It is what it is.

You are but a man, a living being: flesh, blood, pulse; an internet connection and access to hyper-zoomed photos and slow-motion fancams and excessive manifestos on Chou Tzuyu's legs and Chou Tzuyu’s waist and Chou Tzuyu’s perfect dimples and smile and the golden-ratio proportions; the S-curve, the hourglass of her; none of which get as straight to the point as these carefully curated comments:

notice me mommy

pleeease sit on my faaace

let me dieeeee between those thighs good looooooorrrrdddd

(Or, for the cinephiles: the quote-tweet of a poorly composited clip; one side—Tzuyu shaking ass, the other—a GIF from Mad Max: Fury Road of the guy jumping off a speeding truck yelling WITNESS MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

But you know what?

Fuck yeah: witness you, indeed.)

Witness you now, camped out in her dressing room—your home for the past fifteen minutes—listening to the roar of tens of thousands of people bleed through concrete and steel while you wait with your VIP pass and your fast-fracturing patience and your cock heavy and in a far worse state than it was backstage at the Victoria’s Secret show; that had Tzuyu in a number that pushed her tits up so delightfully it crashed their whole website; shopping carts flooded by wishes for cleavage that could look half as glorious as hers.

And then she's there, or here, and you're drafting a manifesto of your own.

“Baby—” is how Tzuyu starts, and all it gets her is a hand around her waist, fingerprints pressed into sweat-slicked muscle, and she just goes with it—lets herself be reeled through the threshold and spun into you until the arrangement goes: 1) the door, 2) her body, 3) your cock, 4) you.

“Hell of a show,” you coo into her ear, pulling out the shiver she's kept coiled tight just for this moment—a pressure valve, a controlled detonation, released the second your thumb presses into the meat of her thigh.

“Baby—” again, and your girl is burning up: stage-lights hot, dimpled cheeks gone rosy red, flushed throat to sternum, wrapped up in what is just a feat of costume design and structural engineering and frankly the pinnacle of human craftsmanship: the leather corset cinched around her chest, doing theological work with her tits; the matching hot-pants sealed over her thighs (likely had to be poured on earlier, left to set, that's the only possibility); the knee-high boots she is absolutely not going to be able to walk out of here in.

She leans anyway—gracing you with more room to work in, rolling herself against you, because there's a countdown until you both have to clear the stadium and it's only hard and fast from here on out.

(Don't concern yourself with whatever wreckage survives into the aftermath, you're not going to see this room ever again, anyway.

Well. Until next tour.)

“Need a minute?” You're busy taking stock: the rapid shallow breaths, the copper-spun hair matted to skin, the sweat tracing her collarbone and running rivers to places you'll find the end of soon.

Tzuyu tilts her chin up, cocks an eyebrow. That stadium-filling smile. So ruthlessly, indiscriminately gorgeous. Real breath-taker, soul-stealer, habitual cock-hardener; your girlfriend (you lucky, lucky fucker). Another grind of her hips against you finds you stretching. “Could you even wait a minute?”

“No, but I thought I'd be polite and ask.” You shrug, bump your hips back, far less graceful and subtle than the little ditty she pulled off; through your denim, dragging across her abs, a point of punctuation on her body. “Consent and all.”

“Oh?” She laughs; small, private, non-transferable to anyone outside this room. Rises on her toes so the tip of your cock drags down to where she actually wants it, takes your face in both hands. “Is this something I'll need to consent to?”

“Just your standard offer for concert aftercare,” you deadpan. “Very exclusive. One provider.”

“That's funny. I don't remember subscribing.”

“Opt-out situation,” you tell her, lips finding the exact junction where salt and sweet meet on her neck. She sighs, end-to-end. “Really have to read the fine print.”

“You know how I am with that sort of stuff.” And it's really something; your Tzuyu underneath everyone else's Tzuyu—stage-beautiful but zero performance left in those to-die-for cheekbones; just her, released and free, origami in your hands, folding like she was always going to—a swan, some sort of songbird, or maybe simply a fucking lawn chair, if permitted. “You get your hands on me and I just can't help but say yes.”

Tzuyu: dressed like this and saying shit like that.

Yes, you both are embarrassingly, irretrievably, categorically gone over each other; and it's your problem, and hers, you've both long made peace with it, ready to be buried in clearly marked graves, side-by-side: here lies Chou Tzuyu and her secret boyfriend who fucked each other well and truly to death.

So, of course you're going to kiss her.

Lips on hers—same every time, new every time—her sighs feeding into your lungs, hands fisting in your shirt, hips translating heat into friction. Her tongue finding yours in ceremonial greeting; sparking up the sign outside, reading: occupied, all yours, always been yours, you just had to show up and smile.

And it's the release from her, all of it: everything that's been pulled taut since soundcheck, since this morning; each glance she's had to swallow, instinct suppressed by choreography and professionalism and forty thousand watching eyes.

The kiss compounds, stacks on stacks. Her leg lifts, hooks behind your shin, grinds the core of her against you—more, wanting more.

You stop yourself. Pull your lips free. The whimper that follows is pitchy and involuntary and criminally cute.

Her bottom lip wobbles, doing its intended and well-documented work on your heart.

“Why?” she asks—genuine, adorable, the whole bullshit shebang—how could you ever deprive an angel like this of such an innocent/filthy carnal desire?

You peel her hands from your neck, leaving them at her sides. Like a good girl, she waits.

Then you slide down to your knees.

The sound she makes could shatter something; it settles for the room's acoustics, forces it into submission, bends it over a knee.

“Ah,” she exhales. “That's why.”

Hotter down here. Always is: down-lights been baking her all night and it radiates off every inch, and at this distance—breathing her in, flooding your airways with the tangy-sugary-rock-salt-fucking-umami-scented compound of Tzuyu after three hours on a lit stage, the heat pooling thickest right at the deep crease where her legs meet. Coherent thought exits the building, it was never given a backstage pass, and the inside of her knee gets an open-mouth kiss—she nearly keels over completely, hands scrabbling for your hair.

“Oh God—” and you can hear the laugh underneath it, the perpetual disbelief at how fast she comes apart. “You have no idea how long I've been thinking about this.”

“I have some idea.”

“Your fault,” she says, and her voice fractures on it—”oh—standing at the barricade, staring at me the whole time; you have a problem you know—always looking at my—”

“Precisely.”

(And permit the detour: just to pontificate about Tzuyu's thighs because they warrant it.

Her thighs are strong. Belonging to both the Goddess and the statue depicting her—inspired by myths, carved out of marble—everyone gets to see the output; nobody gets to feel the mechanism but you. Thousands of hours of training and dancing condensed into lean muscle that locks on either side of your skull and could, if you don't hurry up and get on with it, end you.

But you're with the manifestos on this one—it'd be a perfect way to go. Heat coming off them in waves, obscene against your lips, all that tension gone soft and pliant the second your mouth's on her, flexing when she likes something, gripping when she likes it more—under your palms, against your jaw, clamping over your ears; two years deep and not one degree cooler about it.

Glory, glory, hallelujah.)

Your tongue drags higher. Slow. Taking stock along that honey-gold strip of skin. She tenses under your mouth—quads jumping—and her fingers in your scalp go from grip to claw.

She breathes, “You're unbelievable.”

“I've been told.”

“There's other places for your lips besides my legs you know—ah—”

The rest dissolves: you're busy running your tongue along the seam where leather draws a strict border against the plush of her thigh, finding the points where she's holding the most tension, that make her hips buck up, where the fabric is already warm and damp and about to get so much worse.

It earns you a warning: “You need to get these pants off me.”

“Give me a second.”

“You've had all night—”

“Shh.”

“Shh?”

“Let me appreciate you.”

“That’s what the concert was for, honey—”

“No, that was for everyone else,” you correct her, breathe it straight into the leather. “This—” You make a show of it, the séance you’re performing on your knees, spellbound by the tightest leather on the sweetest body. “These—are for me.”

She manages, barely, “Always.”

You nod, reverently. “So. Shorts. Stay on. For now.”

Tzuyu goes quiet. Breath hitches. Oh, she knows what it means, what you want. It moves through her, settles deep, has her relaxing against the door, parting her legs. “Fine.”

Hands hold her cheeks, digging in, the type of shit you revel in; putting your girl through this. Getting closer, deeper in that crevice, slowly, slowly, slow—until her thighs slap against your cheeks, a clapperboard calling action.

And then you put your mouth on leather. On her.

Sighs—turning into unhinged, sloppy sounds—eke through the gap between her thighs and your ears, knees drawing you in, lethal force, and this is one for the history books, something Darwinian, maybe that grave only has room for one; here lies you, suffocated with the biggest pussy-eating grin on your face, found choking on leather and your girlfriend's cum.

Zero complaints there, anyway.

“Oh fuck—”

“Quiet,” you say into her folds, even though experience tells you this word has had little success with Tzuyu; but, honestly, whatever fuels the kink.

“Trying—” she gasps, hips rolling against your face, proving your point. “But you've got a mouthful of my cunt and you're telling me to keep it down?”

“Mostly leather,” you hedge, but Tzuyu really is grinding hard—hard enough that the heat cuts sharp and precise. Press harder, force out more of these keens, ‘til she has to muffle herself with the back of her own hand.

Kneeling at her altar, getting where she's hottest—tongue dragging up and down the inside, lathering under the seams, working into the gap and getting torturously close; wetness already leaking through, running down; scoop it all up, suck it down, drink your holy communion and cherish every drop.

Exactly what she deserves (Tzuyu, the outfit, these thighs). So, so sensitive, it's so rude—a flicker of your tongue, a press of your lips, pure filth rumbled against her skin and she's gasping, writhing, the idol outline breaking, reconstructing into a shape a bit more pliable, dissolving into a soaked, sweat-drenched mess.

“It's always so easy for you isn't it? Hate how good it is—” and it comes out as a whimper, pleasant, tipsy slurring as Tzuyu's voice pitches higher, higher than please, for God's sake, keep it down this time; the very polite request Nayeon made that you fully intend to break.

Has you questioning the thickness of the door, reminiscing about Osaka, the last stop, when Tzuyu got so obscenely loud that Jeongyeon herself burst in to see if her group's dearly beloved youngest was being murdered—only to be yelled at: get the fuck out, he's killing me with his cock.

These thoughts get pocketed, to be added to later.

Nose pressing hard into the peak of her pussy—taking a long, selfish inhale; fingers holding firm against the muscle, lifting her ass off the door so she can sink further down your face.

“Please,” and she's getting desperate, fingers knotting in your hair, trying to hoist you in. “Take them off—I need your mouth on me, I need to feel you—”

“Not yet,” you tell her again, but she blathers on and on—how Tzuyu always gets—at her best and her worst; a bundle of needs arranged in a neat hierarchy, scratch that: it's just a fucked up ouroboros with your tongue at the beginning and the end and her thick thighs and her full-lipped cunt being looped through in the middle of it all.

With your mouth on her, it always is. Sucking bruises into her long legs, taking the skin between your teeth, marking the softest parts on her body, your declarations, her medals she gets to wear later—this is mine, this belongs to me; next concert she'll be forced into shorts cut far too high to hide them. The idea of it, the zoom on the lenses, the high-definition rendering; they'll see it and they'll figure it out: this goddess belongs to someone.

Her mantra confirms it: “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-pleaaaase—”

You don't slow—not yet—not until she's writhing against the wall and her thighs are clenching and unclenching around your head in a rhythm to match the high and whorish sounds slipping from her mouth. You can hear her start to weep, but her cunt is sprouting tears far quicker; against your chin, down your neck, soaking into the collar of your shirt—you haven't even touched her properly yet.

You'll correct that.

You leave her with one final, deliberate, hard suck of your lips against your favourite bruise. Leave the skin red and glowing with your spit. One gratuitous slap against the curves spilling from the back of her shorts, just to see the ripple.

Then you stand.

Tzuyu blinks slow, can't quite land it. She'd glare if she could aim it—slumped against the doorway, fixing on your lips—shiny, wrecked from your project on her thighs—to drag herself level.

Two fingers under her chin, tilting her face until she's looking at you, meeting your eyes—all that dazed awe pointed straight at you. A nod at the vanity in the corner. “Get over there. Turn around. Bend over. Hands on the counter.”

Tzuyu doesn't say a word. Barely breathes.

Bites her lip, nods, and stumbles her way over.

You track her—flushed, a little disappointed that you left enough integrity in her knees to make the trip. The wobble in her limbs, the stripe of sweat running down her spine, the small of her back, disappearing beneath the leather.

Your girl, your performer, your one and only idol; the most out of this world, hand to God, strike you down where you stand, beautiful woman you've ever been in the vicinity of. The outfit on its way to ruin: tight leather still doing its heroic work against her sweaty tits, hot-pants finding darker shades; midnight stained vantablack from your mouth, from her leaking through; hair coming loose—hours to build, minutes to take apart.

She braces herself on the counter, falling forward until her hands land with a soft thump. The mirror stretches across the wall in front of her, fogged slightly at the edges from the heat churning through the room, and she spots you staring through the glass. Gives you a show, whether she means to or not.

You watch her watch you in the reflection—the instinctual arch of her back as you step closer, habit pushing her ass out to receive you. Hands find her hips, thumbs into the sublime belt of skin above the waistband.

A push here and she preens.

Lips back where they belong; dragging up her spine, her throat, up the columns of temples built by worship alone, feeling the foundations, the muscles tense and flex underneath.

Closer and closer, slurping the sticky-sweetness pooling at the crevasse of her neck and shoulder, setting up camp under her ear, before pitching lower to drag over her jaw, her lips slacking open by themselves and you're going to wedge inside—

“Hurry.”

You breathe into her mouth, “What do you need?”

“You,” she sighs, an exhale, a relief. A kiss atop her chin, the tightening of your grip. She knows it's not enough. “Your mouth. Your hands. Wherever. Everywhere.”

“Everywhere? I've only got the two.” Hands drift higher, up her sides, around her back, slowly, torturously slow, working the lacing loose. Not for need of effort—you've long since learned your way around bobby-pins and double-sided tape and enough knots to make you a certified sailor.

“Anywhere—my—”

The final string comes undone. A shrug has the straps off her shoulders and the corset falling, pasties dropping with it. Leaving her bare from the waist up, and you get indulgent with it, take your time. Look up, into the mirror, take it in. Only for a second.

Accounting for all the best decisions in your life, and every past life too; rewards for time spent in previous reincarnations possibly as some celibate monk achieving enlightenment; only to find in the next leap that true nirvana is actually between Tzuyu's legs.

This current incarnation has you discovering exactly how far down the flush goes, splitting the difference between her breasts; the same ones that fill your hands, splay through your fingers—and they rise and fall, shrill inhales making them heave, nipples pebbling at just a brush of your fingertips.

And Tzuyu, finding her words, the simple, single-syllable vocabulary she has for you: “There—more—yes.”

Toying with them, flicking the peaks, waiting for the right stiffness to pinch. Sharp enough to make her hiss, then ask: “Enough for you?”

“God no,”—loud, decisive, helpless. A demand underneath a laugh. “Your cock. My pussy is literally in tears right now.”

You laugh into her shoulder.

“Weeping. It's so tragic.”

“But does it deserve it?”

“I don't—” and she checks your reflection, honestly considering it. “I don't know. But I do know what I'll do to you if we don't shut it up with your cock in the next minute, and it'll be significantly worse than what you're planning.”

That's more than enough of an answer. You step back, admire the damage. “We'll see about that.”

And the gasp when you free yourself—the button, the zipper, the jeans—because she's been so lost in herself that she's only just realising how much of an entire situation it's been for you since the very start.

You catch it all: the drag of her tongue over her lips, the bite that follows. The shudder, the pupils flooding dark when she sees you.

You say, “You did this.”

“Are you ever not so—” She fumbles, forgetting her words when she watches you step closer, resting the length of you atop her ass with a definitive slap. “So full.”

You lift her, adjust her so she's as tall as she can be—the heels help but don't have her quite high enough for your nefarious ideas; you hold her whole weight in your hands.

She reads your mind, tilts her head back against your shoulder and says, “Go on. Take me.”

Reaching around, popping the button of her shorts, the shudder as you drag them down, her drenched panties with them—over the swell of her hips, down her thighs, force them over the boots until she can kick them off and land them somewhere behind you.

And then it's just her, Tzuyu in knee-high boots and nothing else, long limbs bare and red and littered with your branding; red highlighted against cream, glistening from the slick and the spit.

You step forward, position, aim, level yourself with her. Thumbs press into her ass, parting the valley of her cheeks, edging her knees slightly apart. Fingers firm around her waist, holding her in place, the squeeze of her thighs.

You slide right between them.

“Oh my God—” Her head lifts, eyes clenched shut, fingers scrambling at the counter, knocking over all the pieces that helped put her together hours before, sending them tumbling to the floor. “Always so thick between my thighs.”

You groan, grunt, can't help it—the first slide is unholy. You see it all, watch it through the mirror; the head of your cock emerging from between her locked legs, coming out the other side slick and dark, and it's heat and softness and smooth all around, her cunt lathering you as you push through.

Slowly, carefully, the friction easing with every pass; the schlick sound of it filling the entire room.

“It's going to ruin me,” Tzuyu realises, feeling the way you throb between her, engorged and fighting against the grip of her muscles. “When this gets inside me it's going to fuck me up, isn't it?”

You pass by the rhetorical, focused on setting a rhythm. Something slow, paced, plenty of room to drag achingly along her cunt, let your cockhead push against her clit and force a bit of pressure with each thrust. And Tzuyu responds in kind, finds the motion at once—rolling her hips when you press forward, polishing your thickness with her juices, your cock properly lacquered and stained in budding girlcum.

“Your thighs,” you breathe into her ear, pulling her back against you, catching in the glass two people with unflinching grins on their faces, utterly fucked out of their minds. “Always showing them off, stadium after stadium, leaving them on everyone's mind. You know how many people are probably choking themselves over you right now, yeah?”

“I only care about one,” Tzuyu murmurs back, eyes blinking closed and open again, as if to double-check, maybe it's a dream, maybe the wrecked visage reflected in front of her is too blissful to be true—some bizzaro-doppelganger that just happens to look like her except in her sluttiest, most honest form; tall and proud and tits on display, nipples like pendulums with every thrust, swinging up and down.

“And look at them now. So perfect around my cock,” you grit out, her thighs twitching around you as if they have a mind of their own, pressing you in from either side, God. “It's genuinely insane.”

And the sigh, the quiver, the shudder when you tell her:

“You're made for this, Tzuyu.”

“I know,” she says, words turning into mud; formless, less coherent the more you push. “I know—it's so right. Feels so—fuck—you feel so good. This is all I've been thinking about since—”

“All show.”

“Before then,” and she smiles, laughs, because she has a secret she's been holding. “I knew it. Knew when they showed me this outfit. This ridiculous corset. Those tiny, tight shorts. I told the stylist straight away—this outfit is perfect.”

The smile, pure innocence concentrated into a lie that you almost believe. She rolls her ass back against you, dips her hips into that dangerous vector; the one where her thighs clench and angle your cock higher, where the head of your cock brushes against where she's most swollen, most shamelessly soaked; drinks down the look in your eyes when she does it again and again and again.

“Perfect to be ruined. Perfect to get fucked in. Perfect to make my thighs look so good for you.” The noise you thrust out of her next—a grunt, a throat cleared—enough to get the next words out clean: “Now tell me it was enough to get you to fuck me properly.”

You answer with speed—with force—pushing your cock right through, forcing her clit to flicker roughly, a guttural 'Christ'—from someone's lips—hers, yours, you can't parse it—as your hips piston right into her ass.

“Faster—I'm—” she starts, but you know; because you're melding at this point, sharing one mind, one slick, urgent rhythm that makes the vanity, the mirror, the bottles, the whole stadium seem to rattle.

Knuckles turn white, she's meeting you thrust for thrust now, pushing back against you; each and every time—cock slides through the squelch-smack-sploosh of it, head bumping against her clit, an obscene little kiss with each pass, a call met with a response in the form of a jerk or a whine or just the squeeze of her around you to let you know that yeah, she gets the message.

“Holy—close,” she gasps, grabbing the word and holding onto it like a lifeline—through the thrusting, the trembling thighs and ragged breaths and the way she's so wet your cock is just dripping with it. “So close, so close, don't stop—please—”

Not in a million fucking years.

You reach around, fill a palm with her tits, squeeze, pinch, bring her closer and twist just right to have her body in fits; a seizure that makes her knees buckle together and your vision blur for an instant—but it's enough.

She lifts up—higher, goes to the tops of her toes, as tall as her heels would allow, coming off your cock, letting the tip drag down to land at the centre of her, across her folds—settling against the only place it really belongs.

“Oh-wait-God-fuck-I'm-not—”

You pull her down, push right through that blistering-hot cumhole and thrust hard all the way in, full-length, every thick inch fed to her greedy cunt, and Tzuyu screams.

“God-yes-fuck-you—” and the expletives that follow, something filthy and loud that can't be stopped by any number of walls—and the one thought in your mind that isn't some variation of holy-shit-Tzuyu's-ridiculously-wet-cunt-is-choking-my-cock knows Nayeon's going to have some words about this later.

But her pussy pulses, fights your cock thrashing against its walls; Tzuyu snapping shut around you so hard you can barely move, and she cums and cums and cums; her head thrown back, hair draping over your shoulder; wailing, moaning, cursing your name and your cock and your ancestors and the fact that this is only the first time you've made her cum today and you owe her so, so much more.

Squeezing and wrenching and desperately trying to milk you with every devastating method it has in its arsenal—but you don't fall with it, you don't finish it.

Yeah, God, of course you want to, you're right there, legs dangling off the cliff—but you're not done with her yet, not even close.

So you just hold her against you, let her shake, let her cunt flutter so heavenly around your shaft, her abs flex and quiver under one palm, her heart leaping out of her chest and through the lovely tit you've got a firm grip on. Let her drool onto your shoulder, tongue, mouth gone slack and eyes glassy, looking up at you because it is—reliably, catastrophically—and it bears repeating—every goddamn time.

You twist her, cock slipping out a few solid inches and she makes a sound of loss that would fit in a funeral dirge; but yeah, you just want to kiss her, something rough and claiming, to help her swallow the broken sobs she's still making.

And she kisses you back, desperate, like she wants to hurt you with her tongue and her lips, teeth catching your lower lip; hands, fingers, fingernails clawing at your skin and your hair and there really is only one thing left to say:

“Inside me,” she spits into your mouth; words of a woman who is owed a grand railing and is ready to call in the whole account, backdated to the day you met, “I need your cum inside me. Now.”

She reads the stupid smirk on your face. Bites your lip again.

Again: “Now.”

You step back, length completely sliding out of her; cunt-drool keeping you tethered to her pussy lips.

Tzuyu groans, nearly collapses against the mirror.

“Then earn it, Tzuyu.”

There's little room left for grace, you manage what you can; an awkward-four-legged crab walk because Tzuyu's still shaking and needs you to support her weight as you collapse onto the couch.

A thud and you're seated, Tzuyu falling into your lap; your flawless girl, tits level with your lips, thighs bracketing either side of yours, cunt juice streaming down the plane, and her hands on your shoulders, bracing for what's next.

“Needed this,” Tzuyu sighs; cradling your head closer to her chest, welcoming the tongue that snakes out, rolls around a nipple, the teeth grazing the sensitive slope of her tits.

You jerk your hips, drag your cock through her folds—not inside, not yet—and she grits out your name. “I know.”

“No—you don't,” she tells you, smile on her face, wistful and pretty and she's just melting into your hands on her hips. “You know how hard it was to not go looking for you? All day I thought about—fuck—thought about finding you. Getting on my knees,” she closes her eyes, bringing herself back to some half-remembered dream. “Wanted to take your cock deep and drink you dry and fill my belly full of your cum—but I had to stop. Do you want to know why?”

You don't need to respond; you know the real answer, can feel it thrumming through her.

Tzuyu nods, slow, languid. Leaning in, dipping her head, breath hot against your jaw like she's letting you in on a private confession, something she'd only admit through the longest, sweetest torture. “I wanted you desperate. Hard all day. Needed you thinking about nothing else but me and my mouth and my cunt and my thighs.”

Your cock's fighting your own willpower, levelling with her entrance, you can feel the pulse of her meeting your throb; beads of precum slitting out of your cockhead ready to make the leap into her cunt. It's a game of millimetres at this point—a slip of your hands, a twitch of her hips, a slight fucking breeze; all it would take to break her.

“So I think I deserve a reward—for being so good for you, don't I? Or maybe you're mad at me for not taking your cock sooner—you can tell me I've been bad, that I need to pay you back, that I owe you—” Tzuyu's lips skate across your chin, doing their wicked work, inhaling every wisp of desperation and pure insatiable need that's been simmering underneath your skin all day. “Please, go ahead and put me in my place.”

“Fine.”

A forced exhale—wind knocked out from her lungs and into yours; cunt parting around you hot and slick and Jesus Christ she's so fucking tight, but you drive through it, wrenching her down while forcing yourself up and by the time you're fully hilted there's just one high, continuous sound she's making—a choir of wails, sobs, cries; a blissful chorus.

Her hips tilt to draw you deeper, thighs locking around your waist and there's the whole of your interior life, mind returning to one reliable verdict—you can't help it—death, taxes, and the combination of both when you collect what you’ve been dying for from Tzuyu's tiny, pink pussy and fill her so completely she can launch a one-woman investigation into the existence of the afterlife herself.

And you know her, know your girl, she wants to be more eloquent about it, wants to find a better way to convey how good you're railing her right now—so easily, firm quick strokes gliding in and out of her blistering cunt; guided by your hands holding her waist steady, but all she can manage is the high-level shit, the words that don't really matter but the effort to make them is Herculean nevertheless: “There—God—there—fuck—please—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

You hold her, fuck into her, just watching her—this ideal idol, letting your thighs slap against hers, punishing the muscle; absorbing all the details, the classified information that never leaves your desk.

Her face when you bottom out; the squeeze of her eyes, the slacking of her jaw, this euphoric grin dancing across her lips. Her tits and their heft, the bounce with every stroke—putting a hand back on one, filling your palm whole; the thought there—did you mold them, or were they tailor-made for you—or really, who gives a fuck because a squeeze makes her squeal so delightfully and you know that if you roll it she'll clench, cunt will pulse once, twice, around you and her head will drop back and she'll tell you again—

“More—there—”

“Yeah?”

And mumbling, fumbling around the back of her pretty head, sorting through all the things that may have existed there before you started filling it with thoughts of your cock, diving deep for the words and somehow managing to string them together—”Both—please—your hands, mouth, whatever—touch me more—”

You return your teeth to the other and her volume pitches; whips its way around the room, like it's searching for the cracks, the little gaps under the doorway so it can sneak into the corridor, down the hall—reaching for someone, anyone who can acknowledge how thoroughly you satisfy Chou Tzuyu's cunt.

“Your cock is so damn good,” she breathes; and that's all there really is, plain and simple, the why of it all.

What you've always known—sure you're helplessly, embarrassingly, probably-going-to-ask-her-to-marry-you-eventually down bad for her, even though you both know that you really are.

It's this—pounding Tzuyu's insides and being thanked for it. Her grip, her heat; not just her tits, her whole body, glorious thighs and all; engineered with this application in mind; an absurdly deranged thought to conjure—a decade of discipline, of investment, liquidated against your cock; an endpoint to just bounce mercilessly.

You remind her of it too: “Forty thousand people,” you mark the record into the underside of her tits.

“Please—”

“Every single one of them.”

“I know—please—I know—don't stop—”

“Going home right now,” you drive into her, shattering her on the downstroke, coming back together when you pull her up, just to break her into pieces again when you impale her completely. “Dreaming about these thighs—this body—this tight cunt stretching around me so nice.”

She's just properly gushing now, unashamedly messy with it; from her cunt, down your cock, past the crevasses of her thighs slapping on top of yours and ruining the couch below, but so what, sell it online or something; a Tzuyu-fied cum-stained couch; the sweaty outlines of your fucked, formless bodies on the cushions, would make a great centrepiece in any international gallery.

But anyway, back to the obvious: “It's all fucking mine,” and before you even have to tack on the end of it the question, Tzuyu's already picking up what you're putting down—

“All of it,” she says, just holding herself by your shoulders now, digging herself in, fastening herself down for the storm, “Yours”—once, pounded out of her—“Yours”—again, but broken, shattered; losing its footing in her lexicon. “Only you—only for you.”

And the other thing, what's left when it all slips: the composed, picture-perfect idol facade vacated, checked out, no lens in the world able to catch what's underneath. Just her and her wanton needs—fucked raw, fucked hard, wrung dry and left boneless. If she can walk or make words, or remember her name after this you've fucked up, because this was always her scheme: she chose the outfit, laced herself up in straight-up mainlined sin knowing you'd tear it off, spent all those hours on that stage with this exact destination in mind; so, yeah, hurry the fuck up—pick up the pace.

The couch jostles, fights the wall behind it, the carpet underneath. Something crashes to the floor, rolls off a table, never even mattered. Tzuyu stops holding back, the words come out clean, no longer minced; it was only ever a matter of time, because she's finally getting what she needs and yeah, the whole room, all of backstage, her groupmates down the corridor; no doubt are all well fucking aware.

A problem for later, you suppose.

“They can't imagine,” she says, unique to just her when she's at the end, more coherent, not less. “My tiny pussy—filled so—fucking—deep,” breathlessly, urgently, getting off on saying it, getting off on knowing it's getting you off too, “Stretched—ruined—a big cock full of cum saved just for me.”

Using her in every way girls like her should never be, but pussies like hers are built for—fucktoy, fleshlight, cocksleeve on long legs—holy fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I deserve it—don't I? A nice load, deep inside,” whimpering, proper quiver in her lip, and a last beg for good measure; loading her ammo, cocking her gun, finger on the trigger, “Can't stop—like that—don't you dare—”

Like you could—”Not going anywhere,” you remind her, holding on to where she's flickering between hard and soft; Tzuyu, hot as fuck all over and even hotter when she cums and tells you—

“Harder—”

Trying to—

“Fuck me—”

You're there—

“Please—please—please—”

She only needs to ask once because her cunt is divine, wrapped around you and leaving you with nowhere to go but up and down, back and forth; fucking her with nothing but terrible, wonderful intention until your hand is under her hip, slapped across her ass, forcing her to change the angle so she goes completely rigid and oh—oh—oh fuck—

“So—gah—good—”

Running straight through it—keep the angle; drive harder. The arch of her spine, lifting herself up, abs peeling off your waist and there's a gap, the opportunity—thumb back on her clit and she's clenching around you in warning pulses.

Thighs locking around your waist, hairline fractures in your hipbones, her body winding up—she's—you can feel her everywhere.

A wet choke, a stunned gasp, cunt swallows, gushes, inks something with her cum down the veins of your cock and she says it in case you miss it—

“Fuck—how the fuck do you make me cum so—”

Hitting her, tearing her apart—long, so loud—like she never stopped, and maybe she hadn't; been on that frequency since you first pushed inside her, and it'd make sense—her pupils at that dreamy sheen, stars in her eyes, shot into the stratosphere on your cock—and yeah, you'll take it, die with it, leap off the truck and declare WITNESS MEEEEE for all to see.

But she's not done. Yeah, she's fucked open and out, but her pussy's got other ideas, and her mind's on the same wavelength.

“Yours,” she says, fierce, needy, petulant; the princess turned brat, a rare, precious occurrence. “Give me yours—all of it—now—please—inside—”

And she keeps demanding, the sounds getting worse and better simultaneously; run out of proper onomatopoeia for her cunt on your cock, inventing brand-new ones to make up for it; her moans are climbing back up to join the fray. Despite it all, despite that she's just cum, she's oversensitive, rattling with it, but still taking it anyway, pulling it from you—gorgeous in every way, every inch, every configuration—what you get when you take Tzuyu from the stage and fuck her this hard and for this long and she clearly does not give a fuck that she's literally crying for your cock and cum and cannot stop—

“I'm begging for you to—”

“I'm here,” and her pussy milks it out of you, twists, pulls, grips—long rolling quivers around you. You're sunken deep into her, can't move, can't do anything but twitch and you don't know when you started but you're kissing her hard, groaning into her throat and following her over.

In the midst of it, cock spasming inside her, detonation on either side of your timeline—was there a before, is there an after? Or is there just this, now; soul leaving your body and flooding this ludicrously tight, hot cunt and—where were you again, what's your fucking name even—do you even care to find out because this gorgeous, unbelievable, unreal girl has got you in the sweetest embrace, lips, arms, pussy and all; clearly working through her own aftershocks, draining every last drop and stray thought out of you, and it goes on and on, and her legs are holding you there and it goes on a little longer.

White—at the edges, her cunt, your vision, it's all the same at this point; just fucking it all into her, stuffing her full, bulging her tight belly with you whole; all of you, all of the future yous too and what do you have to say for yourself:

“Take my fucking cum, Tzu—”

And what does she have in response?

“So much—all mine—God, fill me, please—”

It comes back gradually.

Names, places, details colouring the edges.

Tzuyu—small, floating on air, hovering on your cock, eyes half-lidded, glazed, satisfied; something that leans narcotic. Faint tears tracking down her cheeks, somehow reaching your tongue, or it's her sweat, or yours; but it's just hot and salty and that just about sums up the both of you.

You feel her heartbeat coming down against yours; survey the damage, the mascara that survived an entire concert but couldn't make it past this, the hair that's been reset and tangled and still looks wonderfully her. The corset was left by the mirror. The shorts surrendered somewhere close by.

“Could you ever—” Tzuyu comes to life, first to speak, let you know that she's still with you in the land of the living. “Fuck me normally?”

You laugh. “What's that like?”

“Like, leave me with some dignity.” She shifts; the ooze of cum, the exaggerated pornographic audio that accompanies it as it seeps out around the seal of her perfect plump pussy-lips glued to your cock proves her point.

“Sounds boring.”

“It would leave us with a lot less explaining to do,” she says, and you're already on clean-up duty, thumb to her cheek, wiping away the stragglers there; piece-by-piece, reassembling this demolished dream of a girl.

“To who?”

Tzuyu gives you a look.

“I think we're well past that,” you say, rattling down your list; “Nayeon, definitely. Sana can't say shit after what she got up to in Paris.”

“I know, but—”

“Momo literally fist-bumped me in the hallway and said, See you in Valhalla, brother,” and that has Tzuyu snorting into your neck, adorable, winning, her; still all wet and shaking and in tears from how hard she came.

Another lazy squeeze of her walls around you, habitual milking at this point, and she sighs, repeating, “Valhalla, Christ.”

“Legitimately.”

And she tests her muscles around you again, intentionally this time, and you throb back, and you're steering the car back onto the road now, putting things back on the most obvious paths—”You're going to give me a reputation.”

“It'll look great alongside mine,” you muse, drag your palms up those thighs once more, thumbing the damage, the territory marked and yeah; the stylist, make-up artists, she's gonna get a real talking to. “We can compare notes.”

She adjusts, twists; obscene, and more of your load starts to run, messy, dripping down her folds and onto your lap, waiting to be fucked right back into her; it's an intersection of indecency—pretty, fucked-up, dangerous.

Tzuyu in a nutshell.

Noticing: “You're still hard.”

Noticing back: “You're still sitting on it.”

Rolling her hips once, experimental, having you both groaning, moaning in stereo. She reads your face and knows what's coming next.

“How long do you think before Jeongyeon comes knocking again?” And it's already published by the time you say it—posted, trending, bookmarked—out there to be read and thumbed through—she's giggling all girlish and cute, you're laughing dark and low; she's getting flipped onto her back, pressed into the couch cushions that once had bigger aspirations than this.

Those thighs—again; downright incredible things, run out of words to bless them, just holy fuck do they spread so nicely, automatically falling open, heels in the air, knees hooked high over your shoulders. Tzuyu, Tzuyu, Tzuyu—built to be handled exactly like this.

A look in her eyes, the adoration there, the only lovers left alive of it all, the I'll hold your hand and jump off the cliff with you if you'd just lead me, has you thinking all sorts of romantic shit: I love you, marry me, let's maybe finish up by doing something dumb to make this something permanent.

But the comments are in your head again, so:

“I'm going to die between those thighs.”

Tzuyu cocks an eyebrow, you're just reciting the obvious. “Good.”

“Yeah?”

“I'll sit on your face in the afterlife too.”

“Hell of a way to spend eternity,” and you're already moving, laughing, tongue wrestling her down but there's no need, she was, is, always has been; apparently forever will be even after you're bones and dust—yours.

Hand on her thigh, one last time for good measure, pressing your fingerprints into the give of it, stamping off on a job well fucked, and she has to say: “Baby, you are so, ridiculously—”

Jiyoo

Her voice was bright, her smile easy, but her entire head was wrapped up like she was going undercover in a spy movie.

A black beanie pulled down to her brows, a grey hoodie pulled over that, and a tightly braided ponytail hidden beneath the layers not a single strand of her new hair visible to the world.

She wasn’t taking any chances. Not when Oreo Jiyoo 2.0 was set to be revealed soon.

Jiyoo sat cross legged at her little dorm table, sipping slowly on her green tea smoothie, cheeks still flushed from her earlier vocal warmups. Her room was cozy, dimly lit by fairy lights and a candle that smelled faintly like citrus and cream. The soft hum of the air purifier in the background only made things feel more relaxed as she watched the live comments scroll by.

UNNIE IS THAT A HAT ON A HAT??

SUS. WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?

IS THAT A NEW COLOR I SENSE???

YOURE GLOWING WHY DO YOU LOOK SO HAPPY LATELY

She laughed, biting down on her straw before finally speaking again.

“Okay, okay! You caught me,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes. “Yes, I’m layered up. No, I’m not bald. No, I’m not joining a biker gang. And yes, I have something to hide.”

More chaos in the comments. Someone typed.

COMEBACK SPOILER OR WE RIOT 😤

She giggled at that.

“Hmmm…” she tapped her fingers against the smoothie cup, eyes glinting mischievously. “Let’s just say…this comeback?” She leaned in just a little toward the camera. “It’s not what you’re expecting.”

Pause.

“In fact…” she drew it out, sipping loudly on her straw, “things might get a little darker.” Cue instant explosion in the comment section.

DARKER?????

SHE’S GOING BAD GIRL MODE

NOT OUR SWEETHEART 😭😭

I’M NOT SURVIVING THIS COMEBACK

Jiyoo covered her mouth to hide her grin, shoulders shaking from laughter.

“I didn’t say anything! I didn’t confirm anything!” she protested with faux innocence. “Don’t make those edits yet!”

She leaned back in her chair, tucking her knees to her chest, eyes scanning the flood of messages. The love, the chaos, the freak outs, they filled her chest with warmth she hadn’t felt in a while.

Sure, there were antis. There were always antis. But her fandom Dreamiz they had stuck with her through every glittery, pastel covered era. Maybe they’d love her now too. Maybe they’d love her even more when she finally looked the way she felt.

Different. Grown. Herself.

“I can’t wait for you to see it,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

And then, with a wink and a smirk she never would’ve dared a year ago, she added, “Let’s just say…princesses can be dangerous, too.”

Then she waved goodbye.

And shut the live off with her heart beating loud and fast like the countdown to a secret finally about to detonate.

(A few days later) Concept Trailer + Photo Shoot Day

The water was cold. Shallow, rippling gently as the wind from the overhead fans swept across the studio. It soaked through the white silk of her dress, clinging to her skin like whispered secrets.

The world around her was dim, everything black or silver, save for the spotlight on her. The artificial pool reflected just enough light to look like a mirror cracked beneath her, shimmering every time she moved. Her soaked sleeves draped down like gossamer threads, and her hair long, straight, jet black with streaks of blonde woven through like ribbons of moonlight hung in a curtain down her back.

She looked nothing like Korea’s Sweetheart.

She looked like temptation.

No, she looked like she knew it.

Jiyoo leaned back onto her elbows, shifting her hips slightly, legs curled beneath the silk fabric in a pose that screamed power without a single raised voice. Her eyes, once trained to sparkle with innocence, were dark now. Shadowed. Lidded with purpose.

“Perfect hold that. Don’t move.”

Flash.

“A little chin tilt...yes, good.”

Flash.

From behind the monitor, her main manager, Kang Daejin, a thirty something man who often stressed more about her shoots than she did was grinning ear to ear. “That’s it, Jiyoo. That’s the cover shot right there!”

She didn’t break the expression. She just shifted again, liquid and slow, arching her neck as her fingers dragged along the surface of the water in a ripple. One pose, another, a third no hesitation. Being a child model had taught her how to hold a look for twenty frames. Being an idol had taught her how to weaponize it.

Now?

Now she was using both.

The set crew moved around her, the camera clicking with precision, the air thick with energy. Dark. Seductive. Siren like. The very concept they had been whispering about for weeks was now alive in the studio and she was the center of it.

And somewhere near the corner of the room, he was watching.

Ni-ki.

She hadn’t noticed him at first. Not when the lights were set and the director had gone over the moodboard and Kang Daejin had clapped his hands like an excited father on graduation day. But now, under the flashing lights and constant posing, her eyes drifted just once.

He stood with his arms crossed, his usual all black outfit making him fade into the wall. His expression unreadable. Sharp.

But he was watching her.

Not just glancing, watching.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

They had been working together for a month now. Endless dance sessions. Freestyles. Redos. Bickering without ever really saying anything. And while she hated to admit it...he was brilliant. Ruthless. A machine when it came to making her better. He spoke more with a glare than with words. Treated her like a project, not a person.

Still, he looked at her differently lately.

And it made her nervous.

Not because she liked it, she didn’t. At least, she told herself she didn’t.

But because she couldn’t figure him out.

What had she done to make him so cold? Why did he glare when she walked into a room? Why did he act like she was beneath him yet never missed a single practice or rehearsal?

He was infuriating. The kind of person who could cut you down with one sentence and then act like he never said it. A walking red flag with perfect rhythm and stupidly long eyelashes.

She should’ve kicked him in the shins by now.

And yet, here he was watching her, lips pressed tight, as if her soaked silhouette on the black water offended him personally.

She smirked as she turned her face away from him, letting her eyes go half lidded again. Her cheek rested against her shoulder, mouth parted slightly as she posed like a siren waiting for someone to drown.

Let him watch.

Let everyone watch.

Because Roe Jiyoo was finally becoming who she was always meant to be which was mature, mysterious, powerful.

And Dreamiz? They were going to devour this.

“Cut!” the director called. “Reset for the next round.”

Jiyoo slowly sat upright, brushing her fingers along the surface of the water. She kept her gaze forward, not once sparing Ni-ki a glance.

But she felt it.

His eyes.

And somehow, for the first time in her career…she didn’t feel alone under the spotlight.

Ni-ki

He stood near the back wall, arms folded over his chest, blending in with the dark of the set like he belonged to the shadows more than the spotlight.

And she was in the middle of it. Literally glowing.

The first time Ni-ki met Roe Jiyoo, he pegged her as just another overhyped idol with a too pretty face and too little bite. Her resume was long, her fans were insane, and her stage presence, while decent never impressed him. All eyes, no soul. All smiles, no fire.

But that wasn’t what he was seeing now.

Because right now?

She looked like sin wrapped in silk.

The siren concept was a stretch when her company first pitched it, he even laughed out loud when he read the email. But now, as she leaned back into that shallow pool of water, soaked and shining and looking straight into the lens like she owned it, Ni-ki felt his jaw tighten.

His mouth was dry.

God help him.

He’d been attracted to women before, plenty. Gorgeous models, dancers, idols with a thousand compliments and zero mystery. He liked beautiful things. Who didn’t?

But Jiyoo?

Jiyoo had the kind of beauty that made your brain short circuit before your eyes even adjusted.

And worse, she was starting to match it.

The way she carried the new choreo, the way she adapted to his corrections, the way she bit her tongue when he threw another jab her way, it all grated on him more than it should. Because every time he thought she was going to fold, she stood taller. Every time he thought she’d get something wrong, she got it right.

He didn’t want her to impress him.

But she did.

Every damn day.

Still, it meant nothing.

He was here for a job. Three more months and he was out. Once the tour wrapped and the concept cycle died down, she’d go back to being Korea’s Sweetheart and he’d go back to being unreachable.

Simple.

Clean.

Untangled.

His eyes flicked to her again.

The silk clung to her curves like it was stitched to her skin, hair dripping down her back in black and blonde lines like ink in water. She posed without fear, without shame, without any trace of the pastel princess she used to be.

And Ni-ki, annoyed, tired, mildly dehydrated realized something he hadn’t been able to admit until right now.

She was cut out for this.

For the stage. For the pressure. For the transformation.

She was the real deal.

Not that he’d tell her.

Not in this life.

He scoffed under his breath and turned his head away just as she shifted poses again, his fingers tightening slightly around the can of his energy drink. One second longer and he might’ve actually said something encouraging and that was dangerous territory.

Let her keep shining. Let the cameras love her. Let her think he hates her if it keeps the boundary sharp.

Because whatever this is?

It’s temporary.

And he’d rather lose his voice than let her know otherwise.

Jiyoo

Jiyoo’s thumbs hovered over the screen of her phone as her heart pounded loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of her dorm room heater. It was past midnight, but she wasn’t even close to sleep, not with her concept photos having dropped hours ago, and the music video for her first track going live.

Her fans had no idea what hit them.

Hell, she had no idea what hit her.

Her screen was flooded with TikTok edits, reaction videos, dance covers already surfacing under the #QueenmakerChallenge tag. Instagram was a battlefield of stunned comments and screenshots. YouTube was on fire. Her name was trending globally. And at the center of it all the video for her new track,

Queenmaker.

A title that was more than just a name. It was a message.

A warning.

You built your throne off my back, now you begging at my feet, baby, oohoh.

That line played over and over in her head. The way she’d stared straight into the camera when she sang it. The way the choreography pulled every ounce of control out of her, hips guiding the air, hands gripped by backup dancers only to twist out of their hold, eyes glazed and dangerous in every close up.

It wasn’t innocent.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was her.

The video was dark, mature, and calculated. Every movement choreographed to perfection thanks to Ni-ki, that emotionally constipated tyrant and somehow she managed to take all that fire he threw at her and turn it into art.

There was a scene, the scene right before the final chorus where she was dipped low by one of the male dancers, his hand secure on her waist as her fingers brushed his jaw. Eyes locked. Breath slow. That split second intimacy, that tension, had Dreamiz screaming and the rest of the world paying attention.

And now here she was. Curled up on her dorm bed in a hoodie and shorts, a green tea smoothie half melted on her nightstand, watching strangers dissect every frame like it was gospel.

SHE’S NOT A PRINCESS ANYMORE SHE’S A FCKN QUEEN.

This is mature pop perfection.

Yall cant tell me Ni-ki didn’t choreograph this because this dance is lethal.

I’ve never seen her do it like this.

She’s unrecognizable and I’m here for it.

I didn’t know I needed a heartbreak revenge album, but here we are.

And of course, mixed in were the anti-fans, clutching pearls, crying over how she 'changed,' how 'unfit' the concept was, how 'too much skin' or 'too intense' it was for Korea’s sweetheart.

She didn’t care.

Okay, maybe she did care.

Her stomach was still twisting, hands slightly clammy as she scrolled.

She wasn’t used to this kind of attention not for who she was, but for what she made. And this comeback wasn’t a performance, it was a statement. She wrote half of the album herself. She fought tooth and nail for the visuals, the dance, the message. Ni-ki had bulldozed the princess and built something new in her place.

And Jiyoo, quiet, lonely Jiyoo had never felt more seen.

Her heart stuttered when she saw one of the top comments on the MV. She’s not just Korea’s sweetheart anymore. She’s the woman everyone’s scared to want and desperate to be.

Her breath caught.

Maybe…maybe that’s what she always wanted.

Not just to be adored. But to be respected.

To be craved.

(Few days later)

The bass thrummed through the floorboards of the M Countdown stage, but it wasn’t louder than the screaming fans packed into the audience. The second the lights dimmed and the opening instrumental hit, the atmosphere changed. Everyone knew this wasn’t just any comeback stage.

This was Roe Jiyoo’s reintroduction.

And she walked out like she owned the world.

White. The color of innocence except there was nothing pure about the way the fabric clung to her body like a second skin. Her dress was sleeveless, sculpted to her curves, delicate folds and shimmer catching every spotlight. Her hair was curled into tight glossy waves that spilled down her back, still touched with hints of blond. Her red lipstick was bold, unapologetic. A siren’s mouth dressed for sin.

The crowd lost it.

Her dancers, five men dressed in black fell into formation behind her as the first verse began. Her mic was live. Her vocals were crisp. Velvet and honey. She sang like a woman who had the world at her feet and dared someone to challenge her.

You want my crown

You wore it once, forgot who gave it to you

Now you crawl back, saying you always knew.

The choreography hit harder in real life than in the MV. Each step was sharp. Every glance deliberate. She let the male dancers touch her waist, grip her arm, guide her into dips and lifts with hazy precision and yet, she was the one in control the entire time. She led the dance, bending the moment around her body and her voice.

The audience screamed, but her focus was locked. She hit the mirror wall moment where she stared at her reflection and smirked before shattering the glass with a punch.

She knew what this performance was doing.

She could feel her manager, Daejin, and stylist noona Leena watching from the wings with wide eyes and half held breath. She could practically feel Ni-ki’s glare boring into the side of her head somewhere backstage making sure she doesn't make one mistake. He wouldn’t say anything. But he’d seen the fire she walked onstage with. She knew he had.

The bridge hit, the dancers lifted her gently, twirling her in the air before she landed on one heel and dragged a palm up her neck, voice dipping into the final chorus.

So kiss my ring, bow down slow

I’m not yours, but you’re still mine though.

The lights flared red. The camera cut close. She hit her final pose, hand on her hip, eyes dead into the lens, lips parted.

The room exploded.

As the music faded out and the stage lights dimmed, the only thing she could hear was the echo of her name and the frantic screaming of fans who had just realized this wasn’t a comeback.

It was a coronation.

And Roe Jiyoo was their Queen.

The sound of her name being announced as Best Song of the Week still rang in her ears, even as the trophy rested in her hands, light and heavy all at once. It felt surreal. Not her first win ever, no, but this was different. This win was hers. Not for a love ballad. Not for a pretty concept.

This was for Queenmaker. For her story.

Backstage was chaotic in the best way with staff shuffling, cameras flashing, microphones being passed around but Jiyoo stood with her trophy hugged to her chest, her cheeks still pink from adrenaline and joy. The moment was golden, and it only got brighter when familiar faces began to gather around her.

“Roe Jiyoo!”

The unmistakable voice of Karina from aespa rang out as she rushed up, eyes shining. “You ate. I’m still trying to recover. Like, what was that?”

Jiyoo laughed softly. “It was murder, apparently,” she teased. “Thank you, seriously.”

Karina shook her head dramatically. “No, you don’t get it. You’ve always been amazing but this? This was like watching Beyoncé come back from the grave and she’s not even dead!”

Before Jiyoo could respond, Chaewon from LE SSERAFIM stepped in beside them. “You didn’t just perform,” she said, cool and serious as always, “you dominated. I got chills when you hit that last note.”

“Oh my god, me too!” Hanni from NewJeans said as she popped into the group, her dimples deep as she grinned. “I was screaming in the dressing room, I almost got in trouble!”

Jiyoo laughed again, soft and glowing. Her free hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You guys are too nice. I was terrified the whole time.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “If that was you terrified, then what the hell do the rest of us do? Retire?”

“I second that,” Chaewon murmured with a deadpan smile, before gently touching Jiyoo’s arm. “You’re the standard now, unnie.”

Jiyoo smiled shyly, her lips curling. “Thank you. Really. I don’t take this lightly, your words mean so much.”

As they chatted more, a few male idols came over to congratulate her too. Yeonjun from TXT gave her a fist bump and told her she “completely wrecked it,” while Vernon from SEVENTEEN gave a polite nod and said “it was like watching art move.”

The younger idols who passed by all bowed respectfully, some whispering “sunbaenim” in awe as they glanced at her and the trophy. Jiyoo kept thanking them, bowing, touching arms lightly in gratitude, her signature warm smile never once fading.

Behind her, Soo-mi was watching from a distance, proud beyond words, while Manager Daejin was already swatting away another PD asking for an interview extension.

But Jiyoo just stood there, surrounded by praise and warmth, her name buzzing on every tongue.

Roe Jiyoo. Korea’s Sweetheart turned Queen.

And tonight, she finally felt like one.

Ni-ki

Two weeks ago, she won Best Song. Last week, Best Choreography. He wasn’t surprised by either.

Queenmaker was a solid track, decent production, fire lyrics, catchy hook. But that choreography? That was him. His stamp. His spine. His blood, sweat, and scuffed Nikes.

So yeah, the trophy didn’t shock him. What did surprise him mildly was her little speech.

“…and special thanks to Nishimura Riki, who pushed me harder than I wanted but exactly how I needed.”

It was sweet. Too sweet. Fake sweet. And yet he remembered every word.

Now, standing in LAX after twelve hours of turbulence and too many rewatched action movies, he drags his duffel bag off the private plane steps with a sigh and a deep stretch. One week down, four to go. Four weeks of city hopping, stage prepping, babysitting Korea’s favorite problem child. Then freedom.

Or something like it.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but when she steps off the plane, she looks different. Even now, in low rise jeans, a tucked black blouse, and oversized shades, she radiates celebrity energy. Hair loose, flowing like it was styled midflight by angels. She stops, poses effortlessly in front of the hired photographers like she’s on a Vogue runway, hand daintily perched on the handle of her designer suitcase.

The flashbulbs go off in waves. He exhales through his nose.

The moment the staff nods for her to move, she switches back into professional mode. Polite waves, measured steps, the same smile she always wears when in public, just a few watts dimmer than the one she gives onstage. Still, she pulls it off like a pro.

They start walking, the staff fanning out behind her like loyal pawns as they push through the terminal toward the awaiting L.A. air SUVs.

Fans are waiting of course lining the ropes, phones out, voices high pitched and excited. But it’s not Korea. The fans here don’t shove. They don’t claw. No one grabs her wrist like they did at Incheon, no one nearly loses a limb to bodyguards.

That Korean fan who got yeeted across the sidewalk still plays in Ni-ki’s head sometimes...what a launch. He almost laughed, but, y’know, professionalism.

Here, the fans just scream.

“Jiyoo we love you!”

“Dreamiz forever!”

“Show us the Oreo hair!”

“Ni-ki! Marry her!”

He snorts. No thanks.

But still…he watches her. A few feet ahead, waving over her shoulder, the edge of her smile relaxing for the first time since they left Seoul. She’s not tensed up. Not gripping her bag like it’s a lifeline. Just walking.

Relieved.

He catches the tiny breath she lets out, like she’s finally inhaling freedom again.

And for a flicker of a second barely a heartbeat he thinks about how much of her life is just…performance. Polished poses, perfect soundbites, pretending she’s okay.

Then the thought’s gone.

Just a job. Just a client. Just four more weeks.

And then he’ll never have to see her again.

Unless he replays that awards show speech in his head at night again. Which he won’t. Obviously.

-

It’s not the jet lag keeping him up.

It’s her.

The paper thin hotel walls, because of course they’re thin do little to muffle the soft, uneven breaths from the room beside his. The occasional sniff. A drawn in gasp. The unmistakable, delicate sounds of someone trying not to cry.

Again.

It’s been two nights since they arrived in L.A. Two nights of rehearsals, venue walk throughs, room service, and a perfectly civil group dinner with staff.

No drama. No screaming fans. No crazy schedules. Just quiet. Or it should be.

But no. Korea’s sweetheart is crying in her five star hotel room, again. And the walls are making sure he knows about it.

He throws an arm over his eyes. Maybe she stubbed her toe. Maybe she's just hormonal. Maybe it’s some dumb emotional breakdown over a missed text or a commercial that reminded her of a dog.

He doesn’t care. He tells himself he doesn’t care.

But then.

Another muffled sob. Louder this time. Like she’s trying to drown herself in her pillow and failing miserably.

That’s it.

He sits up sharply, the sheets crumpling beneath him. Yanks on the hoodie slung over the chair, grabs his key card, and slams the door open with more force than necessary. The hallway’s quiet, carpeted and dim under warm lights, but his blood is boiling as he takes the five steps to her door and pounds his fist against it.

“Open the door.”

One knock.

Two.

Three sharp slams.

He doesn’t raise his voice yet but there’s zero patience in his tone. The pounding is aggressive enough to rattle the hinge. He’s a calm guy by nature. Stoic. Cold, even. But the crying? The constant late night, invisible heartbreak behind the wall? It’s digging under his skin like splinters.

"Jiyoo," he snaps, voice low. "I'm not doing this all tour. You either open the door or stop crying loud enough for the entire damn floor to hear."

He waits.

And yeah maybe he sounds like an asshole. But he's not the one ruining people's sleep with tears she refuses to explain.

This better be good. Or he’s walking back to his room and blasting music until the walls shake back.

The door opens with a hesitant click.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, maybe full glam maybe the same confident siren who danced like she owned the stage just hours ago. But not this. Not her like this.

She’s drowning in a hoodie that nearly swallows her frame, sleeves tucked over her fingers, and a pair of shorts barely visible beneath the hem. Her legs are bare, skin pale, knees drawn slightly inward. Her amber eyes normally so sharp, so defiant are swollen and red rimmed. The kind of red that no eye drops could fix. Her lips are chapped, and her face is paler than usual, as though the tears had drained the color from her completely.

Ni-ki scoffs before he can stop himself. “You look pathetic.”

Her mouth twitches. No snark, no eye roll. She just starts to close the door.

But he plants his palm flat against it, forcing it open again with ease. “Nope. Not after keeping me up two nights in a row with your dramatic sobbing.”

She glares at him through the slight opening. It’s not intimidating it’s tired. Raw. Like she doesn’t even have the strength to tell him to go to hell.

“If you’re gonna cry loud enough for the whole floor to hear,” he says flatly, “then you’re gonna tell me what your problem is. I’m not asking ‘cause I care, sweetheart. I’m asking so I can say something that’ll shut you the fuck up.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re such a dick.”

And that..that gets a real reaction out of him. A smile. Not a soft one. Not kind. It’s the smile of a shark who smells blood in the water. Finally. She’s breaking.

“Go on,” he urges, voice low and baiting. “Let it all out, princess.”

She lets out a humorless laugh, bitter and small. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back away. Just tilts his head and arches a brow.

“Try me.”

And then, without asking for permission, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside like he owns the place. She doesn't stop him. Maybe she's too tired. Maybe she just doesn't care anymore.

He drops lazily onto her couch, slouching back and spreading his arms over the cushions like he’s been here a hundred times before. She stays by the door for a second too long before closing it gently behind her, the soft click echoing in the quiet of the room.

She doesn’t sit. She just leans back against the door like she needs the support.

“The crying,” she says finally, voice quiet, almost like she’s afraid the room will swallow her words. “It’s not over some guy. Or the stress. Or even the comeback.”

He says nothing. He watches her carefully, eyes sharper than they appear.

Her fingers pull at the hem of her sleeve. “My mom died. Six years ago today. Cancer.” She lifts her gaze just slightly. “I was seventeen.”

There’s a silence that settles between them. It’s not awkward it’s heavy.

“She was the only one who believed in me. The only one who didn’t want me to be someone else. She…she used to say I didn’t have to be perfect to be loved. And then she got sick, and then she was gone.” Jiyoo’s voice cracks, just barely. “And now I don’t know who the hell I’m even doing this for.”

Ni-ki doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t laugh like he usually would.

He just watches her. Sees the way her arms wrap tighter around herself, like she’s trying to keep from shattering.

And that, that pisses him off more than the crying.

Because he gets it. And he doesn’t want to.

He stands slowly, brushing imaginary lint off his hoodie. Walks toward her, steps quiet on the hotel carpet, and for a second she tenses like she thinks he’s going to say something cruel again.

But he doesn’t.

He stops beside her and says in a voice much lower, much less abrasive, “Then make it for her.”

She blinks. Looks at him, startled.

He shrugs, almost like it doesn’t matter. “Make the tour. The album. All of it. For her. She’s not here, but you are. And from the looks of it, you're not ready to quit.”

Jiyoo doesn’t say anything.

Ni-ki reaches for the door handle, pulling it open like he hadn’t just walked into someone’s grief and sat in it like it was his business.

“Sleep,” he says over his shoulder, stepping out. “You’ve got fans to please tomorrow.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And for the first time in days, the hotel walls are quiet.

Jiyoo

The low thump of the bass echoed through the walls of the venue, shaking through the soles of Jiyoo’s sneakers and into her spine like a threat. Sweat clung to her neck, plastering the strands of her long black blonde hair against her skin, and her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stood in place, hands braced against her knees. She could barely feel her feet anymore, they were just extensions of her body moving out of habit, muscle memory barely holding her together.

"Again."

The voice sliced through the space like a whip.

She barely had time to lift her head before the music restarted, sharp and punishing. Ni-ki stood a few feet away, arms crossed, face blank except for the narrowed eyes that watched her like a hawk waiting for its prey to make a mistake.

It was 1:07 PM. Practice had started at 6 AM.

She hadn’t sat down once.

"You're dragging," he barked as the opening beat hit. "This isn’t your bedroom mirror, Jiyoo. If you do that tomorrow night, you’re going to end up a meme. You want that? You want to be a joke again?”

Jiyoo clenched her jaw and threw herself into the steps, heart pounding harder from anger than cardio now. She knew this choreo. She’d nailed it yesterday. And the day before that. And the one before that. But today, Ni-ki was on something else. It was like he was trying to break her.

"Fix your damn arms, what are you, twelve?" he snapped. "You think this is some kids bop performance? This is your tour. Act like it."

Her thighs screamed as she dropped low into the move. Her lungs burned. The studio lights above only made the heat worse, but she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If he wanted her to break, he was going to have to try harder.

Still, the digs kept coming.

"That’s the third time you’ve been off beat. You want your team embarrassed on stage in front of twenty thousand people?"

No one in the room said anything. The backup dancers moved around her, some of them throwing her careful glances, others staring at the floor. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen Ni-ki tear people down before. He was brutal, precise, perfectionistic, but today it was like she had a target on her back.

Her manager, Daejin, wasn’t even in the room. He was on a call, probably talking to press or sorting logistics. Which meant there was no buffer. Just her. And Ni-ki. And the music that kept replaying over and over again.

Her body shuddered slightly at the chorus, not out of emotion, but pure physical exhaustion. She hadn’t eaten much that morning, and whatever she had, half a banana and a protein shake was long gone. She felt like she was running on fumes.

The dancers around her reset for the next run through.

"Water?" one of the dancers whispered beside her, a girl named Seojin who had been kind to her since the tour began. She held out a bottle discreetly.

Jiyoo reached for it.

“She wants it, she can crawl for it.”

Ni-ki’s voice was cold. Loud. And absolutely devoid of mercy.

Jiyoo froze, her fingers inches from the bottle.

The entire room stilled. Even the music cut off.

Seojin stepped back.

Jiyoo stood there, slowly lowering her hand as her chest heaved. She could feel the flush of shame crawl up her neck, her ears burning, vision tunneling. Everyone was watching her, and not one person said a thing.

She swallowed hard. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her body trembled.

And that’s when something inside her snapped.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t scream or curse or throw anything, not yet. She just turned, shoved past one of the staff near the door, and bolted.

“Where the hell are you going?” Ni-ki called out, but she didn’t stop.

The hallway was endless, lights blurring past her as she ran, her boots slapping hard against the concrete floor. She could still hear the bass of the rehearsal echoing in the distance, but she kept moving, barely breathing now, until she reached the dressing room door.

She shoved it open and slammed it behind her.

And then she made it two steps.

Her knees hit the cold tile.

And she threw up just nearly missing the nearest trash bin.

Her palms were braced on the tile, body trembling as the bitter taste of bile clung to her throat. Her stomach had nothing left to give. The trash bin reeked. Sweat beaded along her forehead and her arms, legs, spine, it was everywhere. Her hoodie clung to her like a second skin, heavy and suffocating.

The silence of the dressing room was loud. Too loud. A vacuum after the chaos of the studio. But it didn’t feel safe. It felt like her heartbeat was ricocheting off the walls, mocking her.

She sank back against the wall, legs folding beneath her as her body gave out. Her arms wrapped around her middle like she was trying to hold herself in, keep the pieces of her together. But the shaking wouldn't stop.

Why did it feel like this?

Why now?

Her breaths came in short gasps. Not panicked just…shallow. Hollow. Her chest felt too tight, like something was squeezing the air right out of her lungs, like the weight of the last month, no, years had all decided to pile on her shoulders at once. The months of building herself up, of trying to find who she really was, of pushing through practice after practice to prove herself. And just when she was finally starting to believe she belonged here, it felt like someone was chipping at her all over again.

She brought her hand to her chest. It was too fast. Her heart. Her breathing.

Not now.

Not here.

But her fingers twitched, legs numb, vision fuzzing at the edges. She tilted her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering to the side where a poster hung from earlier rehearsals, her face in dark makeup, intense eyes, that signature smirk. Queenmaker, it read.

Queen?

She didn’t feel like one.

She felt like that lonely seventeen year old girl standing in the hallway outside her mother’s hospital room.

She felt like the girl who had no one at her debut showcase.

She felt like the girl who smiled on camera and cried herself to sleep when the lights turned off.

And now she was that same girl on the floor, cold, shaking, and so, so tired and lonely.

Her limbs were ice.

The lights above blurred into soft rings of white.

And then darkness.

Her head lolled gently to the side. Her body slumped.

The room fell still.

Jiyoo passed out cold, alone on the dressing room floor, the hum of the lights above her the only sound in a silence that had swallowed her whole.

Ni-ki 

Ni-ki was still fuming, his jaw locked so tight he could hear his molars grinding. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, hands balled into fists as he stormed down the backstage hallways of the arena, the soles of his sneakers echoing off the industrial tile. She really had the nerve to storm out. In the midst of rehearsal. In front of everyone. Like a brat.

He had half a mind to leave it, to let her sulk and wait until she came crawling back with an apology but something about the way she looked when she left, the way she staggered. It kept chewing at the back of his skull.

He scowled harder.

No. She wanted to act like a spoiled idol? Let her.

But just as he turned the corner near the main hallway that connected to the dressing rooms, a group of staff came sprinting past him. Two medics in black vests, a coordinator with a headset, and behind them Daejin.

Ni-ki blinked, watching the group barrel down the hallway like the building was on fire. “What the hell?”

He instinctively moved out of the way, but something tight gripped in his chest.

Daejin.

Without thinking, Ni-ki reached out and grabbed the older man by the arm just as he passed. “What’s going on?”

Daejin looked startled, breath short, clearly rushing.

“It’s Jiyoo. She collapsed.”

Ni-ki didn’t even hear the rest.

His blood ran cold.

His body moved before his brain could.

He spun around on his heel so fast his sneakers squeaked. The hallway blurred around him. His long legs carried him in long strides as he chased after the sound of rushed footsteps, the clattering of equipment, the static from walkie talkies, and the deep, low dread building in his gut.

He knew exactly where they were going.

And for the first time since they met, Ni-ki felt something close to panic claw at the edges of his throat.

By the time Ni-ki reached her dressing room, the door was wide open, and the lights inside felt too bright, almost sterile. The sight stopped him cold.

Jiyoo was on the ground, lying on her side with a medic crouched beside her, a damp cloth pressed to her forehead. Another was checking her pulse, gently shifting her arm. Her hoodie was half off one shoulder, her skin pale, glistening with sweat. Her lips were dry, cracked. Her long hair clung to her neck, damp and heavy.

She looked like a ghost of herself.

Her eyes fluttered, lashes weakly lifting as she blinked toward the ceiling. There was a flicker of recognition when she saw the crowd around her, but no strength behind it.

“She’s dehydrated,” one of the medics confirmed, snapping off her gloves and handing a bottle of electrolyte water to a nearby assistant. “Exhaustion too. Low blood sugar, possible nausea. She needs food. Fluids. Rest. Immediately.”

Ni-ki couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

This was his fault. He’d pushed her. Past the edge. Past reason. And he knew it.

All because she’d snapped. All because he’d seen something that made him uneasy and decided to be cruel about it.

One of the coordinators stepped forward, voice tight with worry. “Should we postpone the first concert night? Or…the whole tour?”

The entire room tensed, breaths held.

But it was Jiyoo half conscious, still pale who shook her head slowly. “No…” Her voice was barely a rasp. “I can do it. Just…give me a little time…”

Ni-ki’s jaw locked, the muscle ticking dangerously.

What the hell was she saying?

She couldn’t even sit up without help, and she wanted to get on a stage in less than 24 hours?

Fury rolled through him at her stubbornness, at the team, at himself.

And for once, it wasn’t cold, collected anger. It was hot, bitter, rising in his throat like bile.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

But the look on his face as he turned his eyes away said everything.

There wasn’t much more light in the next corridor.

“Yeah...” Keith huffed breathlessly, the sound of his boots against the metal of the floor audible over the coms.

They were the only ones who hadn’t made it back to their lions yet.

“What about you Pidge...?”

“I copy...” she answered stiffly, “could be better, but I copy.”

Her voice was a strained whisper against the commotion around them that came through.

“I told you I’ve got it Shiro...”

“Alright but hurry, there’s only 2 minutes and 17 seconds on the clock.”

Shiro’s tone was firm, his worry subdued for their sakes, but Keith saw straight through his inflection on the way he said ‘hurry’.

The sound of metal feet pounding behind them was what initially motivated him to abandon their joint effort in hobbling and scoop a very reluctant Pidge up into his own arms.

Now though.

Now it was the countdown until the explosives they’d planted detonated.

“Lance and Hunk are towing your lions back to the castle so head straight for Black...”

Keith attempted to grunt out a yes but was too focused on maintaining his zigzag running pattern as he tried to desperately evade the fire from behind them.

Shiro thought he’d accounted for everything, planned every detail with Allura and Pidge meticulously so that their escape would not be something down to the wire like this.

The base should’ve been abandoned, they weren’t even sure that they’d be able to gather any intel of much use, but they only went through with the plan because there wasn’t supposed to be any risk. And one less galra base is always a good thing.

They had split everyone into groups, separating Keith and Lance almost as soon as they left the castle when they couldn’t agree on who’d carry the explosive without dropping it. Keith and Pidge went in together first because they needed time for her to get the system down. Hunk and Lance went in next and took care of wiring up the explosive in the farthest section from the lions. Shiro and Allura were to go in last and see everyone else out, but that is far from what actually went down.

As soon as Pidge touched the tech in the control room Keith had cleared only moments before, alarms went off and an ominous ticking began.

“Crud, no, no, no—“

“What is it?” Keith asked from his position at the door.

“It’s very possible I just set off a threat response protocol of some kind... I don’t know how much time we have before the sentries that might still be viable find—“

But Pidge didn’t get to finish that statement because a group the robotic soldiers had rounded the corner Keith was surveiling, not close enough to lock in on them as a target and begin firing yet.

“Shiro...?! We may have a slight problem!” Keith called into his coms device as he activated his bayard.

The next few moments were a blur as Keith charged, meeting them halfway and hacking at the arms of the robots holding their weapons, not many of them able to ambush him at once with the narrow width of the service hallway but the continued surge of sentry after sentry was enough of a threat to overwhelm him that had Pidge activating her own bayard.

“That’s the last one,” he huffed, arms dropping to his sides heavily as the last sentry crumpled to the floor in a heap of sparking metal.

“Kay, I got into the mainframe and disabled the distress signal but I can’t be certain that was the only fleet that got dispatched.”

“Then you better hurry with whatever else you have to do,” Keith warned with a sympathizing look before returning his gaze to the long hallway before them, picking up one of the discarded blasters in anticipation of another attack, this way he could thin the group before they made it to him.

“Right,” Pidge muttered, already lost in concentration as she typed furiously at the keypad.

It seemed like every minute it took Pidge to disable the defense system of the base and download whatever information she could sent another wave of sentries with it. Keith was getting tired, his movements becoming sloppier and more out of desperation then strategy as he dropped bot after bot.

“Done! Wiring up the explosives now...”

Keith was in the middle of combating the worst of the latest onslaught, a sizable amount of robots left still before he could rest.

“Let me know when the last one’s down and I’ll set the timer...”

It was another minute before he gave the go ahead, leaned foraward on his knees and panting as he caught his breath, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat from the effort.

“5 minutes on the clock starting... now! Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

“Why only 5?” he huffed as they began their sprint to the loading docks.

“Because I got held up with the alarms and Lance and Hunk set theirs for 10 about uhm... 6 minutes ago.”

“Oh... well then what’s it at now?”

“Should be... 3 minutes and 47 seconds,” she answered after slowing to tap the watch attachment on the her wrist of her armor.

“Shit.”

“Keith? I need an update on your status. Have you guys made it to the loading dock yet?”

“Uhm, we’re en route right now... still experiencing some slight complications, but we’ll get there.”

There was silence for a moment before Shiro spoke again.

“Keith... Allura and I can’t leave without setting the time for the last explosive.”

They were passing a series of adjoining service hallways.

“You can. Just set it for a minute after whatever time left is on your watch, we’ll make it.”

As they raced to the end Keith pulled forward just enough to glance around each and check for sentries.

“Keith I don’t think you understand—“

It was sort of hard to focus on so many things at once when he was so tried already and Shiro’s apprehension wasn’t making it any easier.

“Shiro! I said we’d make it there in time and I mean it. Set the timer.”

No matter how sure he sounded, an extra minute until the last explosion detonated didn’t do much to quell the panic in Keith’s stomach when they still had the danger of getting caught in the blast from the one they’d set themselves to worry about. But he didn’t care if he was sure or not, they had to make it in time so they would and that was that.

“Setting the timer now, you have 2 minutes 53 seconds...”

They had to cover as much ground as possible in the next two minutes to separate themselves from whatever sentries were on their tails or they wouldn’t even have to worry about the timing running out.

“After we clear this hallway it’s a straight shoot to the docks and the lions... get ready for the sprint of your life,” Keith said with a chuckle under his breath that made Pidge almost want to cry. Only when shit was grim did Keith resort his own twisted sort of humor.

“Well, then feet don’t fail me n—“ Pidge attempted to respond but was cut off by the sound of her body hitting the floor, the thud it made spurring Keith out of surging his body forward and twisting around with his bayard already drawn.

He hadn’t checked the last service hallway they passed... so of course the only one he didn’t check was the one filled with a sentries.

“Fuck!” he shouted wildly, his voice wrecked with outrage as he moved with a ferocity that would’ve scared Pidge was she not preoccupied by how much blood coated her hand when she took it away from her stomach.

He fought like Shiro did sometimes when they were practicing.

The older boy didn’t forget himself often, but when he did, the shift was more than apparent. You could always tell when it was him and when it wasn’t, his arcs and jabs viscious and unrelenting, no space for an ounce of mercy or forgiveness. The fight becoming less of a battle and more of an execution.

Keith fought like that then, not letting the sentry that attacked Pidge even a second to parry his condemning blows, the metal soldier clanking to the floor in a heap of disjointed scraps not long after.

The remainder of the fleet was still making its way down the hallway so they had time to keep them out of range for at least a little bit.

“C’mon Pidge, we’ve gotta—go... shit,” he deadpanned as his eyes fell on her slumped form, the red dripping from the cracks in her armor so apparent against the white even with the muted lighting.

When he seemed to sort of freeze at the sight she offered him her hands and he helped her up with a groan, his hands gripping her cautiously as even standing proved to be challenging.

But then the sound of the fleet upon them filled the hallway and the next moment he was moving just like them. Mechanically. Like the only preset in his manual for this type of situation had been initiated and Keith was no longer at the mercy of his own actions.

His system only knew one thing then and it was to move.

And so he did. He moved deftly, not taking much care for the hail of sentry fire he was under as he rounded the last corner and was then sprinting for the hulking doors of the loading dock. He could see the Black lion practically shaking in anticipation as he hurdled towards them.

“Are you guys taking fire?!”

Pidge was pressed to his chest, her shoulders turned so she could eye the scene behind them, telling Keith when to shift a certain way to avoid a plasma blast. She’d only started watching for him after he inhaled sharply and stumbled.

“-idge... -eith... -se report...”

It was considerably harder to respond to Shiro while on autopilot. Hard to keep up his evasive maneuvers and assure his leader that they would most likely not die at the same time. But he pushed past how heavy his tongue seemed in his mouth and spoke anyway. His words rushed together in almost a slur when he answered Shiro.

And then he assured Pidge his leg had just been knicked when she brought a worried hand to his bloodied cheek from his earlier battle as he bit his lip to keep from crying out, resuming his impossible pace when the sound of blasters didn’t let up. Even through her own daze of pain she could tell he was favoring his left side.

The hallway seemed to stretch out infinitely before him then, like he could run forever and still never reach the end of it. His entire body was screaming, the burn blast on his leg searing with every step, but he couldn’t give up. Not when Pidge was hurt. Not when he knew the base was set to explode any second.

He barely even reacted when he felt a familiar heat flare up between his shoulder blades. Keith couldn’t afford to slow down. Not now. It didn’t matter that he was still getting shot at, he couldn’t do anything about that so he couldn’t care.

Instead he focused on what he could do something about, which was getting them through those doors. He was utterly exhausted and fueled by only adrenaline but he kept running, the thought of the moment he could finally rest the only thing willing his body to keep moving.

His muscles burned under the strain, the concentrated blazes in his leg and back pulsing angrily with each stride. And then his vision was blurring from the fear and desperation that had his lungs in an aching gridlock, the abused organs not able to get much in and had no time to get what he did back out before he struggled to take in another strained breath.

But he didn’t stop running, he didn’t even slow down. Despite how desperately is legs wanted to curl underneath him and how dangerously close his rib cage was to collapsing in on itself as he drove his body well past its physical limits, his mind didn’t allow him to entertain the thought for even a second.

It was decided. He wouldn’t stop until he was safe, until Pidge was safe. It didn’t matter how spent his body was. Because logically... it’ll all be fine, the pain would pass and the horrible trek would end, but only if he got them out of there alive. Only if he kept moving.

Logically, it didn’t matter that Keith was seeing dots or that he was fairly certain he’d forgotten how to breathe, because he really won’t be able to if the base explodes while they’re still in it.

So he relied on his ridiculous ability to rationalize everything, even pain, to trick his brain into continuing despite it, into ignoring it entirely. Because logically this was just a moment, a terrible one that seemed like it would never end but might if he just keeps moving.

And so he let the gravity of it drive him forward. Let himself cling to the moment when he could rest. Maybe he’d pass out once he reached Black. And maybe he’d be so exhausted he’d drop Pidge once he did. But he couldn’t even worry about what would happen when his legs finally gave and he wasn’t able to make it another step.

The moment would come, that was for sure, but it wouldn’t be now.

A little further and then he could. Once they were with the team. When it’s safer. When he couldn’t go any farther. When he had absolutely nothing left to give.

Until then all he knew was that he was running, pushing himself further and further on the sole reasoning that he just had to make it to Black. Once he was in Black he could rest, let go, give in to the encroaching darkness.

Keith was so fixed on hacking his own brain to get his body to do the impossible that he hadn’t even registered when he was bounding up Black’s ramp until it started closing behind him, her jaw shutting with a deafening clank before she took off. He lurched forward unceremoniously, his legs weak and wobbling as he fought to maintain his grip on Pidge.

And then hands were pulling at his own and there were voices all around him but none of them were clear enough to make any sense to him. Pidge’s now limp form was being taken from his arms and he made only a slight effort to stop the hands taking her before he realized.

Oh. They’d made it.

“Keith...? I asked if you’re alright? Are you hurt?”

He dragged his glassy gaze up to meet Shiro’s as he studied the gash below his eye and nodded, distantly aware of the pink glow from Allura as she worked on healing Pidge enough that she’d be okay until they could get her to a pod.

“Wait you’re hurt?!”

Keith couldn’t answer right away. He was still catching his breath and didn’t think he could handle the impending interrogation while standing.

“M’fine... just tired,” he urged shortly as he reached for the wall.

He just needed to sit.

Yeah, sitting would help.

Shiro seemed dissatisfied with Keith’s answer and moved to go in for a closer look but didn’t get to question much further because Allura was calling him over.

Good, Keith thought, because they had to focus on Pidge right now.

They’d be so overwhelmed if he passed out too. And how ridiculous would that be? Passing out just because of a tiny cut and some minor burns because he was a little tired. Everyone was probably tired and he could stand to deal until they got back to the castle.

It was just a lot and if he’d managed to keep it together until now he could manage a little longer... steal some medical supplies once Pidge is in a pod and take care of the burns himself... sleep in tomorrow and to hell if he gets chewed out for it.

Because this was hard. It was probably just as stressful for everyone to carry out their assignments after they’d tripped the alarms, but as much as Keith would like to play it down, it really had fucking sucked.

And it still does.

But that didn’t matter because he’ll be fine.

He didn’t need to be healed from Allura like Pidge. He would be okay eventually. When his muscles were less sore and his head was less angry and he didn’t feel so woozy.

With that resolve he began making his way to the cockpit slowly, limping as subtly as possible to join the others and leaning his shoulder against the wall with a thud. His decent to the floor less than graceful because as soon as he bent his legs he was reminded of the burn on his thigh and had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out, sliding the rest of the way on shaking arms in an effort to lower himself as gently as he could.

But with his body still reeling from the stretch of the injury on his leg he didn’t realize how close he’d positioned himself to the wall, the white hot fire only intensifying when he leaned against it with all his weight amid his struggle to contain himself, lighting the wound on his back with a flare of pain that traveled up and down his spine and into his lungs, stealing the breath he still hadn’t caught.

He couldn’t tell how long it was before he could see straight, but when he could there was still a pink tinge to the space around him and he could still hear voices in a discussion that made no sense to him.

But he had no energy left to care as he sat in a heap of himself against the wall. The moment had passed to alert someone of his less than okay state. They were on their way back to the castle and Pidge was still being healed. Allura would be tired and Shiro needed to focus to guide the others.

He had done the mental aerobics to get there, had willed his stupid logic to override the resistance of his leaden muscles and bypass the mounting blood rush in his ears that threatened to make him crumble before he crossed the threshold to safety.

So he saw very little profit in making such a fuss then after all that, even as he watched absently as more blood pooled on the ground beneath him.

Keith didn’t think that burns bled that much and deduced that it was probably just the split skin of his cheekbone making a mess. He felt a little sorry for Shiro having to clean it up later. That wouldn’t be too fun.

“-bashes left, Coran has a pod firing up now...”

That was good, Pidge would need that.

He was glad he didn’t have to go in one of those today but sorry that Pidge did, mostly out of guilt since he hadn’t caught sight of the sentry before it got to her. She was hurt because of that, because he missed it. It should’ve been him being healed by Allura because his stomach was slashed open, not Pidge.

His leg pulsed angrily then, the wound not visible to him aside from the splintering cracks off the long divet that had been scored into his armor. The blast had only grazed him there but still left a trail of blood flowing in sheets down his leg.

Oh, so maybe it was my leg bleeding everywhere, he thought dimly.

Running had no doubt made it worse. The muscles there feeling raw and stripped of something, like the blast had melted them away entirely.

He tried to sneak a better look but moving that far pulled at his back and there was no way he could slip his armor off discreetly to see. So instead he pressed two fingers up in the space between the plates of armor, a thick spurt of blood escaping after he did, coating his gloved hand and expanding the small puddle on the floor.

His leg shook incessantly as he tried to staunch the bleeding and he had to brace his other hand around his though and breathe deeply until he could see again.

It was only Shiro shouting angrily at him that broke him out of his stupor as he stared transfixedly at the state of the inside of his thigh.

“For fuck’s sake Keith, wake up!”

“Huh...?”

He didn’t understand.

He wasn’t asleep and he couldn’t fathom why Shiro was so angry, not until he looked in the older boy’s direction, eyes first falling over the two slumped forms a few feet away from him.

“I need you to check on Allura! I know you’re tired but now isn’t the time for a cat nap...” Shiro sounded like he was seething, of which Keith guessed was warranted, even if he hadn’t even been asleep.

So he pulled himself closer to his friends, careful to keep his leg out of the way as he did.

Allura had exhausted herself while healing Pidge who would have appeared almost pleasantly asleep in her lap if it weren’t for the red staining her front. Keith brought a hand up as if to take her pulse but noticed it was covered in blood and wiped it on the floor before pressing it down.

Her pulse was strong and he was glad that wasn’t the issue as he placed one hand on her forehead and the other at the base of her skull to bring it up from where it hung forward, guiding it steadily to lean on his shoulder as he eased his back against the wall to be able to support her.

He knew that it would suck, he just didn’t know he would actually pass out this time. But he also knew that his friends were hurt and it didn’t matter that his back was extremely sensitive, because Shiro needed him to help them and was glad to be able to.

Keith assumed that Shiro must’ve been screaming his throat raw telling him that he needed to wake up once he finally came back to the world. It seemed like only the smallest part of him was concerned as to why he couldn’t keep himself awake and alert enough to answer, more frustrated at the situation than anything.

“Keith! Is Allura alright? And Pidge?”

“Yeah...” he sighed, his chest swirling with fire as he fought the strain on the charred spot between his shoulders that angered every time he spoke.

“Did you hit your head at all?” Shiro asked, the annoyance in his voice softening to a cautionary worry until it fell into frustration again when Keith reponded with a simple ‘no’.

“Okay... look I get that you’re exhausted and rightfully so but I need you to work with me just until we get back to the castle.”

“Right,” he breathed shakily. His entire body was trembling now, the malaise from falling unconscious wrapping around his stomach and filling his brain with static.

Shiro then asked him to describe how both of his friends were doing so he could patch Coran in.

It was hard to talk with how dry his mouth had gotten and he kept having to cough and clear his throat but he managed to relay their statuses relatively clearly.

Allura’s chest rose and fell evenly though she still hung on him like dead weight. Pidge’s condition hadn’t changed much either, her breathing just as even and the blood seemed to have stopped flowing so egregiously.

“I see the castle...” he heard Shiro announce faintly.

The ringing in his ears was getting loud again but he forced himself to concentrate just a little longer.

“Wh-what? Are we there yet?” Allura questioned sluggishly as she began to stir against him. He stifled a hiss when her movements made pain flare up in several places.

“Landing shortly, Princess. Don’t move, you’re exhausted. Just rest both of you...”

Keith wasn’t sure which was worse, the pressure of Allura’s arm against his bad leg or the jolt from their landing, but either way he was seeing stars again.

When he could finally make sense of something other than colorful static input, he blinked back tears that formed at the brim of his tired eyes to see Shiro with Pidge clasped tightly in his arms leaning down to offer Allura help as she struggled to stand.

“Keith, are you alright to make it back to your room on your own?” Shiro questioned quickly, glancing past Allura to him when he remained where he was, not making any attempt to move just yet.

“Yup,” he feigned a confident smile and began shifting to sell the lie.

Shiro had apparently missed the fact that Keith had made his own puddle of blood. But he supposed that it wasn’t his fault, how was he to know it wasn’t Pidge’s?

“Actually, why don’t you stop by the infirmary to get that cut cleaned and looked over...” Shiro ammended, calling over his shoulder as he made his way out of Black.

“...might need stitches,” was the last thing he heard before the ringing was all he could hear other than his own heart beat.

After a minute of waiting to see if his hearing would ever come back to him he gave up, resolving that he’d definitely have to stop at his room first to take his armor off and change out of his under suit if he could manage. There would be no hiding the gaping crack or black spray that singed much of his leg piece from the blast and assumed his back looked the same way.

So he steeled himself once more and was moving despite every muscle in his body telling him to stop.

He didn’t know how he’d managed to stand up and drag himself back to his room without collapsing, figuring he must’ve mentally blacked out for the journey when the pain became too much because as soon as he was sprawling onto the cold tiles of his bathroom floor he was crying.

Everything that could possibly hurt did, limbs buzzing and his head swimming as his body tried to come down from the overwhelming daze, his injuries pulsing with vengeance after he’d freed himself of his armor.

Keith struggled to slide the medkit out from under his sink with how stiff his back had become but snagged a solid enough grip on the handle despite the slick of his blood on his hands and pulled it into reach, rummaging through the contents like a mad man as he fought to find what he was looking for before the blur clouding his eyes made it impossible to identify anything.

He tore a pack of pressure gauze open with his teeth as the other thumbed the cap off of a wound wash, breathing as deeply as his diaphragm allowed before drenching the grizzly site of his burnt thigh. The liquid was cold and felt heavenly against the heat but soon the stinging overpowered the relief and he was sweating profusely, his vision wavering for the umpteenthe time since his escape.

Once his senses returned he convinvinced himself that he just needed a minute of rest after his crude attempt to clean the wound, the sterile liquid clearing away the tacky red to reveal the bubbling skin at the center of the blast mark. The sight of where the material of the undersuit mixed with his flesh had him cringing away. Though he remained convinced that it really wasn’t that bad. That after he rested, he’d change and venture out to finally join the others, but one minute turned into five and then that turned into ten and then Lance and Hunk were done towing the Red and Green lions back into their respective hangars and Keith was still nowhere to be found.

“Hey, Keith! Don’t you want to see Pidge off before she goes in the pod..? What’s the hold up—“ Hunk says after noticing that Keith’s door had been left unlocked and letting himself in but nearly gagging at the scene he stumbled into.

“Oh my god, is this all from Pidge?” Hunk asked in horror, his stomach twisting into painful knots when he eyed the mess of bloodied armor strewn about, thick traces of red smeared nearly everywhere, all over the floor and in small puddles leading up to the bathroom.

“Hey, Keith...? You in there?”

Nothing for a moment until a sharp inhale and then a faint, ‘yeah’.

“Uh, everything okay?

“Couldn’t be better...” he croaked after an eternity, it was small and strained like he was trying to keep himself contained of something. Of what, Hunk was actually scared to discover, but the heavy breathing coming from the other side of the door told him that his concern was justified.

“Uh, are you sure about that?”

“Mhm.”

“Kay, then why are you... ya know holed up in there and not coming to see Pidge?”

“No reason,” he spat quickly.

Hunk thought deeply for a moment, his brow furrowing as he considered what to say next.

“Look, I know we’re not the closest, but if you uh, need someone to talk to about what happened back there or something you know I’m all ears and—“

“I said I’m good!”

“Keith...”

“Can you just—shit!“

Hunk was fairly sure he would not have liked what Keith would have had to say if he got to finish his sentiment, cutting himself off with a sharp hiss before he could.

“Dude, you really sound like you’re not okay...”

Hunk was beginning to feel the sick turning over in his stomach as Keith went longer and longer without responding to him and just when he thought he’d had enough the other boy sucked in another grating breath through his teeth.

“That’s it. Open up. Whatever’s wrong... just let me help,” he pleaded, raising his hand up to the panel beside the frame that glowed red, taping it to test the lock that was blatantly in place and almost jumping back in shock when it blared green the next moment.

The door slid open with a whoosh and Hunk had to hold a hand over his mouth to ensure that the contents in his stomach remained where they ought to be.

“Keith!—oh, oh that’s really not good,” Hunk determined with a gulp before rushing to the corner he’d curled up in.

The sparse med kit that Coran fitted every paladin’s bathroom with lay open with its contents scattered everywhere in various stages of use but all Hunk could really focus on was the amount of blood beneath his friend.

Fresh blood. Keith’s blood, not Pidge’s.

He seemed to pick up on Hunk’s immense fear and tried to assure him that he was okay. Because he pretty much was. He hadn’t managed to get himself this far just to give up on this endeavor now. The team really didn’t have to coddle him about such minor injuries, especially one he could handle on his own.

“It’s just a knick man, nothing a lil tlc can’t fix...”

“No,” Hunk amended, “with that much blood it is not nothing... it’s you need a pod not good,” Hunk determined grimly as he tried to find the source of all the bleeding, pulling Keith’s hand away from his leg.

“What even—sorry!”

The back of Keith’s bloodied hand was now at his mouth to stem the cry he almost let out as Hunk proded the only piece of armor he hadn’t taken off yet around the wound on his leg, looking like he’d just kicked a puppy when he saw how much pain his friend was in.

“S’fine... just burns.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice pensive and concerned, “Coran has some like topical stuff for that, I use it all the time for cooking burns and it really does the trick.”

“Nah, no infirmary... Pidge is there.”

“Yeah, Pidge is there because that’s where injured people go, and you are injured so that is where you need to be!”

“Hunk I’m serious, I don’t need t—“

“What’s taking you guys so—oh god, Keith, you know you’re like totally sitting in a pool of blood?!”

Keith just huffed and rolled his eyes once Lance barged into the already less than spacious bathroom. He really hated having such an audience but wasn’t sure he could protest much more with how tightly his throat was wound.

“We gotta get you to the infirmary, buddy. Come on Lance, grab an arm.”

Keith groaned deeply and tried to shoo their hands away but he was so weak that catching his combative limbs was easy.

“Dude... you’re already pretty badly injured, don’t make it worse by being too proud to let us help you,” Lance leveled after releasing the skin he’d been gnawing at of his bottom lip.

Neither boy liked seeing how uncomfortable their friend was with relinquishing control and allowing himself to be so vulnerable as to let them do this for him, to let someone other than Shiro take care of him or see him this way.

But before he could officially accept their assistance they shared a knowing look and started pulling him up to his feet, the hands that weren’t clasped around his forearms fell to his back, pressing down on the bits of armor that had broken off and had partially melted into the undersuit, digging the jagged edges further into his singed skin.

“What? No, I told you I’m f—oh fuck, guys! Shit, shit, nGH!”

The pain that followed was blinding, his injured leg shaking visciously and the other giving out not long after that as well. And then he was being held up entirely by Lance and Hunk who were leaning him forward to see what had caused such a visceral reaction, both boys cursing when they saw his back.

“Damn dude, you really got lit up back there didn’t ya?”

“Wha...?”

“Oh, jeez Lance, you might have to take him for a second...” Hunk blurted, looking considerably greener than he had before.

“Crap, okay...” Lance ushered as he bent his legs to get under both of Keith’s arms while he took in heaving breaths, his forehead covered in sweat as he tried to work through the torment of his reangered injuries.

“What-what’s wrong with the blast on my back?” he managed between pants.

“Uhm, blasts, dude. Like plural. Like you look like you were human target practice for those sentries... “

“Huh...” his voice was hallow and rasping. “Coulda sworn it was just one back there...”

“No man, definitely several... Hunk you done yet?”

“Oh...” Keith sighed, his head hanging down as he braced himself against Lance’s arms, “...maybe that’s why i feel so strange.”

“Wh-strange?! What do you mean strange? Strange as in something other than excruciating pain?”

To be clear he was feeling a lot of things but ‘strange’ sort of surmised them best. His entire body felt leaden with exhaustion but also strangely detached from itself, like he was outside of it and still on the floor as if he’d never moved.

A part of him worried he’d never even made it out of the galra base and that this was some horrible side affect of dying that made him believe he’d made it. But he was also pretty sure if he was dead he wouldn’t be hurting so badly still which made the discomfort of his fatigue all the more disorienting.

“Mean like sick... like the kind of sick that just feels gross... and wrong... and tired... I’m really fucking tired...”

“I know buddy, but you did good back there. Must not have been easy getting Pidge out with all the hits you were taking,” the other boy commended and the sincerity in his voice helped convince Keith that he probably wasn’t dead, he wasn’t sure he’d have enough memory of such a tone from Lance to fabricate something like that in his head.

“Yeah,” he agreed breathily, his own voice distant and unclear as he fought against the black that encroached on the boarder of his vision.