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Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙫𝙞. 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙨𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙮 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」 「Act 1」  「© Sept 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

Sinner’s is a buzzing hive.

It’s busier than you’ve ever seen it, crammed with people from edge to dark edge. Black papered walls much abused by old live music posters and faded stickers match the sea of glossy black flooring, its specks of glitter reflective under the crimson purple spotlights. Stale booze and the amalgamation of people hovers on the air; staying near Minho quells the bouts of pungent body odour you pick up when navigating the crowd— the man smells like sex and apple candy.

He’s dressed to impressed; as if he has another code. Skintight black jeans and a sleeveless almost-cropped vest teases at tan skin when he moves just enough, the lines of muscle mouth-wateringly tempting. He’s fucked his fairy tonight, too. His skin glitters like uncut diamond. His ashy hair is loosely waved, a sweep of dark liner juxtaposes the way his almond eyes sparkle under the lights; he draws heads and attention. That’s the way it’s always been.

Midway through the crowd, the lights dim until snuffed out. Minho makes a grab for your hand. The infectious tension sinks and penetrates as deafening static fizzles from the stage and three young men jog into view. The screams are instant; cheers and raucous cries blend to a din that rings in your ears pleasantly. Front and centre of the stage, Minho makes space, drags you in front of him, hands braced on the barrier at your either side. His heat at your back, solid and strong, almost detracts from the spectacle in front.

Almost.

The introductory beats of ‘Runner’s High’ kick off, and the three break into their roles, each of them a unit in their own impressive right. Han Jisung, in a sleeveless red flannel that accentuates his lean arms, fires up the crowd and raps flawlessly at unconscionable pace between smirks of white that do something physics-defying to your knees. Sweat coats him already, collecting in the dips of his collarbone. He holds the microphone like it’s weightless, twirling it among the obnoxious gold rings on his fingers. His shaggy blonde locks fall over his eyes, his Adam’s apple strong and prominent. God, the kisses you could ply to that lovely, long throat.

Bang Chan ad-libs and paces the stage, black skinny jeans and an open black blazer revealing taut, pale muscle. His vivid red and black undercut is a fierce match to the slit in his brow. His confidence holds in his stature. He’s a god. Knows he could spit on the crowd and they’d thank him. You’d be among them. The glint of his piercings catch the light— the words you could whisper into those sweet, pink-tinged ears.

Seo Changbin takes over in verse, his voice of liquid metal reeling off the rap, his on-beat gestures and sharp eye contact scanning the crowd that jumps in unison with his rhythm. He’s the puppeteer. The ringmaster. Cracks his whip and crowd trip over themselves falling to their knees for him. His slim waist is cinched by the thick leather belt on his stonewashed jeans, his shirt straining across his chest and biceps— the things you could do to those delicious fucking arms.

“Goddamn...”

Minho leans down to your ear, his breath an arousing tickle. “They everything you thought they’d be, babe?”

Everything— the lights, the noise, the heat, the closeness, the suggestion of foreboding that hovers on your skin like skittering electric critters. There is potential in this night. It’s pregnant. Almost terrifying.

Putting that into words seems unachievable.

“This is insane. They are insane.”

Minho laughs. “And super hot.”

The little black box quakes with glee.

“And that.”

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

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