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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙞. 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨

↳ A famous rapper trio looking to open their relationship. A charismatic dancer looking to open your mind. A myriad of possibilities, none of them tame. In at least one thing, Chan was right. This can't end PG.

↳ 3racha x Lee Know x female reader

↳ All drabble chapters <;1k

↳ 3racha au, fwb, free use, fujoshi reader, polyamory and enm, angst, smut, mxm, fxm, perceived mental illness, dead dove do not eat

! Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」  「© September 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

a/n: welcome to what happens when a commission gets out of hand. and that's probably putting this mess politely. i tried something new w this series, partly to attempt to address what seems to be a diminishing tolerance for longer chapters, but mostly to improve my style. this is shorter, but snappier. the challenges i faced w this story were some of the most difficult, the topics within some of the rawest. i like to think i got there in the end. (ty thea for putting up w my constant despairing). please heed the warnings and as much as you're able to: enjoy. dedicated to dear sanne, who initially commissioned a drabble. have eighty-five x

“Minho!”

Even with as much gumption as you put into the calling of your roommate’s name, the gush of water does more to drown out your voice; acquiescing to its power, you shut off the shower and try your luck a second time.

“Min, you there!?”

The trudge of heavy footsteps outside accompanies a gruff, “What is it?”

“Towel rescue, please!”

“Again?”

You swipe ticklish runnels of hot water from your forehead. “It’s not my fault a certain someone never thinks to replace them!”

“You can’t check before you get in the shower?” Minho gripes.

“I forget!”

Indecipherable grumbling carries off down the corridor. After a few moments, the bathroom door cracks open.

“I’m coming in.”

“Alright. Just don’t, like, look, or anything.” You tuck behind the glass shower door. Like it’s not made entirely of glass.

Minho steps inside, left hand shielding his eyes as his right offers out a clean towel. He can’t be long out of bed himself; shirtless with ash-blonde hair mussed and unkempt, loose shorts slung low around his shapely hips. Condensation mists the air and settles on his skin, his honey complexion glistening. A deep and heavy warmth throbs wantonly; as it has done every day since you met.

“Fuck me, it’s hot in here,” he puffs. “The shower has a temperature below scalding, you know.”

Well versed in concealing your infatuation, you roll your eyes. “Says the guy that only ever showers in ice water.”

“Cold showers are better for you. Healthier. It’s, like, proven.”

“So is spinach, but you refuse to touch that.”

Minho grimaces. “That’s different. Are you going to take this towel or what?”

“Yeah, I’m just— Can you come a little closer? I don’t want to get out.”

He shuffles forwards, socks sliding over the damp linoleum. “You forgot your slippers too?”

“Maybe.”

You crane around the glass, reaching for the towel. “I can’t— Minho, closer.”

He shuffles a bit more. You crane a bit more.

“Minho, just give me the damn towel!”

And his hand drops, thunder in his expression. He marches across the bathroom, not remotely nonplussed by your nakedness.

“Here,” he glowers, shoves the towel at you.

You snatch it breathlessly. “I told you not to look!”

“I told you to stop forgetting a damn towel.” He grins, abruptly about-faces to leave the room.

“Heathen.”

He stops at the door; you think your insult responsible until he says, “You do know I have seen you naked before?”

Breathless.

“W— What?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“But— When? How?”

“Just, you know. Around. We live together, it was bound to happen.”

“Right...”

Minho scoffs, turns to leave, the broad expanse of his naked back rippling with movement. The crippling urge to run your nails down it leaves scratches on your soul. Red and sore. Pretty.

“If the mood ever strikes, I’ll make us even and show you mine,” he says, closing the door with a wink.

His on-brand maniacal cackle carries away, implications left to hover.

You spend another ten minutes in the shower, shame descending with every helpless whimper your bitten lips fail to contain. Does he know how he ruins you? How you’re forced to purge him from your system by your own hand? Two fingers full and yet not even close to stretched? And this time the urge was brought on by nothing more than a thoughtless joke.

Pathetic.

Minho lives under your skin.

You’ll never carve him out.

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡ 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙤-𝙛𝙞 ♡

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