fast, and most of them aren't saying anything. They just walk away. I don't know what their numbers are, but I've spoken with a handful like this. In each case, it was the privately unrestrained antisemitism which broke the spell and helped them realize what was happening.

Internal discourse policing is relentless. Want to talk about the complexity of Hamas's role in Palestinian suffering? You're platforming Zionist narratives. Want to discuss how sexual violence on October 7 has been minimized? That's "white feminism." Want to clarify that Jewish self-determination doesn’t inherently mean colonialism? You've committed the cardinal sin of nuance and must be purged.

None of this is new. It’s the same bullshit which took down SDS, tore apart the anti-Iraq war movement, and gutted Occupy from the inside. When your movement decides internal deviation is a bigger threat than external opposition, it stops building anything and just chases ideological purity.

Social Media May Accelerate the Cannibalism

In the past, movements have sometimes eaten themselves slowly. SDS took years. The anti-globalization movement unraveled over the better part of a decade. 

That was all before social media. Now what used to take five years can happen in five weeks.

Every far left movement now has an online wing and an IRL wing. The online wing is where purity spirals metastasize because virality rewards outrage, not organization.

Calling someone a colonial apologist gets more engagement than helping to register voters.

But Engagement ≠ Change.

So what does that mean for the Free Palestine movement? It might just undergo a slow, chaotic unraveling. Callouts, splintering, people walking away in frustration or disgust because they're too tired of it to say much about it as they just…stop showing up.

"Free Palestine" means..?

One of the biggest warning signs here is that no one consistently agrees on what the endgame is. We know that to Hamas it means the end of Israel, but it's much more vague for many "Free Palestine" activists. It can mean:

End the occupation of the West Bank!

Ceasefire!

One-state solution!

Two-state solution!

Third intifada, globalized!

Dismantle the state of Israel!

Ask 10 of them, get 12 answers. In normal movements, that's no big deal, because people are allowed to disagree. In this movement, though, disagreement is treated like betrayal.

If you say you support a two-state solution, you're a filthy Zionist.

If you mention Hamas's role in civilian suffering, you're a genocide denier.

If you're Jewish and support Palestinian rights (that describes most Jews), you'd better not talk about antisemitism lest you be accused of centering yourself, weaponizing antisemitism/trauma, and supporting genocide.

And if you try to discuss actual policy? That's imperialist behavior!

This isn't just ideological incoherence, it's a refusal to tolerate difference...which can make organizing unsustainable.

So will it implode soon?

I very much doubt it.

Will it unravel soon? 

Almost certainly not. The slogans, at the very least, will stick around and the hashtags aren't going anywhere because they've become identity signifiers.

A lot of the disinformation fed to Gen Z has been sticky and I'm concerned what the US will be like when they reach the peak of their political power.

There will always be a core of people pushing for Palestinian liberation (whatever that means to them), and some of them will have good intentions and/or good strategy. Some of today's antizionist zealots will eventually come around and start hearing Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib.

The count of antizionist social media accounts and posts will continue to be high - much higher than the number of actual belly buttons in the movement IRL, due to bots and agents controlled by those seeking to destabilize the West. Those probably won't go away any time soon and are likely to get much more sophisticated, effective, and difficult to screen out...because AI.

But as a mass movement? As a unifying force with real impact on politics? Something which puts people on streets in huge numbers? I'm less sure about that. From here, it looks like it's already fraying around the edges. The internal fights, the factionalism, the paranoia about bad-faith actors, the purity tests, the bizarre rituals of performance...that looks to me like the start of a collapse by attrition.

What if it just hangs out in the ideological natural reservoir of academia?

It's already been absorbed into academic discourse and nonprofit branding, right? It may just live there in a natural reservoir while continuing to do nothing material to improve Palestinian lives.

I'm not sure if/how it can be dislodged from academia. I can't support Trump's methods, but the absence of ideological diversity is both alarming and predictable.

From graduate admissions to peer-reviewed publishing, career advancement in the humanities often depends not on the originality or rigor of an argument, but on how well it aligns with prevailing orthodoxies. Scholars are trained to cite the right theorists, frame questions within accepted ideological paradigms, and signal moral allegiance to dominant narratives, particularly around identity, power, and oppression.

You pass your dissertation defense if your committee LIKES YOUR VIEWS. If your dissertation shows excellent scholarship which disputes their preferred narrative, you've wasted years and tens of thousands of dollars...and there are already more degreed scholars than faculty positions in these disciplines. So they're highly motivated to conform.

So dissent is pathologized instead of being debated. The result isn’t a community seeking truth, but a faculty enforcing consensus. Challenging the orthodoxy ends friendships and careers.

That's how you end up with an entire Middle Eastern Studies department which only knows and only teaches one narrative. It's not just a political problem, it's an intellectual ans social problem.

(On a personal level, this makes me very sad. When I was an undergrad in the 90s, I learned so much from the disagreements between professors I respected. I also admired the civility and intellectual honesty they offered each other.)

So...it seems like academia is going to be an ideological natural reservoir for the movement until that's addressed somehow without resorting to fascist tactics.

Maybe it'll splinter out into competing groups with varying flavors and intensities of dogmatism.

There are groups and individuals within the movement who think Amnesty International is a Zionist PSYOP.

There are self-styled anarchists and communists who want violence. They want chaos. When these people chant "by any means necessary," I have no problem believing they're willing to resort to domestic political violence to globalize the intifada.

Maybe some violent factions will splinter off like the Weather Underground splintered from SDS.

The revolutionary left has been recycling these dynamics for over a century.

The rhetoric tends to be more lasting than the movements which use it, because movements built on purity or aesthetics rarely build lasting institutions or effect meaningful positive change.

The Party Dynamics

Forget "Free Palestine" for a moment and look at the bigger picture.

It may be hard to believe right now because the Free Palestine people are so loud, but most Congressional Democrats continue to support Israel's right to exist as a Jewish state. Party leadership has repeatedly affirmed this position, and recent bipartisan resolutions backing Israel's legitimacy passed overwhelmingly, with only a small group of "progressive" dissenters. While a vocal minority on the far left calls for conditions on aid and proposes condemnations of Israel, they don't represent today's Democratic party. Voting records, public statements, and primary outcomes all show that the Democratic caucus remains broadly pro-Israel, even as internal debates have grown louder.

But:

Since Clinton, Democrats have largely hugged the center, while polarization on the Right exploded...culminating in the MAGA takeover of the GOP.

Now the Left has its own hardliners, people whose politics are less democratic and more dogmatic. That's the very vocal minority. That's AOC/Tlaib/Omar.

...and they're driving moderates away from their party.

Trump didn’t surge in 2024 because Americans suddenly loved him. A lot of voters were running from a Democratic Party they see as increasingly dysfunctional and in which the loudest voices are often the most extreme.

The Democratic party's base keeps pulling left, but the candidates the "progressive" wing would nominate for a general election wouldn't do well.

AOC polls better than you might expect and may be beloved in Brooklyn or Berkeley, but she's still deep underwater nationally. If Kamala Harris was successfully cast as "too far left," AOC would be radioactive anywhere but the coasts. AOC may well take Schumer's senate seat in New York, but in a national election she'd likely crash and burn.

The far left isn't going to win the White House or a congressional majority any time soon because it alienates allies and energizes opponents...but a takeover of the Democratic party seems possible. Maybe not likely, but possible.

If you think that's silly, please note that nobody thought Trump would hijack the GOP and remake it in his image so quickly...until he did.

If you oppose the rising political power of the antizionist movement, get involved in Democratic party politics and help move them in more practical, policy-focused directions.

Final answer?

I'm less concerned about how/when the Free Palestine movement will end than I am about how many good people will be hurt by it before it does.

[estellan0vella]

It's a Fine, Fine Life: H.H Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader

WC: 17.3K

CWs: Staged Violence, Youth Caregiver, Mild Emotional Burnout, a child being a menace, Hyunjin being a pabo

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The front door to the Alpha Phi frat house explodes open with a thunderous bang that makes the wall vibrate, and Hyunjin barrels through it like a man possessed, a stack of papers clutched in one arm and a rolled-up script in the other. His face is practically split in half by the size of his grin, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, eyes sparkling with the fervour of a man who just saw God.

“I HAVE ARRIVED WITH THE BEST FUCKING NEWS YOU’VE HEARD ALL WEEK.”

In the living room, the TV screen glows with the bright cartoon fires of Overcooked, four avatars running in manic little circles around a cluttered kitchen. Changbin, Minho, Jeongin, and Seungmin are currently yelling instructions at each other while desperately trying to serve dishes on time.

On the couch, Chan has Jisung curled in his lap and Jisung is wearing one of Chan’s oversized black hoodies, sleeves swallowed by his fingers, a drafted article open on his phone as he reads aloud occasionally and nudges Chan with his elbow.

“Babe, tell me if this line’s too direct, ‘Either way, someone’s lying.’ Is that like too on the nose?”

“No, baby. That’s the whole fucking point.”

Jisung hums. “Okay, but I kinda wanna soften it. Like poetic or some shit.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You’re writing an exposé on financial fraud. Not a sonnet.”

Hyunjin leaps over the back of the couch and lands between them, nearly kneeing Chan in the stomach. “GUYS. LISTEN TO ME.”

“FUCK,” Chan grunts, steadying Jisung, who flails slightly. “Hyun, I swear to god-”

“Guess what just got posted on the drama board?” 

Jisung squints. “A cease and desist letter?”

Hyunjin scowls. “No. The CASTING. For the MUSICAL.”

“Wait,” Minho mutters, twisting to glance back. “Why the fuck are you vibrating like that?”

“Because I’m walking on clouds! Riding unicorns! Dancing with fairies! I’m fucking radiant right now.”

“Why?” Seungmin asks flatly.

Hyunjin practically throws the script down. “It’s Oliver! And I got the role I wanted. I’m the love interest of my crush. This is fate. It’s karma. It’s divine fucking intervention.”

Felix looks over. “Wait, wait, remind me again. Who’s your crush? You change it like once a month, man.”

Hyunjin clutches his chest and sighs so deeply it sounds painful. “L/N Y/N. The prettiest girl on Miroh campus.”

Jeongin tilts his head. “Isn’t she the girl from your freshman jazz elective? The one you literally never spoke to?”

Hyunjin flings a slipper at him. “Shut the fuck up, Jeongin. That was because I was shy, not uninterested.”

Changbin snorts. “Wait, hold on. Is she the one with the kid?”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin nods quickly. “Minsu. He’s three. She brings him everywhere. She’s his legal guardian or something. Raises him by herself.”

Jisung raises a hand slowly, blinking. “Not to kill the vibe or whatever, but I saw the 1968 Oliver! movie when I was like, ten. And I don’t remember there being a major romance subplot?”

“I’m Bill Sikes!” Hyunjin announces proudly. “And Y/N is Nancy. The lovers of the story.”

Chan, Jisung, and Felix exchange a look. Jisung mouths what the fuck? Felix mouths back does he know the plot? and Chan mouths clearly not.

Minho claps once. “Holy shit! Good for you, man.”

Changbin grins. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

Jeongin nods eagerly. “You get to be romantic with your actual crush, onstage. That’s wild.”

“Hyun,” Felix says carefully, sitting forward, elbows on knees. “Honeybuns. Have you read the script yet? Or like, the book? Or seen the movie?”

“There’s a book?” 

Jisung gasps. “YES.”

Hyunjin frowns. “Okay, so what happens?”

Chan opens his mouth, closes it, then finally says, “Uh, so near the end, Bill Sikes beats Nancy to death. Like with a metal pipe or something.”

The script falls out of Hyunjin’s hands like it’s been cursed. His mouth opens in silent horror.

“You’re fucking lying,” he whispers.

Chan, Jisung, and Felix shake their heads slowly, mournfully, like they’re announcing the death of a beloved pet.

“Nope,” Felix mutters. “Straight up kills her behind London Bridge. Just absolutely wrecks her.”

Minho, Changbin, and Jeongin all pale.

“What the actual fuck?” Changbin hisses.

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

Felix already has his phone out. “Hold on. I can show you.”

He finds the clip from the 1968 movie and turns the volume all the way up. The scene starts innocently enough, Oliver hugging Nancy on the bridge, and then Bill Sikes storms in, grabs both of them, and flings Oliver to the side. Nancy fights back, brave and desperate, but he drags her behind the stairs and beats her.

Hyunjin covers his mouth. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “I have to kill the love of my life.”

“You’re acting,” Minho says.

“That’s not the fucking point!” Hyunjin shrieks.

“Okay,” Jisung says, raising a finger, “let us, the knowledgeable ones, break this down for you.”

“Yeah,” Felix adds. “Nancy’s first song is called It’s a Fine Life, and it literally goes ‘Though you sometimes do come by, the occasional black eye, you can always cover one, while he blacks the other one, but you don’t dare cry.’ Like. She’s hiding abuse.”

“She’s a sex worker,” Chan adds. “And she’s in love with her abuser. Or at least, dependent on him. You spend her next solo screaming run, bitch, run!”

Jisung nods solemnly. “Then, after he murders her, Sikes tries to escape over rooftops. He rigs a rope to swing between buildings, gets shot, and accidentally hangs himself. Just fucking dangles there.”

Hyunjin stares at them in horror. “So, not only do I beat a woman to death, I die in the dumbest way imaginable?”

“Yup,” Jisung says.

Chan claps him on the shoulder. “Not the romance arc you thought it was, buddy.”

“Bill may have had feelings,” Felix says, “but his actions? Abusive as fuck. Manipulative. Possessive. Not love.”

Everyone turns to stare at him.

“What?” Felix shrugs. “I had to do an essay on this in Year Ten.”

Chan sighs. “Bill is her lover. Her abuser. Her pimp. All rolled into one.”

“What the actual fuck? I thought this was going to be like, a Victorian La La Land thing. Not a snuff show”

Minho sits up straight. “Okay. Fuck this. We’re watching the whole fucking movie.”

Hyunjin slumps on the floor, dazed by the devastating knowledge that his dream romance role is in fact a cautionary tale about abuse and murder.

And he hasn’t even gotten to act one.

The rehearsal room smells like fresh coffee, printer paper, and the faint sweat of anxiety. It’s the first day, and the vibe in the room is a strange mix of nervous tension and barely restrained excitement. 

Hyunjin walks in, sipping from a tall travel mug, like he wasn’t up until 2 a.m. the night before watching the entirety of the 1968 Oliver! film while screaming into his fists. He’s dressed like someone who didn’t plan to make an entrance but ended up doing it anyway, black hoodie that hangs off his tall frame, blue baggy jeans that fall over his thick-soled black platform boots with just enough chaotic sway, and that short, spiky crop of black hair left to fall however the hell it wants. 

His eyes scan the room quickly, clocking the other cast members chatting in clusters. Hyunjin doesn't care about any of it because his gaze finds you instantly, and suddenly, everything else is static.

You're sitting on the floor off to the side, legs tucked underneath you on a folded blanket. A light blue ribbed knit cardigan wraps around your frame, the long sleeves covering your wrists except where they slip up slightly as you turn a page. It’s tied at the front with a thin bow, the neckline dipping in a soft V that reveals a fitted white tank top beneath. Your skirt brushes your mid-thighs as the chunky chain necklace with the little heart pendant glints in the light every time you move. Your ponytail bounces slightly when you nod along to whatever the tiny human in your lap is saying.

That tiny human, of course, is Minsu. Your three-year-old brother is curled in your lap, totally engrossed in his Optimus Prime, Bumblebee and Megatron figures battling each other. His white sneakers light up every time he kicks his heels against the blanket. 

And right now, you’re voicing Megatron in a gravelly imitation of a villain, dramatically declaring, “Bumblebee, you insolent rust bucket, I will crush you beneath my titanium fist!”

Minsu giggles, delighted. “No, Meggy! No crush Bee! Bee zooms!”

He wiggles out of your lap, scooting forward on all fours before he sets up his figures for an epic battle. He starts arranging them carefully, putting Megatron slightly to the left, Bumblebee centre-stage, and Optimus is overseeing the chaos.

You sip from your Ravenclaw travel mug and glance over your script, distracted just enough to miss Hyunjin coming closer until he’s crouching beside Minsu.

Minsu’s head pops up like a meerkat, eyes going wide. He shoves Megatron into Hyunjin’s hand like it’s a gift from the heavens.

“Hi! You play! I’m Minsu!”

Hyunjin blinks at the toy in his palm, then smiles. “Hey, Minsu. I’m Hyunjin. I’m gonna be working with your sister.”

“Hyuni, look! Shoes!” Minsu stomps his feet twice, and the soles of his sneakers flash in rapid pulses.

Hyunjin gasps, eyes widening like he’s never seen anything cooler. “What the fuck! Your shoes light up? Dude, that’s sick.”

Minsu beams. “Is light shoes! They flash!”

“I see that,” Hyunjin nods solemnly. “I’m impressed.”

You glance up over the rim of your mug at the sound of Minsu’s delighted giggles, take in the sight of Hyunjin crouched next to your brother, boots planted, hoodie sleeves pushed up as he makes Megatron lunge toward Bumblebee with a low growl. 

“Meggy gotta lose,” Minsu instructs seriously, tapping Hyunjin’s hand. “You make Meggy fall. Bee strong today.”

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows. “Damn, alright. Didn’t know Megatron was getting his ass beat this early in the morning.”

Minsu giggles again and flops dramatically onto the blanket, arranging Optimus above like a judge. “You do Meggy voice. Big voice.”

“Big voice?” Hyunjin repeats. “Like scary big?”

“Yah!” Minsu insists, making little fists and flexing his arms. “Scary!”

“Okay, okay.” Hyunjin clears his throat and lowers his voice dramatically. “You dare challenge me, Bumblebee? I am Megatron, ruler of all Decepticons!”

Minsu slaps his knee and cackles. “Better than Y/N Meggy. She no can do deep voice. She sound silly.”

You set your mug down slowly. “Excuse the fuck out of me?”

Minsu gasps, tiny hands flying up to cover his mouth, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief. “You make Meggy sound like silly sausage!”

You gape, utterly offended. “You’ve been letting me voice Megatron for like twenty minutes. Why the hell didn’t you say anything before?”

Minsu shrugs, not the least bit sorry. “Hyuni better.”

“I see how it is.”

Hyunjin is on the verge of tears, laughter shaking his shoulders as he picks Bumblebee up and makes a ridiculous little spin in the air.

“Meggy can’t win!” Minsu declares again. “Is Meggy lose day!”

“You heard the boss,” Hyunjin says, laying Megatron flat on the floor in a dramatic, slow-motion collapse. “Megatron, defeated by the mighty light-up shoe king.”

Minsu cheers, throwing his arms up in victory before he grabs both Optimus and Bumblebee and starts making them kiss with obnoxious smooching noises.

You blink. “Dude. What are they doing?”

“They in love,” Minsu explains simply, then uses Megatron’s limp body as a bench for the two other robots to sit on. “Meggy is chair.”

Hyunjin chokes on his americano.

You reach down to ruffle Minsu’s hair. “Jesus, Min. What shows have you been watching?”

Minsu shrugs again. “Optimus kiss Bee. Bee say I love you. Meggy say okay.”

You shake your head and go back to your script, sipping your tea, trying to focus on Nancy’s first line. 

And Hyunjin, without really meaning to, starts hoping this read-through goes on forever.

Two hours later, the room is a mess of stacked chairs, half-drunk coffees, abandoned scripts, and that particular brand of exhausted silence that follows a full-length table read. Most of the cast are busy packing up, voices lowered now that the adrenaline’s burned out. 

You’re crouched by your bag, wrapping your empty tea mug into a thin plastic bag so the dregs don’t soak through your purse and Hyunjin is halfway through stuffing his empty travel mug into his backpack when Minsu’s voice pipes up behind him.

“You’re pretty,” 

Hyunjin straightens, glancing over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Thanks, little dude.”

Minsu tilts his head thoughtfully. “Are you a lady? Or a man? Or a lady man?”

You freeze.

Hyunjin chokes so hard he starts coughing, shoulders shaking as he laughs into the crook of his arm. He doesn’t look offended, but his face is a mixture of startled amusement and pure what-the-fuck delight.

“Minsu!” you snap, nudging his leg lightly with your foot. “That’s rude. Say sorry.”

Minsu instantly pouts, shoulders tensing, his whole little body bristling with the beginning sparks of a full-blown tantrum. His lower lip wobbles. His fists clench. He lets out a tiny warning whine.

Minsu stamps his feet, fists flying, face crumpling into the reddest expression of sheer injustice known to mankind. “I NOT WANT TO SAY SORRY!”

He flings himself onto the floor, his tiny fists banging the linoleum. Someone across the room stifles a laugh and looks away. Hyunjin freezes, halfway between kneeling and standing, wide-eyed as he watches the scene unfold like he’s witnessing a live-action documentary on the toddler species.

With a sigh, you sling your bag over your shoulder and reach down to grab your wallet. “Guess me and your new friend will just go get ice cream without you.”

Hyunjin gets the memo immediately and falls into step beside you, slinging his own bag over his shoulder and strolling toward the door like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“This is gonna be so fucking fun,” you say loudly, stepping over Bumblebee with exaggerated care. “Just the two of us. No tantrumy little gremlins in sight.”

“Oh my god, yes,” Hyunjin agrees just as dramatically. “Peace. Quiet. Toppings. I love that for us.”

Minsu, now mid-scream, flails harder.

Clearly, that tactic isn’t working. The volume hasn’t decreased. In fact, he’s somehow found an entirely new octave.

“Y’know,” you say thoughtfully, turning slightly to glance at Hyunjin, “Apparently, there's a monster in this rehearsal building.”

“Oooh, I’ve heard about them,” Hyunjin says, catching on fast. “Some fucked-up little monster ghost thing. Real vicious. Lives under the floorboards. Only comes out when it hears children screaming.”

“And do you know what it eats?”

“Little kid toes,” Hyunjin says, dead serious. “Only tantrum toes, though. Screaming ones. It’s very picky. Comes out with big, hairy hands and starts chomping on your pinky toe first.”

Behind you, the crying pauses. You and Hyunjin just keep walking, speaking louder now.

“And once it eats the toes, it moves on to the rest,” Hyunjin says ominously. “Snatches ‘em up like popcorn. No sympathy. Just chomps and crunches.”

“It tried to eat a first-year who screamed during a vocal warm-up.”

“True story,” Hyunjin nods solemnly. “It only spares polite kids. Polite kids are sacred.”

Behind you, there’s a shuffle. Then a sniffling hiccup. Then the unmistakable sound of a small child scrambling to gather their toys in a panic.

“Sissy poo!” Minsu wails, his voice suddenly terrified. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me in here! It’s scary! Monsters will eat my toes!”

You hear the zip of his backpack, the clatter of plastic toys being shoved inside, and the rapid patter of feet behind you.

When you finally turn, Minsu’s running full tilt toward you, face red and blotchy, tiny arms outstretched. You crouch just in time to catch him. He barrels into your chest, breathing hard as you scoop him up.

“You done tantruming now, you little shithead?” 

Minsu nods, lip wobbling as he sucks his thumb quietly. “Sorry for saying you a lady man"

Hyunjin snorts. “Apology accepted, my dude.”

You straighten up, Minsu clinging to you like a baby koala, head tucked against your neck.

“I’ll see you later, Hyunjin,” 

“Hang the fuck on,” Hyunjin says, narrowing his eyes. “I was promised ice cream. You’re not ditching me now.”

You laugh, shifting Minsu on your hip. “Come on then. Let’s get sugared up.”

The walk to the campus cafeteria ice cream bar is short, and Hyunjin makes the most of it, keeping Minsu distracted with a running monologue about his boots, the monsters in the floor, and which flavour ice cream is scientifically the best.

Once inside, you juggle your wallet and Minsu while ordering three bowls of ice cream. You don’t even bother ordering vanilla because you know what’s coming.

“Vanilla’s honk shoo,” Minsu says as he rests his cheek on your shoulder. 

“Noted,” you mutter, tapping your card.

You find a table and set the ice cream down before grabbing napkins and wet wipes. You gently wipe Minsu’s hands and face, but the moment he sees Hyunjin’s ice cream bowl, he launches himself into Hyunjin’s lap.

Hyunjin looks vaguely panicked but doesn’t protest. Minsu immediately plunges a hand into Hyunjin’s bowl, snatching one of the little wafer sticks and chomping it like a lollipop.

“Hey! That was the best part, you tiny thief!”

Minsu, entirely unbothered by the outrage, starts plucking toppings from Hyunjin’s bowl like it’s a buffet. Marshmallows, gummies, even the crumbled cookie bits disappear into his mouth at lightning speed. 

“He’s gonna make me cry in public,” Hyunjin says mournfully. “Like actually. I’m gonna break down over a bowl of fucking ice cream.”

“Honestly? Fair. He’s a menace.”

“He’s a monster,” Hyunjin agrees, trying to angle the bowl away. “A beautiful, terrifying monster.”

Minsu giggles, face lighting up with evil delight as he dives face-first into the whipped cream.

“Jesus Christ, he’s in it. He’s in the bowl. You’re gonna suffocate.”

You spoon another bite of sherbet into your mouth, watching as Hyunjin tries to defend the last surviving cherry from Minsu’s advancing fingers. It’s karmic, you think. The universe’s way of balancing things. Because someone like Hyunjin, handsome as fuck, with that stupidly flawless bone structure, that spiky black hair that somehow looks perfect without effort, shouldn’t also be good with toddlers. It’s not fair. It’s cheating. The guy’s already tall and charming. Why does he also get to be nice?

But you don’t say any of that aloud. You just smile into your spoon and watch as Minsu steals Hyunjin’s last gummy worm with all the grace of a gremlin in a candy store.

A loud knock disrupts the chill in the Alpha Phi frat house like a gunshot in a library. 

Minho straightens, grabbing the remote to pause the TV. “Who the fuck is that?”

Jisung peeks toward the door without moving from his perch half on Chan’s lap, half off the couch. “Food delivery?”

Chan shakes his head. “We didn’t order anything. Did we?”

Felix holds up his phone. “I ordered coffee an hour ago, but that got here twenty minutes ago, remember? Seungmin drank it.”

“You left it unattended.” 

“I’ll get it,” Hyunjin offers, grabbing his phone and bag. “I’m leaving in a sec anyway. I’ve got the fight scene choreography with Y/N.”

That one sentence is all it takes for the living room to erupt into chaos.

“Ooooooh,” 

“Gettin’ some extra stage combat practice, huh?” 

“Bet it’s not the only thing getting dramatic,”

Hyunjin flips them all off as he walks to the door, the sound of his chunky boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. His outfit is doing the absolute most, and he knows it, sleek black leather biker jacket layered over a black turtleneck, paired with oversized, acid-wash cargo jeans that sit low on his hips, tucked into chunky black boots.

He pulls the door open. You’re standing there, hand-in-hand with Minsu, and he doesn’t even get the chance to say hi before Minsu launches forward and wraps himself around Hyunjin’s legs like a tiny backpack.

“Hyuni!” 

“Hey, buddy.”

You’re dressed like the cover of a high-fashion pastel magazine, white satin crop top with a deep V neckline, covered by a cropped pink cardigan, and a pink and white gingham mini skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. A silver chain belt with tiny heart-shaped charms loops low on your hips, matching the layers of necklaces around your neck. Your white stiletto ankle boots click on the concrete, and your bag is covered in charms, including one very clearly handmade by Minsu out of beads and macaroni.

“Hi,” you say. “You mentioned you live in a frat, there’s like eight of you, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Hyunjin replies.

“Any of them trustable with a kid? We’re doing the fight scene today, and I really don’t want him to see that. His sitter bailed like forty minutes ago, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hyunjin thinks quickly. Chan. Obviously. Minho, too. Felix, for sure. Jisung, maybe, if Chan is around. Jisung unsupervised is chaos incarnate. But a supervised Jisung? Fine.

He nods. “Three and a half.”

You snort. “Good enough.”

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. “We’ll lump him on Chan. Chan’s basically a dad already.”

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hyunjin waves it off. 

Minsu toddles in ahead of you in jean shorts, a white t-shirt under a loose, unbuttoned denim shirt, little white sneakers squeaking slightly, and his cap on backwards. His backpack is bouncing as he marches in like he owns the place.

Hyunjin leads you into the living room. Seven sets of eyes turn at once.

“Guys,” Hyunjin announces, gesturing to you, “this is Y/N and her younger brother Minsu. Y/N, Minsu, these are the idiots. Chan, Changbin, Minho, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin.”

He points at each of them as he says their names. You nod politely, giving a small wave. “Hi.”

Minsu walks straight up to Chan, who’s sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie and promptly climbs into his lap.

Hyunjin dumps Minsu’s bag next to them. “Babysitting duty. Three hours max.”

You raise your hand. “No allergies. Toys are in his backpack. Spare clothes too. His sitter cancelled, and Hyunjin said this was fine.”

Chan blinks down at the three-year-old beaming up at him and poking his face. “It’s so fine. I love kids. They love me.”

“If you run out of ideas, put on Transformers. He’s three. Shiny things catch his attention.”

“Cool,” Chan nods, still being aggressively prodded by Minsu.

Within moments, Minsu has cracked open his backpack and started showing off every single Transformer he owns. Jisung, Felix, and Minho are immediately roped in.

“Make fight fun, not honk shoo.”

Minho blinks. “Honk shoo?”

“He means boring,” you explain. “Like the noise you make when you snore.”

Jisung gasps. “I’m using that. Forever. In my articles. ‘The way the police handled the evidence was complete honk shoo.’”

Felix nods. “Genius.”

Seungmin crosses his arms. “What if he’s a shithead?”

“Tell him there’s a toe-eating monster in your basement,” you say casually. “Or something. I don’t know. I make this shit up as I go. Just nothing under the bed or in the closet. I need him to sleep in his own room.”

"Got it,"

You glance at Minsu. “Also, don’t believe him when he says he can pee alone. He can’t. Someone needs to take him, sit him down, and make sure he stays seated. He might aim at you on purpose. He thinks it’s funny.”

The room goes silent, and Minsu beams. “Wee-wee on walls!”

Chan, Minho, Changbin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin all stare at the child in horror.

“I need to wee-wee now,” Minsu announces.

Everyone turns to Minho, and Chan sighs. “Minho. You’re a vet science major. You’ve handled worse.”

Minsu perks up. “Yeah! Mimo!”

Minho groans, but he scoops the child up. As Minho disappears down the hallway, Minsu babbles nonstop. “Mimo, one time I do wee-wee on mirror and it go splash! Splash-splash! An’ sissy poo scream so loud. An’ I laughed and then da floor get wee-wee too but is okay! Clean with sock! I use my sock!”

Minho nods along. “Incredible. Revolutionary.”

“I do wee-wee in kitchen trash too one time,” Minsu says proudly. “I say it’s surprise. Sissy no like surprise.”

You shake your head fondly as Minho vanishes into the bathroom with him. “Good luck.”

“Bye!” you call, pushing the door open with Hyunjin beside you.

The door slams shut behind you, and silence reigns until the bathroom door opens and Minho emerges holding Minsu’s hand. Minsu is freshly washed, beaming, and talking a mile a minute.

“I do wee-wee in da bathtub one time. Sissy say NO MIN, and I say it’s like swimming pool. But small. And I wee-wee in da potted plant! An’ in da hallway corner! An’ under sissy’s bed but she no find it ‘til it go stink.”

“Okay. No one lose sight of this child. Not for a second.”

You and Hyunjin stand centre stage in the near-empty theatre space, the black-painted floors polished and slick under the fluorescent lights, the muffled thuds of movement echoing in the high ceilings above. The makeshift prop staircase looms to the side, a crude but functional stand-in for the grandeur of London Bridge, and a few stacked chairs and crates mark out blocking for future ensemble scenes. 

For now, it’s just the two of you and a professional fight choreographer with a clipboard and the calm, slightly unhinged demeanour of someone who’s seen every possible rehearsal injury and is no longer fazed by anything short of decapitation.

The director appears from behind a curtain, arms crossed, and eyes you carefully from where you stand with one hand on your hip.

“Miss L/N,” he calls, voice echoing. “Do you have trousers today?”

“Nope,” you answer simply, glancing down at your legs. “I’ve got safety shorts under the skirt though.”

He nods once. “Right. Good. Let’s not have a repeat of the Juliet rehearsal incident from last semester.”

“I was nowhere near that production,” 

“Still,” he mutters, then waves at the choreographer. “We’ve got a fight specialist here to walk you both through the motions. Just follow her lead.”

The choreographer, a woman named Sunyoung with steel-grey hair tied into a tight bun and a body built like she could bench press the entire cast, steps forward and claps once. “Alright, bitches, let’s learn how to fake murder!”

Hyunjin straightens instinctively, eyes wide. You suppress a laugh.

“First things first,” Sunyoung says, pulling a bright purple pool noodle from her duffel bag, “Hyunjin, this is you. This is your murder weapon. For now.”

She tosses the pool noodle to him, and he catches it with both hands, then looks down at it with something between horror and confusion.

“This is the weapon that beats me to death?” you ask, staring at the foam tube.

“Only until he learns to mime the blows properly,” she says cheerfully. “We don’t use the real prop club for rehearsals until you both can get through the sequence without looking like drunk raccoons fighting in an alley.”

You snort, and Hyunjin holds the pool noodle up like a katana. “Do I get to name it?”

“No,” Sunyoung replies without missing a beat. “Alright. So we’re gonna start with blocking. Y/N, you’re leading Oliver to meet Brownlow. They’re not here today, so just imagine they exist, which shouldn’t be too hard since Brownlow is about as lively as a bag of wet towels.”

You step into your starting position, pointing toward the staircase with a flourish. “Right this way, sweetheart. Mr. Brownlow’s waiting just upstairs.”

“Beautiful,” Sunyoung says. “Hyunjin, you’re gonna come in from behind”

Hyunjin snickers and pads a few steps behind you, trying to make his steps quiet despite his combat boots clunking like anvils on the stage floor.

“Grab her by the arm,” Sunyoung instructs. “Don’t yank. You’re a bastard, not a linebacker.”

Hyunjin’s hand wraps gently around your forearm. His fingers are warm, and you glance over your shoulder at him with mock surprise.

“Oh!” you gasp. “A violent man in black leather? What a shocking twist.”

“Focus,” Sunyoung barks. “Y/N, you struggle. Pull away. Maybe get a slap in.”

You jerk your arm back and twist, pretending to stumble.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen slightly at your ferocity, but he stays in character, holding on just tight enough to be convincing.

Sunyoung steps forward. “Now we’re gonna add the next part. Hyunjin, you drag her to the staircase. Y/N, you fight him. Claw, grab, kick. Scream if you want. Just keep it real.”

She demonstrates quickly, hooking her arms over Hyunjin’s shoulders and pretending to pull back, then ducking and twisting to break his grip. Her movements are fluid, controlled, and aggressive in all the right ways. Then she shows you how to use your nails against his jacket, sliding down as if you’re being thrown, her heels scraping along the floor in a slow, staged fall.

You nod, watching every move.

“Okay,” you say, stretching your arms and shaking out your fingers. “Let’s try not to accidentally knock my teeth out.”

Hyunjin positions himself again, and you brace, then act. You kick back into him as you twist, one arm wrenching free, then grab at his jacket as he mimics dragging you toward the prop staircase. The two of you fall together in practised chaos.

“Nice,” Sunyoung says. “Now the real fun. Hyunjin, first blow. You’re not actually hitting her, but I want commitment. Swing like you mean it. Y/N, you’re gonna react like it caught your side.”

She steps behind the staircase to demonstrate the angle, how the audience will only see the weapon coming down, your twitching legs, and hear the sound effects layered on top of it. She hands Hyunjin a set of foam marks to follow, stuck to the floor where each blow should land in space, not on you.

“Hit those. With force. We’ll add the sound cues later.”

Hyunjin nods. His jaw tightens, his expression serious. You see him roll his shoulders, resetting.

You shuffle into position behind the staircase, lying on your back. Sunyoung adjusts your legs, shifting your knees to angle just right, your foot tucked in, toes pointed outward.

“Y/N, when he swings, you’re gonna twitch. Just little flinches. Then full-body shakes. The sound will cue you.”

She hands you a small earpiece, already synced to the system. The first beat echoes in your right ear.

You jump.

“That,” Sunyoung says. “Every time you hear that, you move. Got it?”

“Copy that,” 

Hyunjin lifts the pool noodle, positions himself above the prop space, and waits.

“Three, two, one, go.”

Thunk.

You twitch violently, one leg shifting.

Thunk.

Your shoulder jerks. Your foot slams once against the stage.

Thunk. Thunk.

You writhe, arms flailing briefly before slapping back to the ground. It’s horrible and weird and a little disorienting. You feel sweat prickling along your spine.

Sunyoung holds her hand up. “Good start,” she says. “Y/N, you’ll keep twitching for thirty seconds total. Being beaten to death isn’t fast unless it’s a vital organ. Which it’s not here. We want realism. But we don’t want to scar anyone. This is college. No one paid to see a snuff film.”

You nod, still breathing hard. “Got it.”

Hyunjin lowers the pool noodle, and it flops around sadly in his grip. “I swear this thing is mocking me,” 

A snort escapes you, then a giggle, and then you’re full-on cackling behind the prop staircase, legs still bent at disturbing angles, laughter shaking your stomach. “I’m sorry,” you wheeze. “It’s just this noodle. It’s supposed to be death and it’s fucking flopping like a sad dick.”

Hyunjin raises the noodle and flops it downward with exaggerated force. “Die! Die!”

“Stop it,” you laugh harder. “You’re gonna make me pee.”

Sunyoung doesn’t even blink. “If she pisses herself, rehearsal’s over.”

Hyunjin straightens up, snapping into a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Maximum death, minimum piss.”

“Let’s run it again!"

The spring sun is warm but lazy, hanging high in a cloudless sky over the quad at Miroh College like it’s got nowhere else to be. You’re sitting cross-legged on the grass, your stiletto heels kicked off to the side, one leg lazily jiggling as your fingers flip through your battered Oliver! script. 

Minsu is perched comfortably in the cradle of your crossed legs, a little kimbap lunchbox balanced on one of his chubby thighs as he happily munches his way through lunch. He’s dressed in blue dungarees over a white t-shirt, a matching blue cap sitting backwards on his head. 

Your cardigan flutters in the breeze, tied loosely at the front to show the soft pastel pink lace bralette beneath. Your pants are high-waisted gingham and a pearl belt cinches the waist, and even though your heels are currently off, they sit beside your oversized tote like a fashion-forward threat. 

You're scribbling down notes beside It’s a Fine Life, when Minsu suddenly starts talking with his mouth full.

“Jisu, Mimo, Fefi,” he says proudly, spraying a fleck of rice that lands on your page.

You glance down, not even surprised. “Bless you. Try again, buddy.”

He slurps in the bite like a gremlin and swallows dramatically. “I sayin’, Jisu and Mimo and Fefi, my bestest friends now. They played with me all day. ALL DAY.”

“Wow, all day?”

Minsu nods fiercely. “We do Transformers. Jisu say it so cool he almost cry.”

You laugh. “He almost cried?”

“Uh-huh,” Minsu says, very serious. “And then he show me snack cupboard. It BIG. It got fishy chips, choco pies, honey butter, and ALL the gummies. So many gummies.”

You arch a brow. “He gave you sugar?”

Minsu nods like he’s been knighted. “Mimo say I get crazy eyes and then I do my transformer voice and I go ZHOOOM and Fefi fall down, he fall down right on butt!”

You grin. “They sound like good babysitters.”

He hums in agreement, then drops his chopsticks into the grass and leans forward, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “I know so many swear words now.”

You glance sideways. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Minsu nods. “Jisu say ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘motherfucker’ when he drop rice cup and Mimo go ‘hey!’ and then Fefi say ‘fuck it’ and then laugh. I say it too. Fuck. Shit. Motherfuck.”

You gently wipe a smear of kimchi off his chin as he beams proudly.

“I still like poophead,” Minsu adds thoughtfully. “Poophead is funny.”

“Always a classic,” you say, flipping the page in your script. 

He starts humming something that might be the Paw Patrol theme, watching it on your phone with kimbap still clutched in one hand. But then he suddenly turns to you with wide eyes and says, “Mimo, help me with all the wee-wees.”

You blink. “All the what?”

“Wee-wees!” Minsu chirps. “I do SIX wee-wees, sissy. SIX!”

“Six? In three hours?”

“Uh huh.” He nods solemnly, like a war veteran. “First wee-wee, Mimo say okay, let's go bathroom, and I run and he say no run or you pee pants. I sit. I wee-wee normal. No walls.”

“Fantastic,”

“Second wee-wee, I say I don’t need go but I do,” he continues, licking rice off his fingers. “So Mimo go again and he sing me song so I don’t get bored. I try wee like robot but it not work. I just make noise and giggle.”

You stifle a laugh. “Okay.”

“Third wee-wee, I do fart that so big, Mimo go ‘AH FUCK’ and he cover nose and he go BLEHHH.” Minsu demonstrates the gagging in full dramatic glory, retching and clutching his stomach. “He say I stinky butt and need jail.”

You can’t hold it back this time, you laugh so hard your pen falls from your fingers.

“Fourth wee-wee, I wee-wee on Mimo’s sock,” Minsu says, unconcerned. “I thought I finish. I stand up. But SURPRISE! Wee-wee come again and go on sock. Mimo go ‘ah fuck’ but not mad. He say sock go in spinny washer and he do nakey feets after.”

You nod slowly. “So Minho walked around barefoot?”

“Yeah!” Minsu laughs. “He got hairy toes!”

You bury your face in your hand.

“Fifth wee-wee,” Minsu continues, “I try wee in kitchen pan. Jisu scream. He say ‘what the shit!’ and ‘oh my fucking god no!’ and ‘this kid is feral!’ Then Channie come. Channie say no pee near snacks. That not good.”

“Correct, snacks and pee don’t go together.”

“Last wee-wee, I hide behind couch. I say I secret. Mimo see and go ‘nooooo!’ and he pick me up and run and I almost wee but he make it. He say I crazy.”

You just stare at your brother. “You are crazy.”

He shrugs, unbothered, and shoves another piece of kimbap in his mouth.

You sigh deeply, adjusting your script, but then Minsu gasps and jumps off your lap, hands still full of lunch.

“Hey! Where are you going, you gremlin?!”

Minsu doesn't answer, his little legs pumping fast. He’s abandoned his lunchbox and he's running with full toddler energy like the goddamn wind, but his target is clear. A group of five figures has just stepped onto the quad from the path behind the art building, all holding drinks in takeaway cups. Hyunjin, Minho, Jisung, Chan, and Felix. They’re laughing at something Jisung’s saying, shoulders bumped together casually.

Hyunjin is wearing an oversized plaid shirt, mostly unbuttoned, revealing a teasing sliver of collarbone and toned chest. His ripped jeans hang loose on his hips, and his sneakers are pristine and blindingly white. A black cap shades his face, paired with chunky sunglasses that make him look like he just wandered off a fashion shoot by accident.

Minsu’s squeal cuts through the air like a firework.

“MIMO! FEFI! JISU! CHANNIE! HYUNI!”

All five of them pause, turning in unison. Minho blinks. “Is that-”

“IT’S MY BOY!” Jisung yells.

Minsu launches himself at them, still chewing, arms flailing as he throws himself into Jisung’s legs first. Jisung barely catches him without dropping his drink.

“What’s up, little man?!” Jisung laughs, spinning him around.

Minsu squeals and flails in joy, bouncing from Jisung to Felix, hugging his knees, then to Minho, who scoops him up with practised ease.

“I bring lunch!” Minsu announces, mouth still full. “Kimbap!”

Chan ruffles his hair, and Hyunjin watches, smiling widely under his sunglasses. He excuses himself with a pat on Felix’s shoulder and walks across the grass to where you’re still sitting, kimbap box abandoned beside you.

“Hey,” he says, sliding his sunglasses up.

“Hey,” 

Hyunjin squats and grabs a roll from Minsu’s lunchbox, popping it into his mouth. “Oh my god. This tastes so fucking good. Who made this?”

You raise your brow. “Me.”

He nods seriously, already reaching for another. “Marry me.”

“That easy, huh?”

“Feed me like this again and it’s over for me.”

Just then, Minsu turns and gasps. “MY LUNCH!”

Hyunjin freezes mid-bite, the kimbap halfway to his mouth. Minsu points at him like Caesar at Brutus, betrayed.

Minho gasps dramatically. “FOR SHAME! BOOOOOO!”

Minsu nods aggressively. “Bad Hyuni!”

You sigh. “Hyunjin will buy you pizza.”

Hyunjin sighs. “Yes. Lots of pizza.”

“With cheese?” Minsu asks, eyes big.

“Extra cheese,” Hyunjin says solemnly. “Cheese-stuffed crust.”

Minsu beams.

Chan leans in. “You should ask for ice cream too.”

Minsu gasps. “I like ice cream!”

Felix stage whispers, “And fizzy drinks.”

“Bubble drinks!” Minsu cries.

Hyunjin nods, utterly defeated. “Fucking fine. Bubble drinks too.”

Chan glances at you. “Y/N, you wanna come to the frat house? Hyunjin can order the food there. We can keep Minsu entertained, and you can work on your script.”

Minsu drops to his knees in the grass. “Please! Please! Please! Please!”

You sigh, but you’re already smiling. “Alright. Let me pack up.”

Minsu throws his arms in the air in celebration and runs screaming back toward the others.

You walk through the frat house front door alongside Hyunjin, but the chaos has already begun ahead of you. Minsu is practically flying down the hallway, gripping Chan’s and Jisung’s hands as tightly as his little fingers will allow. Every few steps, the two of them swing him up between them, Minsu’s delighted squeals echoing off the walls each time his feet leave the ground. 

“Higher!” Minsu yells, completely fearless.

“Jesus, kid,” Chan mutters, laughing. “You trying to touch the ceiling?”

“UP!” Minsu demands, wriggling. “I FLY!”

“Flight achieved,” Jisung says solemnly as they swing him again.

“Do you hear how smug he is?” you murmur to Hyunjin as you trail behind, arms crossed. “They’ve turned him into a monster.”

“He was already a monster,” Hyunjin points out, pushing open the door to the living room. “We’ve just enhanced his powers.”

Inside, Jeongin is slouched over one arm of the couch with a bowl of cereal that absolutely isn’t from today, Changbin is lying flat on the floor dramatically like he’s been murdered by laziness, and Seungmin has his head thrown back against the sofa, scrolling through his phone with a face that says he's already emotionally checked out of the day.

The second Minsu enters, everything explodes into motion.

“JJ!” Minsu yells, darting over to Jeongin.

Jeongin lifts one arm lazily in a wave. “Sup, little menace.”

“BinBin!” Minsu screams, launching himself at Changbin’s side.

Changbin groans like he’s being tackled by a small rhino. 

“Minnie!” Minsu grins, flopping down onto Seungmin’s legs.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You don’t get paid at all,” Jeongin replies, still eating.

“That’s the problem.”

You and Hyunjin plop down onto the couch together, shoulder to shoulder. You reach for your tote bag to grab your script. Hyunjin’s already grabbed his from the coffee table, flipping to the Oom Pah Pah scene.

“Okay,” you say. “You know I hate the way I deliver this line, right?”

He grins. “I’ve heard you say it thirty different ways, and you hate all of them.”

“That’s because I sound like a drunk pigeon,”

“I don’t know,” he says, tapping the top of the page thoughtfully. “I think it’s more of a cockney flamingo.”

You laugh, poking the side of his ribs. “Fuck you.”

The two of you fall into that familiar rhythm line by line, flipping through the pages, swapping ideas, mocking each other’s dramatic voice choices, debating the emotional arc of a pub song, and snorting every time Hyunjin does his terrible imitation of your falsetto. The rest of the room fades into background noise, even though the frat is anything but quiet.

Minsu is content and thriving in the centre of it all. Chan has poured him some pineapple juice in a plastic cup and is now crouched in front of him like a very patient babysitter-slash-best-friend, nodding along as Minsu monologues about Optimus Prime. Jeongin is showing him how to scroll through photos on a tablet, and Changbin is helping him stack tiny blocks into a tower that will definitely collapse in ten seconds.

Every time Minsu knocks over a tower, he howls in laughter like he’s just heard the best joke of his life.

“Hey, buddy,” Minho says suddenly, crouching beside Minsu, “you're wiggling pretty hard. You need to wee-wee?”

Minsu freezes for a second. “No, Mimo.”

“You sure?” Jisung asks, narrowing his eyes like a detective.

Minsu squirms. “I need to wee-wee! Really bad!”

“Shit, shit, shit—” Minho grabs him like a football and bolts. “Emergency!”

“Go, go, go!” Chan yells like a field medic.

The rest of the room just dissolves into laughter as the sound of Minho’s feet thunders toward the downstairs bathroom. You and Hyunjin don’t even look up, still locked in a semi-serious argument about Nancy’s choreography.

From the hallway, Minsu’s voice echoes. “Mimo, Mimo, it coming out!”

“Jesus, sit down! Pants down first!” 

“I was having fun, Mimo! I didn’t wanna stop to wee!”

"You know what’s not fun? Peeing on the floor.”

“I no wee on socks this time! Look! All in toilet!”

“Good job, bud.” 

“Uh oh,” 

Minho groans. “What now?”

“I need poopy.”

You can all hear Minho’s defeated groan through the wall.

In the living room, everyone erupts into laughter again. Jeongin nearly spits his cereal, Changbin actually rolls onto his stomach, wheezing, and Seungmin just mutters, “He’s a biological weapon.”

But you and Hyunjin? You’re still in your little bubble, pointing at lines, half arguing over whether Nancy should spin or stomp at the bridge.

Then comes the sound of dry heaving.

“I stinky butt!” 

Minho retches again. “Oh my god, Minsu. What the fuck did you eat?!”

“Rice and juice!” Minsu giggles.

“I think your kid’s trying to kill Minho,” Felix says from the floor.

“He’ll survive,” you mutter, scribbling a note in the margin.

A few minutes pass. You're in the middle of debating whether a spin would be too dramatic or just dramatic enough when Minsu’s voice returns.

“Mimo, you wipe my poopy bum bum now.”

There’s a pause.

“Alright, little man,” Minho groans.

“Wipe proper, Mimo! Or itchy!”

“Yes, boss man.”

“Hurry! I wanna play!”

“Can’t wipe faster than I’m already wiping!”

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. Minho emerges, peg on his nose, holding Minsu’s hand like he’s walking him away from a war crime. Minsu, meanwhile, is beaming.

“Hyuni!” Minsu yells, running into the living room. “Pizza!”

Minho removes the peg and gasps dramatically like he’s been underwater for an hour. “Oh, sweet fuck, fresh air.”

Hyunjin finally looks up from the script and stretches. “Alright, alright, I’ll order.”

He grabs his phone and walks toward Minsu.

“Alright, boss,” he says, crouching to eye level. “Give me your order.”

“Cheese!” Minsu says instantly.

“Obviously.”

“Cheese crust!”

“Got it.”

“Bubble drinks!”

“Fizzy drinks,” Felix corrects from the side.

“Fizzy drinks!” Minsu yells.

“And-” Chan leans down and whispers, “Ice cream.”

“ICE CREAM!” Minsu repeats, raising his hands like it’s the gospel.

Hyunjin mock-salutes. “Understood. Sugar overload incoming.”

He places the order. Everyone relaxes, sprawling out on the couches and beanbags. You scoot over slightly to make room for Minsu when he clambers into your lap with a little grunt.

Pizza arrives fast. You’ve barely finished rewriting Nancy’s third verse when the doorbell rings, and Chan nearly dislocates his shoulder racing to the door. Boxes are opened, sauces are spilt, and the TV is switched on to the animated Transformers series like a religious ceremony.

Minsu sits proudly in your lap, tiny hands full of pizza. He immediately starts sucking the cheese out of the stuffed crust with disgusting enthusiasm, dipping the rest of the slice into garlic sauce with such intensity you'd think he was painting the Mona Lisa.

Jisung watches for a while, then leans over. “So, how much of raising a kid is winging it?”

You take a long sip of cola. “All of it. You think I knew how to potty train an eighteen-month-old? Did I fuck. I made that shit up. Shit hit the walls. Literally.”

Minsu giggles. “Poopy walls!”

Minho nearly chokes on his soda. “Like actual shit on the walls?” 

“Like, piece de reshitstance. Little finger smears, everywhere.”

Felix’s face twists. “You poor thing.”

“I was sobbing,” you say. “Like full ugly cry. And then Minsu sees me crying, and starts wailing because I’m wailing, and the two of us are just in the bathroom surrounded by shit and pain.”

Changbin stares. “How did that even happen?”

“Someone wanted potty independence,” you say, staring directly at Minsu.

Minsu grins proudly.

“So,” you continue, “I let him. He toddles out of the bathroom, all smug, and there’s shit from the base of his back up to his fucking shoulder blades. I go into the bathroom thinking, okay, I’ll wipe him down. What I find is-”

“Don’t say it,” Seungmin warns.

“Horror,” you say. “Literal horror.”

Hyunjin whistles. “Jesus.”

Minsu giggles. “I did it! I made poopy paint!”

Everyone laughs again. You bury your face in one hand while Hyunjin gently pats your back like a trauma counsellor.

And honestly? For a chaotic night with a toddler and a house full of barely functioning college boys, this isn’t half bad.

The theatre is buzzing softly with scattered movement, but the seats are empty, except for the front row, where seven college boys are squeezed together. Minsu is planted firmly in Jisung’s lap, his little green dungarees slightly wrinkled, sneakers lighting up every time he kicks his feet. 

“I sit here,” he tells Jisung, beaming. “You hold me.”

“Forever and always, boss,” Jisung replies with a grin, adjusting Minsu’s weight so the kid can bounce a little as he watches the stage.

Originally, the plan was to leave Minsu at the frat house. Chan had promised snacks, Minho promised fun wee-wee times with songs, and Felix had bribed the toddler with bubble drinks and ice cream. But none of it worked. Minsu had clung to your leg like a koala, eyes filling with fat tears every time you took a step toward the door. So now, the entire frat is at the theatre, serving as Minsu’s personal fan club-slash-childcare team.

Chan’s got the Paw Patrol movie queued up on Jisung’s laptop for the death scene, and Seungmin is already arguing with Felix about who’s going to hold the snacks. Minho, as expected, has stationed himself two seats away like he’s waiting for another possible emergency toilet dash.

You, meanwhile, are backstage. Lacing up your heeled Victorian boots, checking the tightness of your crimson bodice in the mirror, fingers flitting over your neckline to adjust the gingham trim at the cuffs. Your curls are pinned up in a perfectly dishevelled style. The dress is a deep red, and the striped underskirt adds just enough movement when you spin. You feel like Nancy. You feel alive. Also slightly itchy, but you’re pretending that part isn’t real.

“Hey,” Hyunjin calls from the other side of the dressing curtain, his voice muffled. “You alive in there or did the corset claim a victim?”

You step out and there he is: Bill Sikes in the flesh. The top hat is crooked, his coat is shredded at the hems, the maroon scarf makes his neck look longer. He’s got those fucking gloves on and every step he takes is heavy, deliberate, like a man used to making others flinch. His shirt’s tucked haphazardly into those loose trousers, the sash frayed like hell, and he still somehow looks good. It's fucked.

“You look like you’ve mugged three people and robbed a bread shop.”

He grins. “You look like you murdered your last five husbands and buried them in the gin barrels.”

The lights dim, and the show begins.

Minsu’s eyes widen the second the opening scene starts. The stark workhouse setting, the echo of metal bowls, the cry of a little boy asking for more. Minsu leans toward Chan, whispering, “Why he in trouble? He just hungry.”

Chan sighs. “Yeah, kiddo. The people there are kinda mean.”

Minsu frowns. “That’s poopy.”

Felix nods seriously. “Very poopy indeed.”

Scene by scene, the story unfolds. Oliver walks to London, “Why he walking so far?” Minsu asks, voice squeaky, and he meets Dodger. The guys take turns whispering answers, trying not to disturb the rehearsal while still keeping the toddler entertained.

Then comes Hyunjin’s first scene. The crowd onstage parts for Bill’s entrance, dark and looming. He stalks across the stage like he owns it, delivering the goods to Beomgyu’s Fagin. The room chills. The frat boys boo half-heartedly.

“Meanie,” Minsu says, but then he spots you entering the tavern set, walking straight toward Hyunjin.

Minsu shrieks, “SISSY POO!”

Hyunjin visibly flinches onstage as you try not to laugh mid-entrance.

You saunter up to the makeshift bar, pour him a tin cup of gin, slap it down, and launch into It’s A Fine Life. The lights are warm, and the tavern ensemble joins in, the energy growing with each bar of music. 

You bounce across the floor in your boots, tossing flirtatious smirks toward Hyunjin, who leans back in his seat and watches you like a predator. You twirl, flash petticoat, and Minsu is ecstatic. He claps off-beat, legs kicking wildly in Jisung’s lap.

“THAT’S MY SISSY!” 

More scenes pass. Then: the apartment scene.

The set is dim. You’re on stage, humming as you fuss over a pan of imaginary eggs. You move like a woman used to being quiet in her own home, hoping not to wake a storm. Then, Hyunjin emerges from under the blankets, voice thick with sleep.

“Nancy, I’m tryin’ to sleep,” he growls. “Go to Fagin’s. Get the cash.”

From the audience, Minsu gasps dramatically. “WHY HE RUDE?! SISSY POO MAKE GOOD FOOD!”

Minho leans over. “Bill’s a meanie, bud.”

“BOO!” Minsu says, full volume.

You keep playing, voice trembling with just the right touch of desperate hope. “You do love me, don’t ya?”

Hyunjin sits up, dragging the sheets, his tone flippant. “’Course I do. I live with you, don’t I?”

“That’s meanie love,” Minsu declares. “Not nice, love.”

Felix covers his face to keep from laughing, whispering, “Nancy should listen to you, kiddo.”

You don’t look at the audience, but a tiny smile curls at your mouth before it disappears behind Nancy’s mask.

A scene later, you’re with Jiwoo’s Bet, waiting at the hideout to grab cash for Bill. The lights glow golden as you’re joined by the kid playing Oliver and the boys playing Fagin’s crew. You start singing “I’d Do Anything.” You twirl Oliver, sing to Dodger, and ruffle one of the pickpocket kids’ hair.

In the audience, Minsu goes still. “MIMO,” he whispers urgently. “That’s my sissy poo. Why she dance with stinky boys?”

Minho clears his throat. “They’re acting, bud. It’s pretend. It’s her job.”

Minsu squints suspiciously. “But they stinky sausages.”

“Very stinky,” Minho agrees, deadpan.

Minsu leans back dramatically, crossing his arms. “I bet Y/N thinks they stinky sausages too.”

“She definitely does,” Minho assures him.

Satisfied, Minsu goes back to bouncing.

Minsu is practically vibrating in Jisung’s lap, cheeks flushed with excitement as he watches you step into the spotlight, the music swelling beneath your feet. The theatre goes quiet as you begin to sing As Long As He Needs Me, your voice soft at first, trembling with the weight of Nancy’s heartbreak. 

Minsu’s little hands grip Jisung’s shirt tightly. “Why sissy sad?” he asks in a whisper.

Jisung clears his throat, keeping his voice low. “Because her boyfriend’s a dick, little man. She still loves him, but he’s a real fuckin’ asshole.”

“Ass-hole,” Minsu repeats carefully, nodding with the gravitas of a toddler who has just discovered the world is unfair.

Jisung mouths ‘fuck’ to himself and just strokes Minsu’s back, eyes still on you.

You don’t even notice them. You let Nancy’s pain pour out of you, tears catching in your lashes as you sing about loyalty, love, and devastation. Hyunjin stands in the shadows just off-stage, face unreadable as he watches. You sing like you’re begging, not performing. And by the end, when your voice cracks just slightly on the final “as long as he needs me,” there’s a deep, collective exhale from the guys in the front row.

Minsu claps with all his might. “SISSY POO IS BEST!”

Seungmin quickly wipes at his eye. “Dust. Shut up.”

From there, the play surges forward. Oliver is kidnapped in the marketplace, ripped from Mr. Brownlow’s loving care and dragged back to the criminal underworld by Bill Sikes. The cast moves through the scenes with practised urgency, transitions flowing smoothly. The tension builds, and you reappear backstage, breathless as Nancy.

You plot with Brownlow, hiding in shadows, voice hushed and urgent. You’re going to sneak Oliver out. You’re going to save him.

Minsu is now curled between Jisung and Chan, a stuffed tiger clutched to his chest, eyes wide as he watches you prepare for the final stages of your doomed plan.

And then, it happens. The lights brighten. Music crashes in. Oom Pah Pah begins.

The energy in the room shifts on a dime. You twirl into the tavern set like you own the world, skirts flying as the ensemble joins in. You slap the countertop, pour fake gin, and pull Jiwoo into the crowd as you begin to sing. It’s brash and joyful, and the contrast from your last solo makes it hit ten times harder.

Minsu sits up straighter. “SISSY SINGIN’ AGAIN!”

“Yeah, buddy,” Chan says, grinning. “This one’s got dancing.”

“LOOK!” Minsu points with excitement as you hop up onto the fake bar and belt out the chorus. “LOOK! SHE SPIN!”

He’s completely enraptured, little fists waving in the air, eyes shining like he’s watching the greatest show in the world. Which, in fairness, he is. You’re electric, laughing with abandon as you lead the tavern in distraction, all the while scanning the crowd for Oliver, keeping one eye on the back door for escape.

The guys watch too, even if they’re starting to squirm. They know what comes next.

And sure enough, the music fades. The lights shift cold and blue.

Chan and Jisung act immediately. Jisung pulls the laptop from the bag like it’s a defibrillator and sets it on his lap. Chan puts the kid-friendly headphones over Minsu’s ears as Jisung whispers, “Paw Patrol movie, buddy. Brand new. You ready?”

Minsu’s eyes widen. “New one?!”

“Brand new,” Jisung confirms.

Within seconds, Minsu is fully hypnotised by the flashing colours of the Paw Patrol movie, headphones firmly in place. Jisung places one hand on the back of Minsu’s head, another across his forehead like a protective visor, making sure Minsu won’t glance up even for a second.

On stage, Oliver is walking with you to London Bridge. You crouch next to him, whispering lines full of desperation and quiet hope. Just as the embrace ends, Hyunjin storms in from the opposite wing.

He grabs Oliver roughly, shoving him aside.

“Let him go, Bill,” you say.

You shove him back.

The fight escalates. He grips your arm, yanks you backwards, and the pair of you disappear behind the faux stone staircase. The frat guys see only your feet, one boot kicking, the other twitching. The sound cues start: dull, gut-wrenching thuds. Your cries. Bone-hitting-flesh sound effects from the speakers. The guys in the front row all shrink in their seats.

“Fuck, this is worse than the movie,” Changbin mumbles, hands covering his face.

Minho is wide-eyed. “I didn’t think they’d actually do the sound effects. That’s so fucking realistic.”

Jeongin peeks through his fingers. “Why do her feet move like that?”

Seungmin groans. “Because she’s dying slowly, that’s the fucking point.”

Felix mutters something in horror as another blow sounds, and you let out a groan that echoes through the theatre.

Still, Minsu is perfectly content in Jisung’s lap, laughing softly at something Marshall is doing onscreen. He has no idea what’s happening on the stage ten feet away. Jisung holds him steady, keeping his vision locked downward.

Then the scene ends. The lights dim.

Hyunjin stumbles back onstage, running. A mob of cast members gives chase. There’s shouting, chaos. Bill Sikes climbs the scaffolding, slips. The rope catches him around the middle. A loud BANG goes off as the gunshot hits him. He dangles, limp, caught in midair.

“God that was fucking bleak,” Seungmin says, still partially hiding.

Chan looks over. “Minsu good?”

Jisung nods. “Totally. Think he thinks the pups are in danger or some shit.”

Minho mutters, “Wish we were watching Paw Patrol.”

The rest of the show picks up. Oliver is reunited with Brownlow. Fagin slinks away with Dodger, planning their next thefts. The message is clear: bad people stay bad, but maybe the good can still find peace.

And then the music strikes up again. Oom Pah Pah plays one more time.

The lights explode with colour. The full cast bursts onto the stage, singing and dancing with reckless joy. You are front and centre, spinning with your skirts flowing, grabbing hands and laughing with genuine glee. The show is over. It’s celebration time.

Minsu looks up, eyes wide. His mouth drops open in pure joy.

“OOOOOOH!”

Hyunjin dances up to you and grabs your hand. The pair of you spin in unison before he dips you low, one arm firm around your waist. You’re laughing as you belt the final line, and the cast behind you harmonises the last oom pah pah! with a triumphant cheer.

Minsu loses his shit.

“HYUNI AND SISSY POO!” he screams. “THEY DANCE! THEY DANCE!”

Chan starts laughing. “He’s gonna pass out.”

“They look like the final scene of a rom-com,” Jisung says through a grin.

“MIMO!”

“Yeah, bud?”

“Are they gonna kissy?”

Minho snorts. “I don’t know, little dude.”

“They should.”

“Maybe later. You should tell your sissy poo that.”

Minsu nods seriously. “I will.”

Minho chuckles. “Wait till she’s brushing your teeth tonight, okay?”

Minsu holds up his pinky. “Pinky promise.”

Minho links pinkies with him and whispers, “You’re a menace.”

Minsu beams. “I a little menace.”

The bathroom is warm and quiet, the soft hum of the fan buzzing lazily in the background. You’re sitting on the tiled floor in your red plaid pyjama shorts and camisole, cross-legged with Minsu curled in your lap. He’s in his favourite Bumblebee pyjamas, the little hood with antennae flopping every time he shifts. You’re gently brushing his teeth, one hand steadying his squirming body and the other keeping the brush moving.

“Spit,” you say, holding out the pink plastic cup. Minsu obliges with an overly dramatic pppthhhhhh sound, completely missing the sink and hitting your thigh.

You groan, wiping it with a towel and shaking your head. “You absolute feral gremlin.”

He just grins, wide and proud, toothpaste on his chin.

“Fank you, no more toofies,” he declares and flops back against your chest like he’s finished a great battle.

You’re brushing his curls away from his forehead when his little hand pats your arm. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thoughtful.

“Yeah?”

“Are you and Hyuni gonna kissy?”

“Wait. What?”

Minsu tilts his head and repeats. “You and Hyuni. Gonna kissy?”

You stare at your three-year-old brother like he’s just recited Shakespeare in Latin.

“Excuse me?”

“I ask Mimo,” he explains, utterly unbothered. “But Mimo no know. Mimo say ask you.”

Of course he did. You can already picture Minho’s smug face. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying not to laugh or die.

Minsu makes a dramatic kissy noise. “Like this,” he says. “Mwah. Mwah.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging your hands down your face. “You’re three. Why are you asking about kissing?”

Minsu shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You pretty. Hyuni pretty. Kissy, no?”

You don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throttle Minho. Instead, you just sigh and wrap your arms tighter around Minsu, brushing back a curl that's fallen into his eye. “Oh, kiddo. If only life was that simple.”

He frowns. “But do you like Hyuni?”

You hesitate. There’s no point lying, not to him. “Yeah. I like Hyunjin. He’s really nice, isn’t he?”

Minsu nods solemnly. “And pretty too.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, he’s very pretty.”

“He got nice hairs.”

“He does have nice hair.”

“And big shoes.”

“Yep. That too.”

Minsu sits up a little, serious now, tiny hands pressed to your cheeks. “If you like Hyuni and he pretty and you pretty, then you do kissy!”

You squint at him. “Is this what happens in your three-year-old brain?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Well,” you say, lifting him a little to wipe his face, “maybe you should let grown-ups figure out their own weird grown-up shit.”

Minsu scowls. “You not gonna kissy ‘cause you a scaredy chicken.”

You stare at him, betrayed. “Excuse me?”

“You hear me!” Minsu flaps his little arms. “Bawk bawk! Chicken!”

“I am not-” You can’t even finish because now he’s pecking at your shoulder with his lips like a chicken, full-on clucking into your collarbone.

“You chicken!” he crows between pecks. “Bawk bawk!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say through wheezing laughter, scooping him up. “Time for bed before I sell you to the circus.”

“You too scaredy to kissy,” he mumbles smugly, letting his head rest on your shoulder as you carry him to bed.

You settle him into his little bed. His nightlight glows softly, casting little robot silhouettes across the wall. You sit beside him, running your fingers through his curls as he watches you sleepily. You hum, low and quiet, the same lullaby you've always used when you can’t think of anything else. 

You smile gently and trace the tip of your pinky down the bridge of his nose. It’s something you figured out by accident when he was two and sick and wouldn’t sleep. For some reason, that soft, repetitive motion calms him instantly. And it still does. Within seconds, his breathing deepens, mouth slightly open, a soft snore building behind his tiny nostrils.

“Night, little menace,” 

It’s not even 8:30 in the morning when Hyunjin, groggy and shirtless in a pair of grey sweatpants, opens the door of the frat house and finds you looking like you've lived through a natural disaster. Your hair is scraped into a messy bun that’s leaning hard to the left, your halter crop top twisted at the side like you lost a fight with a toddler, and your light blue high-waisted pants are crumpled around your sneakers like you've sprinted in them.

Then there's Minsu, practically vibrating beside you in his bright red t-shirt and yellow shorts and a little cap perched crookedly on his head. He looks like a human Winnie the Pooh who’s been fed espresso.

You raise one exhausted hand. “Please. Reprieve. Coffee. Need. Tired. Cried before nine. I’m too pretty for this much suffering.”

Hyunjin snorts, stepping aside without a word and gesturing you in like you’re being smuggled out of a war zone. “What happened?”

“Your favourite tiny terrorist woke up at six,” you groan, dragging yourself across the living room like you’re wading through quicksand. “Threw a tantrum because I wouldn’t let him have ice cream for breakfast. Then demanded to see his Mimo and screamed until I almost lost my hearing. I cried. Like, actual tears.”

Minsu doesn’t even look back as he gallops into the living room, eyes already scanning for Minho. The second he spots him curled up on the couch, he climbs straight into Minho’s lap like a cat with a vendetta.

“Hi Mimo!”

Minho, still blinking sleep from his eyes, instinctively wraps an arm around Minsu. “Hi little dude,” he says, his voice still raspy.

You collapse face-first into the loveseat with a groan that sounds like you’ve been exorcised. Your voice is muffled by the cushions. “End me. I’m done. I surrender. I give up. The child wins. I’m out.”

Minho leans down to Minsu and whispers, “What did you do to your sister?”

Minsu leans in close and whispers back, “I needed see Hyuni for kissy plan. So I made Y/N tired.”

Minho nods slowly like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. “Nicely done, dude.” They fist bump in silent conspiracy.

Meanwhile, Jisung appears from the kitchen like a guardian angel holding out a canned caramel latte. “You need this more than I ever will,” he says, placing it in your limp hand.

You lift your head slightly to peek at him, eyes half-lidded. “God bless your gay soul.”

Minsu hears it. His head perks up immediately like a meerkat

Jisung glances over his shoulder. “Chan! She’s required full gay healing powers. That’s like, crying since sunrise levels of damage.”

Chan appears a moment later, tousled hair and bleary eyes, clutching a cupcake box like it’s an offering to a deity. “You cried already?” 

“I cried walking up Greek Row,” you mutter as Jisung pats your hair. “I cried at 6:12. Then at 7:00. He pissed behind the couch at 7:30 and that was it. I decided to come here. I couldn’t survive another fucking second.”

“Oh, honey,” Chan says with pity, popping open the box of cupcakes. “These are from that insane bakery Jisung and I gatekeep. We never share these. That’s how dire this is.”

Jisung nods solemnly.

Chan peels one of the cupcakes and practically feeds it to you, pushing the soft sponge into your mouth.

“There, there,” Jisung croons, stroking your forehead. “So brave. So strong. For real, I would’ve just abandoned him at a firestation.”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a broken “fuck.”

Across the room, Minsu is curled up happily in Minho’s lap, chewing on the edge of his cap and looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Then he turns up to Minho. “Mimo?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“What’s gay?”

Minho freezes like someone just put a gun to his head. “Uh-”

You wave your hand in the air without lifting your face from Jisung’s lap. “Have fun explaining that one. He screamed for his Mimo all morning. I’m clocked out, bitch. This is your circus now. Minsu is your monkey.”

Jisung cackles. Chan starts peeling another cupcake.

Minsu blinks up at Minho with wide, innocent eyes. “You tell me?”

Minho clears his throat, looking like he’s considering just running out the door. “Right, okay, uh- So- gay means when a man bear likes another man bear.”

Minsu tilts his head. “Man bear?”

“Yeah,” Minho says. “Imagine two bears. But they’re both guys. They live in a cave. A gay cave.”

Chan and Jisung start snickering.

“They snuggle?” Minsu asks.

“Yeah, they snuggle.”

“Like sleepy snuggles or naked snuggles?”

Jisung chokes on his laughter, and Chan grabs a pillow to cover his face.

Minho powers through. “Mostly sleepy snuggles. But sometimes they also bake cupcakes and watch cartoons together.”

Minsu considers this. “So… like Jisu and Channie?”

Minho sighs in relief. “Exactly. That’s exactly it.”

Minsu’s face lights up. “So they’re man bear gay cave boys!”

Chan groans. “Please don’t let that be my new title.”

Minsu taps his chin. “I love Mimo and Fefi and Jisu and Channie and Hyuni and BinBin and Minnie and JJ. So I gay?”

Minho runs both hands down his face. “No, bud. You love us ‘cause we’re your friends.”

“But I love a lot.”

“You’re a very loving kid.”

“So I half gay?”

Jisung wheezes. “Oh my god.”

Minho sighs. “No. There’s no math involved. It’s just about who you wanna snuggle forever.”

Minsu’s eyes go wide. “Forever?”

“Yeah.”

“Do man bears in gay cave get tired of cupcakes?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then what?”

“Then they order pizza.”

Minsu gasps. “With cheese?”

“Yes,” Chan says solemnly. “Always cheese.”

Minsu nods with all the gravity of a small pope. “I like gay. Man bears sound nice.”

You finally lift your head from Jisung’s lap, grinning weakly. “That’s it. He’s gone. He’s joining the man bear cave.”

Minho drops his head onto the back of the couch with a groan as Minsu continues his questioning.

“Do man bears watch Paw Patrol?”

“If they want to,” Minho mumbles.

“What if man bear wanna be Skye?”

“Then he can be Skye.”

“What if Skye is girl?”

“Man bears can like girl pups. It’s about feelings.”

“What if man bear wanna wear pink?”

“Then he wears pink, Minsu.”

“Even glitter pink?”

“Yes. Even glitter pink.”

Minsu is quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers against his knee. Then he says, “Can Mimo be man bear too?”

Minho looks like he’s seconds from bursting into flames. “Sure, bud. I’ll be whatever bear you need me to be.”

Minsu lights up like a lightbulb. “I be baby bear. You be big bear.”

“Deal,” 

Jisung claps his hands together. “You handled that with more grace than any straight man I’ve ever seen.”

Minho groans. “I am never having kids. Ever.”

Hyunjin, curled up in the beanbag, has been giggling the entire time, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was the most deranged conversation I’ve ever witnessed.”

You lift the caramel latte in a slow, tired toast. “Here’s to the man bear gay cave.”

“Cheers,” everyone mutters, even as Minsu starts chanting it like a war cry.

“Man bear gay cave! Man bear gay cave! With cupcakes and cheese!”

“Please,” Minho begs the universe, “knock me out.”

Minho's salvation comes in the form of Hyunjin standing up to go to the kitchen. Without even a beat of hesitation, Minho seizes the moment, leans close to Minsu’s ear, and whispers, “Kissy.”

Minsu’s mouth parts in slow-motion understanding like he’s just recalled an ancient prophecy. His big eyes flick to Hyunjin’s back as he rounds the corner toward the kitchen, and without a word, Minsu slips down from Minho’s lap like a ninja sliding off a rooftop. He tiptoes after Hyunjin, sneakers lighting up every few steps in bright red flashes, giving him away entirely, but his face is determined.

You, meanwhile, are unaware of the chaos brewing in the next room because you’re currently buried under Jisung’s throw blanket like a corpse. Jisung is feeding you banana slices, and Chan is massaging your temples like you’re a stressed-out housewife who’s just returned from the battlefield.

“I don’t wanna move for twelve years,” you mumble, mouth full. “If a meteor hits, I’ll just die. That’s okay. At least I’ll be lying down.”

“We won’t let the meteor get you, angel,” Jisung says as he adjusts the blanket around your shoulders. “We’ll kiss it to death.”

In the kitchen, Hyunjin is halfway through pouring cereal when Minsu suddenly appears beside him, tugging on his sleeve. “Hyuni!”

Hyunjin looks down, grinning. “Hey, little man. You hungry?”

Minsu shakes his head vigorously. “No! I wanna know why you no kissy my sister!”

Hyunjin nearly drops the cereal box. “I- what?!”

Minsu’s eyes sparkle with mischief and sincerity all at once. “She wanna kissy you! She tell me!”

Hyunjin stares, heart trying to escape his chest cavity. “Wait… what?”

“She likey you!” Minsu announces proudly. “Like how Jisu like Channie! She said so! She say you pretty and nice!”

Hyunjin sways slightly, leaning on the counter. For a second, he forgets how to breathe. He’s been pining after you since freshman year, since you shared that jazz elective. That crush didn’t just stick. It fucking settled into his bloodstream like oxygen.

“You want to kissy Y/N?” Minsu asks, eyebrows raised, toe tapping like he's waiting on a business deal to close.

Hyunjin nods, too stunned to speak.

“Go! Kissy kissy! Smoochie smoochie!” Minsu declares, pushing at Hyunjin’s knees like he’s trying to herd a large sheep toward destiny.

Hyunjin laughs and ruffles Minsu’s hair. “Okay, okay, jeez. No pressure, right?”

Minsu beams and sprints behind him like a bodyguard escorting a VIP back into the living room. As soon as Hyunjin walks in, you lift one sleepy eye to glance toward the noise and immediately spot Minsu grinning like a criminal behind Hyunjin’s legs.

You sit up slowly. “What the hell did you do, Minsu?”

Minsu claps his hands. “You two can kissy now! Hyuni know you wanna kissy him! He wanna kissy you! Say thank you!”

Your soul leaves your body for a moment. You turn your head toward Minho with deadly calm. “Minho. You can keep him forever.”

Minsu beams. “I help you! Say thank you!”

“No,” you reply.

Minsu stomps his foot. “Say thank you!”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Make me, gremlin.”

He gasps, betrayed.

Hyunjin, trying very hard not to laugh and betray his own amusement, clears his throat. “How about, instead of a kissy right now, a date? Maybe tomorrow?”

You slowly lower yourself back into Jisung’s lap and cover your face with your hands. “Let me die first. Then yeah, date sounds cool. Maybe in the afterlife.”

Minsu is undeterred. “Now kissy!”

“No!” you snap.

And that’s all it takes. The tiny stormcloud that is Minsu explodes into a full tantrum, flinging himself onto the floor like a possessed worm, shrieking about how you’re a “stinky meanie” and that you “no say thank you for kissy plan” and that he “worked hard like a big brain baby.”

“Oh god,” you groan, grabbing a pillow and smothering your face. “Let me suffocate in peace.”

Chan winces. “That’s a Category 5 tantrum.”

Jisung strokes your hair. “You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before the glass breaks.”

Minho, watching this unfold, slowly starts to back away. You lift your head just enough to narrow your eyes at him. “No way, bitch. He’s your problem today.”

Minho freezes. “Fuck.”

Then, in an act of desperation, Minho switches sides. He crouches beside Minsu and starts patting his back. “You’re right, bud. Your sister is so mean. She’s the worst. You worked so hard on that plan. I’m mad for you.”

Minsu’s cries lessen just slightly. “She not say thank you”

“She’s rude,” Minho nods solemnly, mouthing sorry at you while validating Minsu’s spiral. “Awful. Just so rude.”

“She mean to me and she look bad!”

Minho cringes but nods along. “Yeah, she looks awful.”

“Poopy bad.”

“Exactly. The worst.”

You glare at Minho as he keeps mouthing sorry while Minsu continues, “She look like poopy ratty lady!”

That does it. You flop back on the couch like you’ve been shot.

Jisung gasps dramatically. “How dare you? She’s beautiful!”

Chan immediately starts stroking your cheek. “You’re a goddess, baby.”

Hyunjin has turned to face the corner, shoulders shaking with laughter. You can practically hear him wheezing.

Minsu’s tantrum eases completely now, satisfied that his Mimo understands the full extent of the betrayal.

“I get you another drink!” he shouts, and before you can stop him, he’s dragging Minho to the kitchen, leaving you lying on the couch like roadkill.

You sigh, rolling your head toward Jisung and Chan. “You two beautiful gays. Listen to me.”

They both sit up straighter, eyes wide. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t adopt,” you whisper. “Don’t get a surrogate. Just be two man-bears in your cave. Even if all your family members die and there’s no one else left, don’t raise a baby bear. Do not subject yourselves to being called ratty poopy gays after years of feeding and diaper changing. Don’t do it.”

They nod solemnly like they’re receiving sacred instruction.

“Ratty poopy gays,” Jisung repeats softly, horrified.

Chan locks pinkies with him. “Just us. Beautiful gay bears with unshattered self-esteem.”

Moments later, Minsu and Minho return. Minsu proudly hands you a canned latte like he’s just retrieved the holy grail. “Here! Your hair messy too. Fix it. Then you look less poopy!”

You accept the drink, stare at it, then look at the two gay bears beside you.

“No kids,” Chan says immediately.

“Never,” Jisung agrees.

Minsu is oblivious, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s fixed all your problems.

“I come on date with you and Hyuni!” he declares with delight.

You bolt upright. “Absolutely not. You will be having a sleepover with your Mimo.”

Minho’s face drains of all colour. “Wait, what?”

You don’t even blink. “You heard me.”

Minsu screams with glee, throws his arms around Minho’s legs, and starts babbling about movies and popcorn and sleeping on the floor.

Minho stares at you with pure betrayal.

You sip your canned latte. “Your circus. Your monkey.”

Minho groans, but when Minsu hugs him and calls him the “bestest Mimo in the world,” he melts. “Yeah, bud. Sleepover.”

Minsu throws his hands up in the air like he’s won a prize, and Minho scoops him up with a resigned sigh, hugging him close.

Hyunjin barely finishes unlocking the frat house door when it swings open to reveal you standing there, hair loosely curled, face framed by soft tendrils, minimal makeup glowing naturally under the morning light. 

You’re wearing a black tube top that hugs just right and a high-waisted olive green cargo-style skirt with oversized pockets and a belt slung casually at your waist. A pair of classic black high-top Converse completes the look, and you give Hyunjin a lazy little smile like you haven’t been racing around for the last forty-five minutes trying to get Minsu dressed, fed, and packed.

Hyunjin blinks once, taking in the sight before looking down at Minsu, who’s standing next to you, vibrating like a wind-up toy ready to pop. He’s wearing a blue and red Paw Patrol onesie with matching slipper boots that make soft shuffling noises as he bounces on his feet. His overnight bag hangs awkwardly from one shoulder, bulging with toys and snacks and what appears to be a roll of duct tape for some reason.

“Holy shit,” Hyunjin mutters under his breath, still absorbing the double impact of adorable chaos and glowing beauty.

You squint up at him. “You better be reacting to the outfit and not the gremlin.”

Hyunjin snorts. “Both. Honestly, both are kind of melting my brain.”

Minsu bounces in place. “Hyuni! Sleepover!”

Hyunjin crouches down to Minsu’s height. “That’s right, buddy. They’ve got a whole setup inside. Pillow fort, snacks, cartoons, the whole nine yards.”

“YAY!” Minsu squeals and sprints past Hyunjin into the house, slipper boots sliding slightly against the floor as he skids into the living room. 

Inside, Minho, Jisung, Seungmin, Jeongin, Changbin, Chan, and Felix are waiting around a ridiculously elaborate pillow fort. It looks like an IKEA showroom exploded. There are fairy lights strung across blankets, a mountain of cushions, a popcorn machine in the corner, and Paw Patrol blasting from the flat screen.

Minsu launches himself toward the chaos like it owes him money. “Mimo! Minnie! JJ! BinBin! Jisu! Channie! Fefi! Sleepover!” He practically vibrates with joy as each guy greets him with high-fives and fist bumps, shouting greetings right back, matching his volume and enthusiasm with impressive accuracy.

You watch the scene unfold, arms folded across your chest, smiling in disbelief. “Okay, so where are we going?” you ask, turning toward Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, still recovering from watching Minsu crash into Jeongin with the force of a meteor, looks at you with a crooked grin. His outfit mirrors the sleek utility aesthetic, black cargo trousers paired with a black button-down shirt that’s worn mostly open, showing off a fitted white tank underneath. A thick black belt wraps around his waist, accentuating the clean lines of the ensemble. Chunky black boots complete the look, and his naturally spiked hair sticks out in all directions like he walked through a wind tunnel and decided to own it.

“Because your three-year-old brother is not your responsibility until tomorrow morning,” Hyunjin says, motioning toward the chaos inside, “I’ve decided we’re doing something involving alcohol.”

Your eyes widen. “Real alcohol?”

“Very real. And also... pottery.”

You gasp like you’ve just been handed the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Boozy Pottery Emporium. “You hear that?”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Hear what?”

You tilt your head, feigning serious listening. “That’s my panties dropping.”

You don’t realise Minsu’s just around the corner, picking a toy out of his bag.

Hyunjin snorts so hard he nearly doubles over. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

And with that, you both slip out the door, leaving chaos, cartoons, and one very impressionable toddler behind.

As soon as the door shuts, Minsu glances up from his toy haul and blinks. “Why are Y/N’s panties dropping?”

Seven full-grown men freeze like deer in headlights.

Jisung, the first to recover, goes, “What the actual fuck.”

Minho makes a strangled sound. “Okay! Uh- who wants to play Paw Patrol?!”

Minsu ignores the distraction, eyes narrowed with the focus of a war general. “Why panties drop?”

Chan looks around the room, lips pressed into a hard line. “Alright. Damage control time. Fast. Go.”

“Panties drop when you sneeze really hard,” Jeongin tries.

“That’s hats,” Seungmin mutters.

Felix starts rifling through Minsu’s overnight bag. “Distraction! Distraction! Where the hell is the Rubble truck?!”

Minsu won’t let up. “Why she say panties drop for Hyuni?”

Changbin gestures wildly. “It’s- uh- it’s a phrase. Like- Like rain! It means love rain. It’s raining love. In panties form.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” Jisung cries.

“SHUT UP, I PANICKED!” 

Minsu is now laser-focused. “Is panties like hugs?”

Felix whimpers. “Someone answer this or I’m calling child services on myself.”

Chan takes over like he’s running a hostage negotiation. “Listen, Minsu, buddy. That’s a grown-up thing to say. Only grown-ups say it.”

“Why?” Minsu asks, head tilted like a confused puppy.

“Because if little kids say it,” Minho begins carefully, “the grown-up police come.”

Minsu gasps. “Police?”

“Anti-panty police,” Jeongin says grimly.

“They show up,” Jisung nods, “and they take away your toys.”

“Your cartoons,” Seungmin adds.

“Your Paw Patrol episodes,” Changbin finishes with a dramatic whisper.

Minsu looks like he’s just been told Santa Claus died. “My Paw Patrol?”

Chan nods solemnly. “Gone. Forever. No more Chase. No more Rubble. No more Ryder. Just... silence.”

Felix starts to look genuinely guilty. “Guys, we’re gonna give him a complex.”

“Worth it,” Minho hisses. “We can’t let him repeat that phrase in public. Y/N will cry in the street. She’ll give up on life. She’ll dissolve into dust.”

“Why panties drop?” Minsu tries again, quieter this time, like he’s trying to test the waters.

“You say that again and the anti-panty police are gonna eat your toys,” Jeongin says with the stone-cold confidence of someone who has worked retail during holiday season.

Just as Minsu’s face begins to crumple into genuine toddler heartbreak, Seungmin leaps into action, pulling something out of his backpack.

It’s a brand-new Chase plushie, tag still on.

He thrusts it into Minsu’s arms. “HERE. FOR YOU.”

The tantrum, which had been building like a pressure cooker, dissipates immediately. Minsu gasps, clutches the toy to his chest, and squeals with joy, eyes lighting up like Christmas morning.

“Chase! New Chase! Fefi got me new Chase!”

Felix glares at Seungmin. “You had that the whole time?”

Seungmin shrugs, grinning. “It was too funny. I wanted to see you all suffer.”

“YOU FUCKING GREMLIN,” Chan yells, throwing a pillow at him.

Minho drops his head to the floor dramatically. “I lost six years of my life to that conversation.”

Jisung flops back onto the couch. “I think my soul left my body.”

Jeongin looks at Seungmin with genuine awe. “You are both my hero and my villain.”

Minsu, completely oblivious to the emotional destruction left in his wake, climbs into the pillow fort, new plushie in one arm and an apple juice box in the other. “Let’s do sleepover! Yay!”

And with that, seven grown-ass men collapse into various forms of exhaustion around the living room as Minsu resumes singing the Paw Patrol theme song at full volume, utterly thrilled with life.

Hyunjin and you have only been gone twelve minutes.

It’s gonna be a long fucking night.

The evening is warm, the sky still streaked in violet and gold, and the buzz of a Friday night crowd hums behind you. You follow Hyunjin down a quieter side street, away from the traffic and neon lights, to a tucked-away pottery studio glowing softly through frosted glass windows. 

"So you booked us a pottery class? You trying to Ghost me?"

Hyunjin smirks, already pulling open the door and gesturing dramatically for you to step inside. "Only if you promise not to drop your panties when I touch your hands."

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wore my good panties today. You’re not getting near them unless you pay the toll.”

Inside, the space is cozy but sleek, modern wood paneling lining the walls with clusters of ceramic pieces on display. The receptionist beams as Hyunjin checks you both in. He’s reserved the private room in the back, it's quiet, softly lit, and there’s a low table with a full pottery wheel, two stools, and two bottles of chilled soju already on ice.

“Oh, he’s serious,” you mutter, sinking into the stool while eyeing the instructor, a short, energetic woman who introduces herself as Nari and begins explaining the basics of clay handling, wheel speed, and structure. 

You're half-listening, half-watching Hyunjin, who already looks like some tortured artistic genius as he rolls up his sleeves and starts forming the clay into something shapely and even. It's not fair. He looks annoyingly good doing anything.

You, meanwhile, are pouring yourself a glass of soju and topping it off with a splash of wine from the open bottle nearby. “What is this? Bougie alcoholics anonymous for art majors?”

Hyunjin snorts. “Some of us are actually taking this seriously.”

“I’ve had a toddler screaming at me since before sunrise most days. I deserve alcohol, art, and attention.”

Nari chuckles as she finishes her brief tutorial, gives Hyunjin a subtle ‘good luck’ look, and leaves you two alone. You immediately spill a bit of your drink on the table, sigh, and slide your hand into the clay like you're digging through a bog.

“Wow,” Hyunjin says, deadpan. “Are you trying to murder the clay or seduce it?”

“Both,” you say proudly, massaging the sticky mess. “This is abstract trauma. It’s gonna be titled ‘My Three-Year-Old Pisses Behind The Couch At Seven A.M.’”

He laughs and shakes his head, clearly trying not to smile too hard as he leans over to inspect your creation, or lack thereof. “Okay, I can’t let this happen. I need to intervene. This is offensive.”

“Oh no,” you say dramatically. “You’re gonna get behind me and guide my hands, aren’t you?”

“I literally am,” he says, gently placing his hands over your sticky ones. “I’m saving the clay’s life.”

His chest is warm against your back, the smell of whatever woodsy cologne he put on tonight threading through your senses. You pause, feeling the steady way his hands wrap around yours and start guiding you through a smoother, more confident shaping motion.

You squint at the clay, wobbling under the pressure. “This is the most action I’ve had in years.”

“Don’t start.”

“No, seriously. I’ve got cobwebs where my G-spot is. You try gaining a half-brother at eighteen and suddenly becoming a full-time guardian. Boys do not line up for that shit. I’m like a single mom but without the hot divorcee backstory. There’s just me, a very small man with a bladder control problem, and a paediatrician on speed dial.”

Hyunjin laughs against your shoulder, his breath warm, his hands still gently guiding yours on the wheel. “You know you’re completely insane, right?”

“You chose to go on a date with me. So what does that say about you?”

“That I’ve had a crush on you since jazz class freshman year, and I’m incredibly patient.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking at the spinning wheel in front of you. “Jazz class? No fucking way.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now, still casual but sincere. “You were always the only one who could actually follow the rhythm. I looked like a confused ostrich next to you.”

You laugh again, but this time it’s a little warmer, a little more real. “I thought you were just really intense about plies.”

“I was really intense about watching you do plies,” he mutters, and then immediately ducks his head like maybe that was too far.

You glance sideways at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, now I’m going to have to schedule another pottery night just so I can recreate this moment and record your face.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“...Yeah,” 

You blink, but before you can say anything, your over-focused attempt at shaping the clay suddenly warps and collapses inward like a melted ice cream cone. Hyunjin groans dramatically.

“Oh, look, it’s your heart when I don’t text back,” you say, trying to salvage it.

“It’s the clay’s way of asking me to stop flirting with someone who handles ceramic like she’s squishing literal shit.”

You grin, leaning back against his chest again. “Still not the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“Tell me the worst.”

“Had a guy ask me mid-dinner if I was still breastfeeding my kid. Minsu was one, and he knew I was the legal guardian. He thought I was just an extremely youthful-looking mom. I asked for the cheque while he asked if he could call me ‘mommy’ in bed.”

Hyunjin chokes on air. “What the fuck.”

You nod solemnly. “I have not recovered.”

He’s laughing now, shoulders shaking behind you as you both lean over the messy wheel, still barely salvaging the misshapen lump of clay. “Okay, in comparison, I’m feeling like an absolute dream right now.”

“You are a dream. A clay-covered, slightly-too-handsome dream with annoyingly perfect bone structure.”

“I will accept that compliment, even though you’re mostly complimenting my genetics.”

“I’m a single guardian,” you say with a flourish, throwing your arms up and nearly flinging clay. “Let me objectify you.”

You both laugh, and it hangs in the space between you, soft and genuine. The wine is starting to hit your system, your shoulders loosening, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re carrying the entire world on your back. Just maybe a small, slightly lumpy ceramic pot and the full attention of a boy who knows how to make you laugh even when your life is a chaotic whirlwind of juice boxes and tantrums.

You reach for your drink again, sloshing it slightly but still sipping happily. “So, what are we naming this disaster?” you ask, gesturing to the clay blob.

“‘Hope and Regret,’” Hyunjin says instantly. “Subtitle: ‘How She Seduced Me Over a Soju Bottle.’”

You snort into your cup. “Please. You were already seduced. You booked a private pottery session.”

He shrugs, feigning casual. “I have to admit, I was kinda banking on the sexy pottery moment.”

You grin. “And did it meet expectations?”

“Exceeding. Except for the clay. The clay is in mourning.”

You tilt your head, mock-pouting. “So you like me for my jokes and trauma, not my art skills.”

“And your stunning fashion sense,” he adds, eyeing your skirt and tube top. “Very no-nonsense hot girl energy.”

“High praise from a man dressed like a K-drama villain with a heart of gold.”

“I’ll take that.”

The music playing from the studio speakers swells into a slow, jazzy tune, and Hyunjin glances at you with a raised eyebrow. “We finished our pots. Wanna dance?”

You pause. “Here? Now?”

“There’s no one watching.”

You narrow your eyes, finish your wine in one long sip, then push back your stool. “Only if you lead.”

“Oh, I always lead.”

You roll your eyes but let him pull you into a clumsy sway in the middle of the pottery room, half-laughing as he spins you slowly in the dim light, your shoes scuffing against the wood. And for a second, just a second, it feels like the version of life you’d never thought you’d have again, carefree, young, selfish in the good way.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice soft now.

“For what?”

“For booking this. For letting me forget I’m raising a toddler for a few hours.”

Hyunjin’s smile turns gentler. “You’re more than just that.”

“I forget sometimes.”

“Well,” he says, spinning you one more time before pulling you close again. “I won’t let you.”

You don’t say anything back, but you rest your head against his shoulder. And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself just breathe.

When you and Hyunjin get back to your apartment, the hallway smells like someone down the hall just burned ramyeon, and your arms are loosely linked as you unlock the front door. The moment it swings open, the lived-in warmth of your home washes over you like a soft blanket, soft yellow light from the hallway lamp, toys shoved halfway under the couch, and the distinct trail of small shoes and half-shed clothes leading toward Minsu’s room. It’s quiet. Peaceful. You’re unused to it.

Hyunjin steps inside behind you, slipping off his boots as you toe off your sneakers with a dramatic groan. “Home sweet semi-chaotic home,” you mutter, gesturing broadly like a tour guide who’s lost her patience.

He follows you into the small living room, and immediately his gaze gets caught on the little museum of Minsu you’ve unintentionally curated. Marker-drawn masterpieces cover the fridge and spill onto the walls nearby, most of them done on cheap paper that’s curling at the corners. 

You know exactly which ones are from the ‘unsupervised’ era because they’re directly on the walls, one is just a blue scribble, another is a red monster with big triangle teeth and what looks like either tears or sweat drops flying off its head. 

Hyunjin grins at the chaos. “Okay, some of these look like cursed relics.”

“Oh, fully,” you say, flopping onto the couch for a second. “This one,” you point to a drawing taped eye-level to the wall. “Is called ‘Y/N said the F-word and then stubbed her toe.’”

He laughs as he walks toward the hallway and pauses by the picture frames along the wall. One after another, candid shots of you and Minsu smile back at him. There’s one of you at eighteen, holding a six-month-old Minsu with big eyes and a full head of curly hair, your face blotchy from crying but smiling through it anyway. Another from when he turned one, cake all over his face. Another from when he learned to walk, arms up like Frankenstein as he waddled across the living room. You’ve got your hands just out of frame, cheering. Hyunjin lingers on that one the longest.

“You’ve always done this alone?” he asks softly, turning to you.

You nod, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to your chest. “There wasn’t anyone else left, not really. It was me or the system. And I wasn’t about to let him grow up without someone who gives a shit.”

Hyunjin walks past the hallway and stops at the doorway leading to the kitchen. On the doorframe, there’s a long vertical chart drawn in permanent marker, height lines labelled in messy handwriting. Most are labelled ‘Minsu’ with various dates, almost month by month. But far above them, at the exact same height, are lines labelled ‘Y/N.’ 

“Why are you still measuring yourself?”

“Minsu demands it. He insists it’s only fair. I try to tell him adults don’t grow but he doesn’t give a shit.”

“That’s commitment,” he says, stepping back to admire the doorway like it’s a museum exhibit. “You really do build your whole world around him, huh?”

You shrug, not defensive, not apologetic. “He’s my family.”

Hyunjin nods thoughtfully, turning back to you. “You’re doing really well with him. Except for the pissing-on-the-wall thing. That needs work.”

You groan and throw the pillow at him. “You’re awful,” you say, laughing as you kick off your shoes. “You know what I want right now?”

“More sex?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically.

You snort. “No. Although, yes. But no. What I want is a night of uninterrupted sleep in my own bed, with a beautiful man next to me and no one screaming ‘Mimo’”

Hyunjin taps his chin like he’s considering. “You know what? That can be arranged. Maybe even a beautiful man who watches a movie with you and drinks wine like a classy, exhausted adult.”

You groan in delight, standing up and stretching as you walk toward the kitchen. You reach for the fridge, which has been baby-proofed with a lock you bought online at 2 a.m. one desperate night after Minsu opened it and ate a raw egg.

“I hate that I have to unlock the fridge like I’m sneaking into Fort Knox,” you mutter as you twist the child lock open and grab a bottle of chilled white wine.

“I can’t believe you child-locked alcohol,” Hyunjin says, trailing after you.

“You wanna explain to a three-year-old why he can’t drink the grown-up juice that smells like juice but makes you sleepy?” you say, uncorking the wine like a pro and pouring two glasses. “I didn’t think so.”

You hand him a glass and clink your own against it. “To questionable parenting and fine alcohol.”

“To mildly traumatised clay,” he replies, smirking.

You both head into your room, wine glasses in hand. Your room is cosy, a little messy, with a basket of tiny socks in the corner and a dresser with a makeup mirror rimmed in warm yellow fairy lights. You flop onto the bed with a long sigh, and Hyunjin sits next to you, toeing off his boots with a satisfied grunt.

You reach for the remote and turn on the TV mounted on the wall. A cheerful, high-pitched voice immediately explodes through the speakers. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you groan, fumbling for the remote. “I forgot to switch it-”

“No, no, wait,” Hyunjin says, hand on your wrist. “What if we reclaim it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You watched this as a kid, right?”

You shrug. “Yeah, kinda."

“Then let’s watch it now. But for us. Not for a three-year-old. We’ll drink wine and watch Mickey Mouse like the emotionally complicated adults we are.”

You grin, touched in a way that surprises you. “You’re my dream man.”

“I know.”

You snuggle back into the bed, shoulders brushing as the theme song starts up. You take a sip of your wine and laugh at how ridiculous it is, two twenty-somethings curled up with alcohol watching Mickey Mouse like it’s Oscar bait. But somehow, it feels exactly right.

He leans his head against yours halfway through the second episode, and you don’t move away. The wine is warming you from the inside out, and so is the feeling of someone sitting beside you, not because they have to, but because they want to. Because they like your jokes, your mess, your weird fridge art and sharp mouth and all the soft, tired parts of you.

It’s the kind of night you’ll remember when things get hard again. When Minsu won’t eat anything but ketchup packets, or when he screams in the middle of the night for someone you can’t be. You’ll remember this. You’ll remember that you are still young. Still allowed to want things. Still allowed to be loved.

And when Hyunjin bumps your shoulder gently and whispers, “This is kinda perfect,” you smile.

“Yeah, it really is.”

The morning sunlight is barely warm when you and Hyunjin show up at the frat house, each carrying an iced latte, sunglasses on, steps lazy with satisfaction and sleep. You’re in white linen trousers that swish with each movement, a black halter top hugging you just enough for comfort, and your hair is loosely tied up, still slightly damp from the shower. 

Hyunjin’s dressed in grey sweatpants, a white tank top that clings to him in that annoyingly perfect way, and fresh white sneakers. He’s somehow managing to look like he just walked off the set of a Calvin Klein ad, while you look like someone who’s finally had eight hours of sleep and a night without a toddler kicking you.

He sips his coffee and nudges your arm with his. “Ready to see the aftermath of the Great Sleepover?”

You groan dramatically. “If he’s drawn on anyone’s face with permanent marker, I’m just walking away.”

The door creaks open, and immediately, you're greeted by chaos. Actual, living chaos.

Minsu is sitting trouserless in Changbin’s lap, wearing nothing but his Optimus Prime t-shirt and a pair of slightly skewed Paw Patrol underwear, swinging his legs happily as Changbin feeds him spoonfuls of what looks like cereal with rainbow sprinkles on top. You blink.

“Why is he pantsless?” you ask, more to the universe than anyone in particular.

“Morning!” Changbin says with the haunted look of someone who has seen things. “He said pants were itchy and he didn’t want to wear them anymore. I gave up. I’m just a spoon delivery system now.”

Jisung is in the corner, curled up like a ball of post-trauma noodles, full-on sobbing while Chan kneels beside him, trying to coax him out of it like he’s talking down a hostage. His shirt is wrinkled, hair in wild tufts, and you’re not sure whether his sobs are from exhaustion or something worse.

“Jisung, honey, are you okay?” you ask, cautiously stepping closer.

He shakes his head without looking up.

Chan looks at you helplessly. “So, uh. Minsu forgot where the toilet was. And he didn’t wake any of us. He found a pan.”

You squint. “He pissed in a pan?”

Jisung wails louder, full-on face-in-knees despair.

Minsu, chipper as ever, looks up from his cereal and chirps, “Wee-wee and poopy pan!”

You drop your iced latte. “Oh no.”

Hyunjin is snickering behind you, not even pretending to be helpful.

“He wasn’t in the room when I woke up,” Jisung gasps between sobs. “I thought he’d been abducted by raccoons. I checked every room. Every single room. Then I went into the kitchen, and he was there. On the floor. Shitting in the pan. And he smiled at me. He smiled.”

“Oh, you poor gay,” you murmur, dropping beside him to pull him into your arms. He latches onto you like a drowning man clinging to a life raft.

“I have so much respect for you,” he whispers. “You do this every day. You’re a hero.”

“Thanks, baby,” you say, patting his head.

Chan sighs and scrubs his face. “We just… we threw the pan into the Sigma Chi garden. We didn’t know what to do.”

You start laughing so hard you nearly cry.

Minho is lying on the rug, head casually perched on Felix’s ass like it's the world’s firmest pillow, watching cat videos on his phone. Felix doesn’t even seem to care; he’s scrolling TikTok like it’s a normal Sunday morning. Jeongin and Seungmin are tangled up in a blanket cocoon on the other end of the couch, both mindlessly scrolling as if this is just any other post-apocalyptic morning.

“How was your date?” Jisung asks from your arms, voice muffled against your shirt. “Make me feel better with adult romance stories.”

You lift your chin proudly. “Amazing. There was wine and pottery. I almost had a spiritual awakening. Like, near-tantric orgasm levels. Then we had some adult bonding, and I had a real orgasm.”

“Ooh, that’s hot,” Jisung says, sniffling.

Then Minsu, completely unfazed, cheerily asks, “What’s orgasm?”

The room freezes.

Every single person goes silent. Then chaos. Felix stands up and bolts out the front door. Minho immediately fake snores and goes limp on the rug. Jisung crawls under the couch. Chan vanishes behind it. Seungmin dashes up the stairs like his life depends on it. Jeongin heads to the basement. It’s like a fucking fire drill.

You and Hyunjin flee to the kitchen, iced lattes in hand, crouching behind the island like two fugitives. Changbin is left alone in the living room, Minsu still cheerily perched in his lap.

“BinBin?” Minsu calls. “What’s orgasm?”

“Oh shit,” Hyunjin breathes, covering his mouth to muffle his laugh.

You lean against the cabinets, red-faced, shaking with giggles. You both listen as Changbin valiantly tries to distract the three-year-old with cereal trivia and wild improvisation.

Behind the kitchen island, Hyunjin nudges your shoulder. “Be my girlfriend?”

You blink, a little startled by the sudden shift, but your heart stutters pleasantly at the soft smile on his face. He’s still crouched, hiding like a child who’s broken a vase, but there’s something serious in his eyes. You beam. “Okay.”

He leans in and kisses you, just a warm, smiling kiss that tastes a little like coffee and a lot like relief and affection.

“Yay! Kissy!” comes a high-pitched squeal, and you both turn to see Minsu peeking around the corner.

You groan, tilting your head back against the cabinets. “You still sure about this ‘me being your girlfriend’ thing?”

Hyunjin laughs. “I think I’ve never been more sure.”

Minsu rushes over and clambers into Hyunjin’s lap like he’s a beanbag chair. He immediately tries to reach for your latte.

“Hey, little gremlin,” you warn. “That’s mine.”

“But it yummy,” he argues, trying to sip it through the straw while Hyunjin holds it out of reach.

“Tell you what,” Hyunjin says. “You tell me about your pan adventure, and I’ll share one sip.”

Minsu’s eyes go wide. “Okay! So, I woke up and needed wee-wee and no toilet! I go looking and looking and then ta da! Pan!”

He throws his arms out like a magician revealing a trick.

Hyunjin chokes on his sip of coffee. “You really just picked a pan.”

“It shiny pan!” Minsu insists. “And I sit down and go wee-wee. Then I go poopy. Then Jisu find me! I say ‘Hi Jisu!’ and he scream like monster! Then Channie throw pan over fence! So fun!”

You and Hyunjin exchange a glance, trying desperately not to burst into laughter. Minsu beams, utterly delighted by his retelling.

Hyunjin wraps one arm around your waist and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You lean into him, warm and content, resting your cheek against his shoulder as Minsu babbles on.

“Hyuni,” Minsu says seriously, eyes wide and hopeful, “you play with me lots now?”

“Yeah, little man,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “Lots.”

Minsu looks between the two of you, blinking slowly like he’s processing something big, then whispers, “Y/N, we keep Hyuni?”

You glance at Hyunjin, who looks back at you with a crooked smile that makes your chest ache a little. You whisper back, “Yeah, Min, I think so.”

Minsu grins like the sun.And in that messy kitchen, crouched behind the counter with an iced latte, a half-naked toddler, and a beautiful boy who looks at you like you hung the damn moon, it’s hard not to feel like, yeah, maybe it is a fine, fine life.

3/07 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post for It's A Fine, Fine Life

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Proofread and hyped by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3

[straykidsnerd255]

This idea has been eating at my brain for the past couple of days honestly. How do you think the Saja boys would react to a reader who's a member of a band like the hex girls from Scooby doo. Just like the witchy vampire vibes with the more rock music style

This is a good idea! Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write it!<3 Hope you enjoy these little drabbles for our Saja Boys!

Jinu:

When he found out you were part of a band that had a witchy vampire vibe, he was curious and intrigued to see one of your performances. He even was able to catch you getting ready for one of the concerts and sat and watched you, his chin in his palms as you took your time to get ready. Your black dress had a deep blue hue to it and your dark midnight blue hair made Jinu want to run his fingers through it. You slipped fake fangs into your mouth and smiled for Jinu to help you adjust them. 

“Do these fangs look as normal as they can?” You asked, smiling in the mirror and waiting for his answer. Jinu hummed before standing from where he was sitting and gently turned you to face him. “Open your mouth for a second, they look slightly crooked. Jinu said, completely unaware of the absolute blushing mess you are now. He carefully fixed the fangs and smiled softly. “There. Fixed.” He said. 

Jinu is so freakin proud of you. Watching you from the front row, rocking out with the rest of your band. Granted, the music that you and your band sang was more on the rock side than what he was used to, doesn’t mean he won’t spend the rest of his days listening to your music when he is alone. He’s gonna support his girlfriend no matter what. 

Abby Saja:

This man is rocking out to your music as you practice, your fingers strumming the guitar as the rest of your band continues to play. You smile as your lips pull over the fake fangs that were customly made for you to fit the witchy vampire style of your band. He will spend your entire practice session just lounging on the couch in the garage of your home, his head bobbing to the music as you play. (Abby is a baker and you can’t change my mind) he will prepare treats and snacks for you and your band when you need to take breaks, refilling the snacks and soda when needed.

He may not be totally interested in rock music but he is interested in your rock music. You are the only person that can make him listen to rock music. More specifically, he will only listen to your music. The one you write, and make and produce with your band. No other rock band will come close to you and your band. He will go to every single concert you have and cheer the loudest for you. He has your face on a shirt he made specifically for you.

After your latest concert, he is holding you on his lap, pressing kisses to your face as you laugh and playfully try to push him away. “You did so good tonight my love. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you.” Abs said, watching your eyes widen before the softest look filled your eyes and you laid your head on his shoulder. You hummed before pulling Abs in for a kiss, a smile on your lips. “Thank you for supporting me through the late night band practices and concert madness.” You said, when you pulled away for air. Abs smiled. “Anything for my girl.” He whispered.

Mystery Saja:

He is your number one fan. No if’s, and’s, or but’s. He is the first to your concerts, the first to buy barrier tickets, and the first to absolutely go bat shit crazy when it comes to cheering for you. You were always smiling when you saw him in the crowd, dancing and jamming out to your music. You sang with your whole heart, for your fans to scream and cheer your name but you were singing to Mystery. You were staring at him the whole time you sang on the stage. Smiling when he would blush and turn away. 

He was there for you during band drama, practices that turned to late night concert shows. He was there when you felt like giving up and throwing it all away. He was there when you got sick but needed to continue revamping the songs. He was there for you when your band came late to a practice without a care in the world. (He scared the absolute shit out of them by threatening them…and maybe growling at them). When you break down and sob into his chest in odd hours of the morning, he is there, holding you and whispering that everything will be alright. 

The last concert that you performed, Mystery had tears filling his eyes as you danced across the stage, your custom fangs glinting under the lights and the smoke swirling around you made his heart thud in his chest but also gave him visions of you being the perfect bride. He knew that you were having the time of your life dancing and singing to the thousands of fans that screamed and cheered around him but it felt like you were singing only to him at that moment. 

Romance Saja:

He is giving you fashion tips and helping you find the perfect outfit. He gushes when you give a little fashion show of the outfits that he helped you pick out for the biggest concert you have ever performed. He is helping you pull up your hair in a half bun, helping with your makeup, dusting off your dress before running his hands down your arms before taking your hands in his. He tells you how proud he is of you and that he will be in the crowd with the rest of his band cheering you on the loudest. 

Romance is a very involved boyfriend when it comes to your practices. He would ask Jinu if you and your band could use the studio to practice the songs you created. He is absolutely in love with your singing when you started practicing your songs while he and his group were still there. Your concentration, the sound of your voice bouncing off the walls as you practiced your parts made his heart drum against his ribcage. He is such a sucker for you and it's so cute when he holds you in his arms when you finish your concerts. His face is buried in your neck while you laugh, hugging him close to your body as he praises your performance

He is cheering the loudest as you and your band appear on stage. You smile when his voice fills the stadium. You and your band immediately jump into your performance, you singing with the brightest smile on your lips as you swirled around on stage while singing. When the concert comes to an end, he is waiting for you in your dressing room, with flowers, and the biggest grin on his lips. “I am so proud of you, my love. You did so amazing out there I can’t even express how jaw dropping that performance was.” He said, leaning forward and pressing a simple but loving kiss to your lips.

Baby Saja:

He will actually beg for you to let him join in on at least one song. Promising that it will make the song sound so good. You do and are simply surprised at the result. Baby Saja is always there during rehearsals and is there adding his opinions that could help the band. You thank him every time he adds in something when the band doesn’t agree on a specific problem that needs to be resolved. He is very observant when it comes to you and your band. He is always checking in on you and the band to make sure everything is going ok or if they need anything. 

When you finally get the chance to relax, Baby Saja is laying his head in your lap and curling closer to your figure. You run your fingers through his hair as he knows that helps calm you down. As you run your fingers through his hair, you begin talking about your concert you and your band are putting on but you're nervous. Scared that the fans won’t like the new songs that you and your band have worked so hard to make. Baby Saja is always there when you break down, tears streaming down your face when you grow so nervous.

He will reassure you and tell you that everything will work out. That you are the bed song writer and singer. He taps the fangs in your mouth and smiles boldly. “Witchy vampires are in right now. You and your band will be amazing. Trust me.” Baby Saja will say every time you doubt the fans will like your style and songs, and every single time, he is right. The fans scream and cheer as you and your band appear on stage, witchy vampire vibes and all. You smile as you see Baby Saja and his group in the crowd cheering and screaming out your names. After your performance, Baby is hugging you so tightly and kissing your face, laughing the sound of your giggling filling his head.

[hyusun]

🐯 - Instructions Not Included - L.MK

Pairing: neighbor! mark × yn (university setting)

genre: soft fluff,, domestic chaos ??, friends-to-(maybe)-lovers word count : 3.1k ? warnings: cozy domesticity, soft chaos, excessive use of ikea furniture and that awkward falling in love with your neighbor energy vibe : you’ve known mark lee since freshman year, hallway nod than bestie. but when he moves into the apartment across the hall and drags you into a furniture-building result in muscle-aching mess, things start shifting. you start to wonder if this is just neighborly kindness, or something much more dangerous. like feelings.

a/n : this was supposed to be a short drabble… idk what this is honestly 😭 i just wanted them to build a shelf but now it’s a short fic with muscle pain and dramatic reaction to leg massage . this was inspired by my last-minute OCD arranging mania. i spent the whole saturday cleaning and rearranging my furniture like a sims character in real life, and now i’m left with sore muscles and regrets. anyway enjoy the delulu, i wrote this between muscle spasms and crying over cracked nails. also if u find a mark lee who builds furniture and massages your leg , pls tell him i’m free this weekend 😭 , enjoy the fic, stay hydrated, don’t trust IKEA screws. ok love u bye 💅🛠️🫶

You’d known Mark Lee since freshman year, not exactly best friends, but familiar in the way two tired students orbit the same academic hellscape. You shared a few electives, some tragically awkward group projects, and the occasional hallway nod that said, "We’re barely holding it together, huh?" Conversations between you never strayed far from the essentials: “Hey, when’s this due?” or “Are we even passing this class?” Just enough connection to remember his name, not enough to know his favorite coffee order.

So when you heard that he moved into the unit across the hall halfway through the semester, you didn’t expect fireworks or fate. At most, you predicted a few polite exchanges, maybe a borrowed screwdriver, maybe a smile when collecting mail at the same time. Maybe, just maybe, you were even looking forward to it. A little spark of curiosity never hurt anyone.

That spark turned into a full-blown emergency when Mark knocked on your door one fine Saturday morning. You had the day off, a rare treasure. The plan was simple: rot gloriously on your couch, binge the latest backstabbing k-drama, and maybe fall asleep with crumbs on your shirt. But the universe said, "Haha, no."

Because there he was, Mark Lee, standing at your door with panic in his eyes and desperation in his voice, looking less like your ex-classmate and more like Bob the Builder with a broken spirit. “Hi…” he greeted, voice tentative, eyes darting around like he was afraid you’d slam the door. “Uh, can you help me build my furniture? I asked the other guys but they’re either working or pretending to be. Jeno’s at practice, and Renjun said you’re good with… tools.” He gave you a sheepish smile, like he knew exactly how unconvincing he sounded.

Honestly, he looked like a lost puppy in a hardware store.

And you? Well, against your better judgment, and possibly your will to live, you sighed, stepped aside, and let chaos walk right in.

You regretted offering help the second you stepped inside his apartment.

Boxes were stacked like unstable Jenga towers. An unopened can of paint sat in the corner like a promise never kept. IKEA furniture parts were scattered across the floor, looking less like potential furniture and more like ancient ruins. And in the center of it all stood Mark, sweaty, overwhelmed, holding a screwdriver upside down as if preparing for battle, not a bookshelf.

Mark Lee was crouched in front of what was supposed to be a bookshelf, but currently looked more like a sad abstract art piece. He held a screwdriver, the wrong one, obviously, with the defeated look of someone who’d battled furniture and lost three times. 

“Hey,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. 

“So I think I built this upside down… three times.” You blinked at the Frankenstein shelf and then at him. 

“Have you… read the manual?” you asked, already bracing for disappointment. 

Mark lifted the instruction sheet, still upside down, and offered a sheepish grin. 

“I did, but… apparently not well.” You let out a long, theatrical sigh. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” That short-circuited him instantly. 

He blinked, once, twice, like his internal system had glitched. 

“W-what?” he stammered. 

“Nothing,” you said quickly, pushing past him with a roll of your eyes. 

“Move over. Let me fix it before this bookshelf becomes a safety hazard.”

You ended up spending the next six hours knee-deep in flat-pack chaos and mild existential dread. Between deciphering IKEA hieroglyphics, hammering rogue nails into place, and discovering that Mark couldn’t tell the difference between ivory and eggshell white, it became less of a building project and more of a bonding experience-slash-sitcom episode.

Somewhere between coats of paint, half of which mysteriously ended up in your hair, and Mark’s dramatic reading of the manual like it was Shakespeare, the awkward tension melted into laughter. Real laughter. The kind that left your stomach aching and your cheeks sore. The kind you hadn’t felt in a long time.

When the bookshelf finally stood upright, miraculously not leaning, or squeaking, Mark grinned and it almost knocked the breath out of you. His eyes lit up with the kind of boyish pride that should be illegal. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he said, wiping sweat and possibly paint off his forehead. “No, seriously. I think I’d be sleeping on cardboard tonight if you didn’t show up.”

You leaned back against the wall, newly smudged with streaks of off-white and fingerprints, arms crossed and barely hiding your smile. “You still might be,” you replied, gesturing toward the mattress frame behind him. “Your bed’s still missing, like, three screws and possibly a soul.”

He laughed, full and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and made your heart feel annoyingly warm. And then, just for a second, he looked at you. Really looked at you. Long enough for it to feel like time paused, just to make things weird for your heart.

“…You’re cool, Y/N,” he said softly, eyes lingering. “I’m really glad you live next door.”

Your heart did a full-blown Olympic backflip, tripped over itself, and then cartwheeled straight into locked territory.

You blamed it on the paint fumes. You had to. Anything else would’ve meant admitting the truth, That maybe, just maybe, Mark Lee was no longer just the guy from group projects. After helping Mark turn his apartment into a Pinterest board, the universe decided you hadn’t suffered enough. That very night, your manager called, desperate, pleading, and emotionally manipulative, to ask if you could cover a last-minute night shift. Someone bailed, and apparently you were the chosen sacrificial lamb. You should’ve said no. You really should’ve. But instead, you dragged your furniture-abused body into work, and by hour three, your muscles were screaming louder than your soul.

You should’ve known they’d come back to haunt you. The soreness had started like a whisper, tight calves here, a dull ache in your thighs there. But by the time you were walking home that morning, it had evolved into full-blown mutiny. Every step felt like a betrayal. Your hamstrings throbbed like they were mourning their own existence. Your calves pulsed with the rage of a hundred gym classes you never signed up for. And your lower back? Dead. Absolutely gone. Probably chilling in another dimension.

You limped through your front door, collapsed into a dramatic heap, and promised your legs you’d never lift another bookshelf for a man again.

Probably.

Maybe.

...Okay, if Mark asked nicely, maybe one more.

A few days after the hazardous diy olympics in Mark’s apartment, you found a post-it note stuck to your front door. It was scribbled in familiar messy handwriting:

“Movie night @ my place. 7PM. Popcorn provided. Presence required. :) —Mark”

Below it, in a different pen and suspiciously neater, someone had added:

“Renjun says bring snacks.”

His place now looked like something off a rental ad for “wholesome urban escape” walls freshly painted, furniture no longer a death trap, soft fairy lights casting a gentle glow over the living room, and enough throw pillows to suggest he had either excellent interior taste or a strong Pinterest addiction. 

No way this was Mark’s work.

You strongly suspected someone, Renjun, maybe had a hand in the decorating. That boy is known for his creative mind. Or one of his suspiciously stylish friends. Or maybe a girlfriend. Someone with a Pinterest board, taste, and enough rage to color-code the bookshelf. That thought alone made you did double, no triple thinking into accepting his invitation.

You had some hesitation at first, being in a room full of his friends? Socializing? On purpose? And what about his girlfriend? Is he single? He’s in a relationship? Would it be awkward if I go?  But the moment you saw Renjun’s name, you relaxed. You knew him from a shared elective class last semester. He was smart, sarcastic, and the kind of person who always seemed ten seconds away from either solving a physics equation or starting a petty argument for fun. Acquaintance? Yes. Safe zone? Definitely.

So you said yes.

And that’s how you ended up seated in a living room surrounded by the rest of Mark’s friends. One by one, you began mentally dissecting their characters  like in a sitcom you hadn’t signed up for but secretly loved.

Renjun was your safe bet, the kind of sarcastic genius with the face of an angel and the soul of a judgmental cat. Sharp-tongued, yes, but weirdly considerate too. The kind of guy who would absolutely roast you for using comic sans, then silently walk you home in the rain so you didn’t slip in your sneakers. You’d worked with him once in a group project. He carried the whole thing on his back while sipping bubble tea and side-eyeing everyone’s poorly aligned slides. Iconic, really.

Haechan, on the other hand… chaos incarnate. The moment you walked into Mark’s apartment, he stood up like a royal herald and declared at full volume, “may I present to you, her highness, neighbour yn ! welcome in!” You blinked. He winked. And just like that, you were trapped in the tornado that was created by Haechan. Loud, mischievous, and dangerously charming, he introduced himself with the confidence of a man who had never known shame and immediately told you Mark once cried during a dog food commercial. You didn’t know whether to laugh or leave. Probably both.

But still, under all the noise and teasing, you found yourself quietly thanking him. Because somehow, he made it easier to breathe. Easier not to feel like an outsider in a room full of inside jokes and history. You weren’t sure if it was the absurdity or the warmth underneath it, but whatever it was… it worked.

In the midst of Haechan chaos, there is Jeno, the popular university's main soccer player. He is quite funny, effortlessly polite, and always somehow holding a snack. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was either a one-liner that made everyone wheeze or something incredibly practical like, “That candle’s about to catch the curtain.”

And next is Jaemin, He has a pretty face, prettier smile, and absolutely no shame. He was lounging on the armrest like it was a throne, judging everyone’s snack choices and occasionally complimenting your skin. He called you “bestie” five minutes after meeting you and offered to add you to his skincare group chat. You said yes. Obviously. His skin looked pampered, Period.

And then, of course, there was Mark.

The one who invited you. The one whose smile made you nervous. the one laughter is so infectious and charming, and somehow made you feel like this chaotic group of boys wasn’t so scary after all.

The boys had settled across the living room in chaotic harmony, like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow still fit. The L-shaped couch groaned under the weight of bodies, snack bags on the coffee table , and energy louder than the TV itself. Jeno was already halfway through a bag of chips, lounging like a model off-duty, while Jaemin, legs perched dramatically on the armrest, sat like a decorative statue blessed with judgmental eyebrows and too much skincare knowledge.

Mark was on your right, lounging casually at the far end of the couch with a cushion tucked beneath one arm and a blanket draped around his waist like he lived in a Pinterest board. Meanwhile, Haechan sprawled across the floor in front of the coffee table, surrounded by popcorn crumbs and chaos. Renjun claimed the opposite end of the couch, locked in a heated debate about which movie to play, already calling the director “mid” before the title screen even loaded.

You, ever the guest but somehow not a stranger anymore, sat tucked into the lazy chair beside Mark. Your legs were curled slightly to the side, a burger-shaped plushie in your lap doubling as emotional support and leg buffer. You tried your best to look chill, calm and collected, like your spine wasn’t stiffening into an overly ripe pear and your hamstrings weren’t crying for mercy. But as the opening credits began to roll and the room dimmed into movie-mode, you shifted, just slightly, to stretch your legs into more comfortable position.

And that’s when it snap. A sharp, traitorous cramps shot up your calf like betrayal in muscle form. You hissed softly under your breath, the kind of pain that made you question every life decision that led to IKEA furniture and impromptu night shifts.

“Fuck.”

The word slipped out of you before you could catch it, half whisper, half prayer. A sharp sting pulsed up your calf like your muscles were filing a formal complaint.

Mark noticed. Of course he did. He just an arm away.

He leaned in, voice low, soft as velvet and warm as honey against your ear. “Legs still sore?”

Lucky for you, the others either didn’t notice your silent suffering… or mercifully spared you the embarrassment. Mark, however, noticed. Of course he did.

He chuckled softly, the sound brushing against your skin like warm static. Then, without warning, hesitation, or a shred of social protocol, he shifted closer. His hand slipped past the edge of the blanket, fingers brushing your calf like they’d done it before in a dream.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he gently lifted your sore leg onto his lap... and started massaging. Each movement was deliberate, his fingers pressing into tight knots of tension like he wasn’t just soothing a muscle, he was rewiring your nervous system from the outside in.

He moved slow and focused. Like he was trying to untangle knots in your muscles and your brain. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like this was just something he did, massaging your sore muscles in the glow of fairy lights, while his friends argued about movie ratings in the background.

His hands were warm, steady. Firm but unhurried.

You froze at first contact.

Your body went stiff, your brain completely derailed, thoughts screeching into static. This wasn’t just kindness. This wasn’t normal. This was dangerous. This was how the main characters caught feelings and never recovered. You read enough novel to know this is not casual thing, it intimate.

You might’ve enjoyed it for a few blissful minutes, eyes half-lidded, breath caught somewhere between “ouch that hurt” and “that good?” Until, from the floor, Haechan’s voice cut through the moment like a sharp blade.

“ummm ?? Hello?? Is this legal??”

You flinched. Mark didn’t. Because of course he was too busy pretending this wasn’t turning into a public scandal.

Jeno’s head turned, eyes narrowing like he’d just detected the change in atmospheric pressure. Jaemin twisted around too, popcorn nearly flying. His expression morphed from entertained to scandalized in real time.

The room fell silent.

You could hear your existential crisis buzzing in the air like bad Wi-Fi. Lagging. Glitching. Dropping all your emotional signals at once.

The sound of crunching chips stopped. Even the background music from the TV faded into an awkward vacuum of judgment and stunned disbelief.

Four sets of eyes locked on you and Mark like you’d just committed a crime against bro code and public decency.

“Are we just gonna ignore the leg-on-lap situation?” Haechan asked, voice high and dramatic like he’d just walked in on a forbidden office affair.

Mark didn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “She helped me with everything. Her legs are sore.”

“Your hands,” Jeno deadpanned, one brow arched, “are on her inner thigh.”

“They are not!” Mark hissed defensively, ears flushing a telltale pink.

Haechan, ever the voice of calm chaos, gave a solemn nod. “They’re getting there, bro. Like. Real estate’s been claimed.”

You could’ve combusted. Or dissolved. Or slipped into the couch cushions and requested a new life. If someone opened the window, you were 90% sure you’d evaporate on the spot. But Mark, god bless his soft boy stubbornness, he didn’t stop. He just kept going, cheeks pink, jaw set with gentle determination.

“She helped me build my whole apartment,” he muttered, focused on his task. “I think this is… the least I can do.”

You almost cried.

Instead, you buried your face into the nearest pillow and let out a silent scream that could shatter glass.

Renjun, looking utterly over it, sighed like who had seen too much.. “Just get married already,” he muttered, before resume his attention to the movie like this wasn’t the most unhinged domestic tension he’d witnessed in weeks.

Mark finally pulled his hand away after you smacked his arm with a flustered little slap, cheeks burning. “I’m fine,” you lied, breathless. “Perfect, actually. Might go for a jog. Climb Everest. Who knows.”

He grinned, like he could see right through your nonsense, and gave your knee one last pat before tucking his hand sheepishly into the blanket again.

Your heart? that thing was still buffering. Stuck on loop. Replaying the moment Mark Lee touched your leg like he hadn’t just rewritten your entire nervous system with his bare hands.

The rest of the movie blurred past in a fog. Explosions on screen, popcorn rustling, the occasional Haechan commentary, none of it registered. Your focus was shot, derailed somewhere between Mark’s hands and your rapidly developing crush.

When the credits rolled and the room buzzed back to life, you stood, stretched with a quiet groan, and politely excused yourself. Early lecture in the morning, you explained. Responsible student things.

You said your goodbyes, Jaemin extracting a promise for a future café trip like a girl bestie with an itinerary, and stepped toward the door.

Mark was already there. Lingering, like he’d been waiting.

Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to yours, then away again.

He opened the door for you, but didn’t quite meet your gaze. You turned to thank him, for the invite, and the impromptu massage, but he beat you to it.

“Thank you for joining us tonight,” he said, voice a little softer now that it was just the two of you by the door. “And if, uh… if you’re free this weekend,” he added, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “I was thinking of going to IKEA. I need a lamp. Or maybe like… adult supervision.”

You arched a brow, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “Let me guess, you want me to help build it?”

Mark’s smile was soft, lopsided, and dangerous in the way only shy boys with dimples could be.

“Maybe,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours. “Maybe I just… wanna hang out with you again.”

And just like that, your heart short-circuited again.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But you hoped it went somewhere warm, with less back pain, fewer cracked nails, and instruction manuals that made sense.

And if the universe was feeling generous, maybe even somewhere dangerously close to love.

thank you so much for taking the time to read it and I didn't have time to beta prof this so I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻 📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist

All works are copyrighted © HyuSun, 2025. Please do not repost, rewrite, or distribute without explicit permission.

[paperbacksinner]

Dating Luigi and the two of you elope instead?

💍 Eloping with Luigi

———

- You’d been talking about marriage casually—usually late at night, post-sex, breathless and soft:

“You’re gonna be my wife someday.”

“Promise?”

“Already do.”

- Planning a wedding? Not your vibe. Between family drama, money stress, and Luigi’s inability to sit still for more than twenty minutes, it starts feeling more like a chore than a celebration.

- One morning, you’re both hungover from a friend’s engagement party. You look at each other, puffy-eyed and grumpy, and you’re like:

“Why don’t we just do it?”

Luigi blinks. Then smirks. “Like right now?”

“Why not?”

- You pack one small bag between you. He insists on bringing a tie “just in case it’s classy” but ends up wearing it around his head like a bandana halfway through the drive.

- You pick a little courthouse a few hours away where nobody knows you.

- Luigi forgets to bring the paperwork the first time. You’re laughing so hard in the parking lot he threatens to marry you on the sidewalk.

- He buys a cheap ring from a gas station vending machine while you wait. It's pink plastic. He says, "You deserve better, but you make it look like a million bucks."

- You wear a simple white sundress or something soft and easy. He can’t stop staring.

- When they say “you may now kiss the bride,” Luigi kisses you like it’s the last time. Hands in your hair. Completely unbothered by the clerk awkwardly clearing his throat.

- You go out for burgers instead of a fancy dinner. He feeds you fries in the car and kisses you between bites.

- That night, you stay in a tiny hotel with creaky floors and ugly curtains. You don’t care. You christen the hell out of that room.

- He slow dances with you in the parking lot. No music. Just the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

- You wake up the next morning to him brushing hair off your face and whispering, “Wife,” over and over like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

- You don’t tell anyone for a week. Then you drop the bomb with a selfie captioned: "Mr. & Mrs. Mangione 💍 surprise lol"

- His mom threatens to kill him. Yours cries. Your friends demand a party. You throw one in your backyard two months later with red solo cups and sparklers.

- But nothing—nothing—will ever top the way he looked at you in that shitty courthouse: eyes full of you, hands trembling, like he was walking into the best mistake of his life.

Bonus honeymoon HCs:

- He books some tiny, half-renovated beach motel on a whim. Ocean view technically just means if you stand on the table and lean out the bathroom window you might see blue.

- The AC is half-broken and makes weird noises when it tries to work, so you’re sweaty 24/7… which Luigi claims is a bonus because, “you look so damn good like this, baby.”

- Your room has seashell bedsheets, one flickering lamp, and a floor fan that becomes a third roommate. Luigi names it “Tony.”

- You both pack terribly. Like… one bathing suit, a t-shirt, and no toothbrushes. You wear his clothes most of the trip.

“That’s my wife in my boxers,” he says, grinning. “World ain’t ready.”

- You eat takeout in bed every night. He insists on a romantic “honeymoon dinner” of gas station wine, gummy worms, and soggy fries eaten on a towel in the sand.

- There’s sand everywhere. In your shoes. In the bed. Between your thighs.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters while going down on you in the shower. “Gotta rinse you clean.”

- Being half-naked and heat-slicked all the time? Lethal.

- He can’t keep his hands off you — especially when you're in his tank top and nothing else.

“You’re killin’ me, baby. Don’t start if you can’t finish.”

- You christen every corner of the motel room. Against the wall. Bent over the bathroom sink. On the tiny balcony while someone walks by and he does not care.

- Morning sex is slow and sleepy, tangled limbs and sunlight on your bare back.

- Afternoon sex is sticky and breathless, fans whirring, sheets kicked down to your ankles.

- Night sex is needy and whispered: “I married you for this, you know that? For you. All of you.”

- He writes “Mrs. Mangione” in the sand and draws a crooked heart around it. Then takes a photo and sets it as his lockscreen.

- One night you both fall asleep on the beach. You wake up sunburnt and tangled in each other, and Luigi says, “Best night of my life.”

- You keep calling him “husband,” and every time you do, his ears go pink.

“Say it again.”

“Husband.”

“Fuuuck. I love you.”

- He buys a $5 souvenir ring to replace the plastic gas station one until you get something real. But you both keep that one too.

- You kiss one more time in the motel parking lot, bags half-zipped, sunscreen still on your nose.

- He opens the car door for you, smacks your ass as you get in, and grins:

“Alright, Mrs. Mangione. Let’s go ruin real life together.”

[mirensiart]

Hi Miry! Amidst all the drama in the fandom rn, I just wanted to thank you for being so chill about everything. Your page has been like a rock for me (and I'm sure many others) whilst we all muddle through. We all appreciate it <3

hello anon <3

and aaah this makes me so happy??? I'm glad my blog has helped you through these trying times 🥹💖

i've been part of very messy and chaotic fandoms in the past cough homestuck cough so i have experience with fandom drama and i am too tired nowadays to deal with all that again 🙈

so i want to try and bring that vibe to my blog to people who also don't want to engage with all the drama

BUT! i do have more advice for fandom stuff if anyone wants to read it under the cut!

ok so i know some people are discouraged with the entire thing going on, but hear me out

if you already tag your stuff appropriately, if you already have a good grasp of the whole fanon/canon thing and don't push your headcanons onto others, if you already have a good fandom etiquette — then you're fine! you're not part of the problem

i know we tend to take fandom criticism personally cause of how much we love the characters and source material, but your life will be so much better if you separate yourself from it

now, if the callout does apply, then don't feel bad either! sometimes you screw up when entering a new fandom and that's ok, just make sure to learn and don't repeat that behavior again!

when i first got into LU i remember looking at the tags throughly to see the fandom etiquette and i did notice the more popular/prominent artists did not tag their stuff with the general loz tags, so i assumed that was the fandom etiquette and copied them

i then later read jojo's post about not tagging LU as LOZ, and i was happy to know that my guess was correct

so again, advice to new people entering a new fandom: before posting anything, look around the main tags, see how others are tagging their stuff and copy them, it's the best way to really make sure you're not crossing any fandom boundaries

anyway, this got super long, but my advice as someone who's been in A LOT of fandoms is to just, take it easy, don't take someone's criticism of your fandom to heart if you're doing nothing wrong AND try to have hobbies outside of fandom, so if drama does happen, it doesn't overwhelm you

and stick to your close circle of friends in the fandom, sometimes making your own curated bubble helps a lot in these cases!

[roach-works]

im working on a silly thought right now but: it deeply sucks that advertising is annoying, irresistible, and omnipresent, and we all just have to cope with that constant ongoing sandpaper irritation. meanwhile there's less and less grace for humans that are annoying, which is something that every human is at some point, and some of us are really annoying for most of our lives.

like. everyone has to be beautiful and graceful. everyone has to be sensitive and kind. or else they have to be apologetically disabled: autistic, bipolar, deaf. they have to be so so sorry for inconveniencing you, cutting you off, weirding you out, holding you up, annoying you. they have to take responsibility, they have to listen and learn, they have to make it up to you.

i don't think i want to live in a world where advertisers get to crawl into my eyeballs and earholes as often as they possibly can, but if im abrasive and clueless to someone i better be a card carrying member of the Broken Brain Club or prepared to grovel.

[nonglukest]

💞 🫂 💞

Est Supha as Po and William Jakrapatr as Thame in เธมโป้ (ThamePo) Heart That Skips a Beat 

⋆｡°✩ Bonus: It's a bit cold tonight, and I can't hug you. If you want to hug me, put your hands in your pockets, okay?

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

I’m the anon who sent you that ask about Sonic and Shadow’s relationship in the Chronic Sonic au. If your post saying you ignore long asks was directed at me, can you please just… post the latest version without answering? I would prefer to save it to my likes and maybe have other fans read my thoughts.

thank you

Well no, it wasn’t just directed at you, there are a couple long asks in my inbox (some of which are positive and very beloved and i cherish, Dopambles I’m looking at you <3). But you’ve sent your ask twice now and this one too so I’ll answer this one. I don’t really want to make this a big long thing, but I also don’t really wanna leave ya hanging when this seems so important to you so lets do this (everyone else can ignore this if ya want I’m going long-winded through everything.)

So, reasons i don’t like to respond to or even post long asks sometimes lets do this [cracks knuckles]

1. I don’t like posting things onto my blog that I haven’t checked over first. I struggle a lot in reading and comprehending long asks. I don’t know why, it’s weird, okay. Let’s leave it at that. I’m not gonna blindly post walls of texts to my blog without checking them over first, because I want to make sure I’m filtering asks so nothing harmful gets posted to my blog. You’d be surprised at how whack a lot of anons can get. Not to say your ask was whack, but I also am struggling to read it so it’s hard to say for sure! It’s not due to the nature of your ask, it is simply because my brain be like dat.

2. Sometimes, I just don’t like having to scroll through walls of texts that aren’t my own to get to my latest posts. I get a lot of asks as it is. I do love answering them, but when they get long, the amount of time it takes to scroll through em makes it hard to refer back to my previous posts and is just is not intuitive or fun when interacting with my own blog, which leads me to my next point

3. This is my space. My blog is by me for me. I choose to post and share to interact and have fun with other people but at the end of the day this blog is my space. I did not create it for anyone other than me. I welcome the people who find joy in my stories here, but this remains my space. If i was being paid for this it’d be different, I’d absolutely curate and change things to make it a better and easier experience for those that i charged to be here, but like… I’m not being paid for this? And to ask me to do what you want in my space so that you can have the experience you want is… i dunno it sounds a little entitled. (I’m not saying that you ARE entitled, only that it sounds like it to me personally.) Contacting me even after I expressed my difficulty in answering asks to try and convince me to post it for your sake is a little rude. I’m not a professional creator, I’m not a person with fans, I’m just a random dude trying to have a good time with other people on a dumpster-fire website. I’m not a creator trying to make sure everyone else is having a good time. This is what i do in my free time to relax and—

4. —being a moderator for other peoples hc’s and conversations is not personally relaxing to me. My blog is not a public confessions blog and I am not a public message board. I am honoured when people share their personal stories and how what I doodle has helped them feel seen and that things will be okay, but I’m not a place for other people to come say what they want to each other, I’m a person, not a message board. How other people use Tumblr is up to them, however, I am not going to change how I use tumblr so that you can have a better experience when it will make the experience worse for me.

5. If i answer asks, I don’t draw. And I like drawing. If I’m posting asks (even without answering them) and stressing about being the middle man in conversations that I will have to regulate to make sure conversations stay kind, that takes a lot of time and energy and I got so incredibly burnt out when i tried to do that. So i stopped. And I will not be starting up again simply so you can have a good time, because I will have a bad one. And this is my space to not have a bad time. If something stresses me out, I will not do it here, it is as simple as that. I have my whole irl to be stressed about.

These are some of the reasons I don’t like to post long asks. I have notified you that I struggle to read, I don’t understand why you continue pushing. I have amazing anon’s who send wonderful long asks who have been kind and considerate with me about my struggles reading and processing. They continue to send their wonderful asks and have assured me it’s okay if I never post them. I am confused as to why you cannot seem to respect my decision as well.

The final reason regarding my hesitance in posting your ask in particular is simply that your hc was not accurate to how I was aiming to portray the characters in the current timeline. You are more than welcome to hc and speculate, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, but I cannot simply post it without answering it like you suggest because I would need to clarify that it’s not true. When I used to do that, people would start to misinterpret my au’s and it stressed me out. It takes hours for me to write up responses to things sometimes because I want to make sure I’m being kind and thoughtful and accurate. I am honoured that you shared something personal but what you wrote is simply not where the characters are at right now. It could be them in the future, but it is still early in the au so that kind of resentment hasn’t set in yet. Shadow is hurting because he’s taking the brunt of Sonic’s negativity but he is resigned to it because for him nothing else matters as long as Sonic stays alive, even if he has to be the person Sonic hates in all this and that is heavy. He’s angry at him when he does not take care of himself, but he is not resentful. Sonic struggles with being a burden on all of his friends, not just Shadow. The way you described the relationship was closer to how Tails and Sonic interact than Shadow and Sonic and even then, there’s more going on that I just don’t have the time or energy to really walk through. And besides, I want to save that energy to draw out things later.

As i shared with another commenter who asked something similar, I can absolutely DM you your ask back if you want to save it. However I don’t understand why you need me to post it to save it your likes if you simply want to save it. You have your own blog you can post it to. Why does it need to be on my blog? Why do I have to do extra work so you can have an easier time to do what you want? I am very grateful for your interaction and love of my comic, and I understand it’s frustrating when people make things harder for you to have a good time, but that’s exactly what you’re doing to me by asking me to change how I use tumblr to suit your wants instead of what is easiest for me. I am not a public service you pay for. I am a person, a full time student with family issues, struggling siblings that I’m trying to help, a person who is struggling myself. I have a limited amount of energy in a day, I get tired quickly. If i want to continue to find joy in drawing I have to set boundaries. You may not always know why someone does something, I guarantee there is more here that I will not share because it is personal. Sometimes you just have to be okay with not knowing, you have to be okay not understanding, and you have to be okay without an explanation that makes sense to you. All you need to do is understand that often times there is a reason people behave the way they do. It’s not a reflection on you or their opinion of you, it is simply many other factors at play that lead to such an outcome.

I sincerely hope this did not offend you, I am not angry with you, nor do I wish for any of this to be taken as scolding or upset you. If it has come across that way, I apologize. I am sorry I am not in a state to give you what you want, and I’m thankful for your patience with me in reading through this and I hope it is enough to at least paint a little bit of a picture as to why I will not be posting your ask. It’s unfortunate that I ended up spending hours addressing this anyway both to you and to another commenter—the very thing I wanted to avoid—but I value you as a person and did not want to leave you feeling negatively if I could change that. I hope this does not affect your enjoyment or experience with how you were having fun with my au, and if it does I am deeply regretful. However, I do have to set boundaries and make sure I’m doing okay or there would be no AU at all. Thanks for your understanding and I hope you have a day as kind as you are.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

actually thinkin about Tim helpin Johnny get more in touch with his culture so hard. mixed Johnny n his family never taught him how to take care of textured hair. POC Tim who's been doin his own hair since forever. who used to braid Angela's hair n twist curlys. who diligently raised his siblings to be proud of who they were. mixed Johnny who's always kinda been in Tim's orbit. His buddy's kid brother. n one day Johnny shows up at Tim's door. anxious n unsure. n asks Tim if he can help him. n Tim takes one look at this kid n is like. yeah. you know what. why not.

[giulzart]

Selfishly thinking that Orion could be persuaded to act in one of the band music video. Just once.

Anyway, go play @infamous-if cause it’s amazing!

Little bonus, I put the rambly scenario that sprouted these under the cut in case you wanna know more 🤷‍♀️

It’s got to be a team effort and a chore to get Orion on board but somehow they manage to convince him in the end(cause he got a soft spot). In my head the idea was Violet and Rowan’s, Iris jumped right in cause it sounded fun and then Jazzy and Devyn joined in. Chris tagged along too cause heck yeah. They all come up with a list of pros and cons cause they know that Orion will fight against it, but thanks to Devyn they come up with sound and logical enough reasons. Rowan and Violet do the presentation and after a lot of debate, Orion accept in the end to everyone (and his own) disbelief. The video is a success, the views count gets higher and half the comment are about Orion.The band tease him relentlessly and Orion swears never again. The end.

[g1ngerbeer]

what kind of sauce are they putting in the link click audio drama. HELLO? THE LITERAL LAST SCENE OF THE LAST EPISODE?

程小时: 说起来，我们第一次见面，也是在篮球场吧。 陆光: 是啊。 程小时: 你我本无缘，全靠一颗球。 陆光: 我就不该答应你比那场。

cheng xiaoshi: speaking of which, the first time we met was also on a basketball court, wasn't it? lu guang: it was. cheng xiaoshi: (half-jokingly) you and i weren't meant to be [lit. "originally have no fate"?]. this is all because of one basketball. lu guang: i really shouldn't have agreed to play that match.

(the important bits are from google translate because i am bad at mandarin. also i did transcribe this off just the audio + i don't have access to captions or know where to find official transcripts. so i hope i got this right 🙏)

[moeblob]

OC again gomen ... (her name is Yuma)

[aromanticasterisms]

the epic highs and lows of rereading your own writing to seek out parts you disliked and analyze Why you disliked them to do better in the future