Chapter Text
The world was a blunt instrument hammering against Cheol’s skull. Light – vicious, unforgiving light – stabbed through the slit in the blackout curtains, hitting his closed eyelids like shards of broken glass. He groaned, a low, animal sound torn from a throat scraped raw.
Soju. Cheap, burning, too much of it. Memories of last night flickered like a corrupted film reel: Jeonghan’s laughter ringing too loud, Hoshi’s hips grinding against the edge of the coffee table, the sticky-sweet spill of cola on his hand, the heavy weight of Mingyu’s arm slung around his shoulders.
He remembered the warmth, the press of bodies, the dizzying spin as the room tilted… and then nothing. Blackness.
His mouth tasted like death and stale cotton. A thick, sour coating clung to his tongue. He needed water. Desperately. And aspirin. And maybe to bury himself under the mountain of blankets forever. He tried to swallow, his throat clicking painfully.
Slowly, agonizingly, he peeled his eyes open. The ceiling swam into focus, a blurry expanse of white that pulsed in time with the jackhammer behind his temples. He rolled onto his back, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his gut. The cool sheets felt alien against his skin. Too much skin.
He usually slept in boxers, the soft cotton a familiar barrier. But now… he was naked. Completely, utterly bare. Had he stripped? In the drunken haze? The thought sent a prickle of unease down his spine, unrelated to the hangover. It felt… vulnerable.
He sat up, the room tilting violently. He gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, waiting for the world to right itself. It took three deep, shuddering breaths before he dared swing his legs over the side.
The polished wood floor was shockingly cold beneath his bare feet, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped under the blankets. He stood, swaying, the blood rushing from his head making black spots dance before his eyes. Water. Now.
The walk to the ensuite bathroom felt like crossing a minefield. Each step echoed too loudly in the heavy silence of the dorm. He pushed the door open, the brighter light of the bathroom making him flinch.
He stumbled towards the sink, bracing his hands on the cool, white porcelain. The chill seeped into his palms, a small anchor. He turned the cold tap on full blast, the gush of water loud in the stillness. Cupping his hands, he splashed icy water onto his face, gasping as it hit his skin. It helped. A little.
It washed some of the grit from his eyes, cut through the worst of the fog. He grabbed the hand towel, rough against his cheek as he dried his face, the scent of clean cotton a brief respite.
Lowering the towel, his bleary gaze drifted downwards automatically, seeking the familiar morning sight: the soft swell of his belly, the trail of dark hair leading down to…
Nothing.
His breath caught in his throat. He blinked, hard, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Not possible. A trick of the light. A hangover hallucination. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the sink again, and stared into the mirror.
Below his navel, where his cock should have rested against his thigh, half-hard in the morning cool, there was… smoothness. Pale, unbroken skin stretched taut over his pelvis. His heart began a frantic drum solo against his ribs, loud enough he could hear it in his ears. No. No, no, no. He angled his hips, craning his neck, shifting his weight to get a better view in the merciless clarity of the bathroom mirror.
Not entirely smooth. There was a… line. A subtle, vertical indentation nestled within the familiar dark curls. A seam.
Tremors started in his hands. He lifted one, fingers shaking, and slowly, hesitantly, reached down. His fingertip brushed against the seam.
Warmth. Unexpected, intimate warmth radiated from it. And wetness. A slickness that coated his fingertip. He jerked his hand back as if electrocuted, staring at the clear, viscous fluid glistening on his skin. What the actual fuck?
Panic, cold and sharp as a razor, sliced through the lingering haze of the hangover. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t possible. He pressed his fingers back, pushing gently this time. The skin yielded with shocking ease, parting like soft fruit. The pad of his middle finger slid into a hollow – hot, impossibly slick, and clenching reflexively around the intrusion with a soft, wet sound.
He gasped, snatching his hand back and stumbling backwards until his bare back slammed against the cold tile wall. He stared down at himself, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated horror.
Between his legs, where his cock had been, was a pussy. A fully formed, unmistakably female sex. The outer lips were plump, slightly swollen, flushed a deep, almost bruised pink, glistening with that same slick fluid.
Delicate inner folds, a softer pink, nestled within. And at the apex, a small, hard nub of flesh – a clit – visibly pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat. It looked vulnerable. Alien. Wrong.
“No,” the word was a choked whisper, raw and desperate. “No. This… this isn’t…” His mind raced, scrabbling for explanations. A prank? Some horrifyingly advanced special effect? Had he fallen asleep watching some fucked-up body horror movie?
But the feel… the wetness on his finger… the heat radiating from it… it was terrifyingly, undeniably real. He pushed off the wall, staggering back to the mirror, drawn like a moth to a flame he desperately wanted to extinguish.
He traced the outer lips with a trembling fingertip. The sensation was a jolt – intense, electric, sparking directly up his spine. Not entirely painful. Not entirely unpleasant. But deeply, fundamentally wrong.
A wave of shame washed over him, hot and prickly, warring with the sharp spike of unwanted, confusing pleasure that followed the touch. His clit throbbed visibly, seeming to swell further under his scrutiny.
The wetness increased, a traitorous slickness he could feel gathering. The scent rising from it was musky, earthy, undeniably the scent of female arousal. His arousal? The disconnect was dizzying. He felt lightheaded, detached, like he was watching someone else’s nightmare.
Shower. Scalding hot water. Wash this… this hallucination away. Burn it off. It had to be the alcohol. Or exhaustion. Or some bizarre, transient side effect. A shower would shock his system back to reality.
He practically fell into the glass shower stall, fumbling blindly with the chrome knobs. He twisted the hot tap viciously, not waiting for the water to warm. A torrent of near-scalding water slammed down onto his head and shoulders.
He gasped, the heat bordering on painful, but he welcomed it. A distraction. A punishment. He stood under the punishing stream, head bowed, letting the heat sear his neck and back, willing it to scour away the impossible.
He grabbed the soap, scrubbing his face, his chest, his arms with rough, almost frantic motions, the floral scent of the body wash cloying in the steam-filled air. But he couldn’t bring himself to touch there. He kept his hips angled away from the direct spray, terrified of the sensations the water pressure might trigger on that hypersensitive, alien flesh.
He washed around it, skirting the edges of the dark curls, a no-man's-land he couldn’t bear to explore. The steam thickened, curling around him, making it hard to breathe, amplifying the sense of unreality.
Finally, skin flushed bright pink and stinging, he turned off the water. The sudden silence was jarring. He stood dripping, shivering despite the residual heat trapped in the stall.
He grabbed the large, fluffy towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around his waist, tucking the end in securely, creating a thick, protective barrier. Safe. Hidden. Contained. He pressed the heel of his hand against the towel, right over the concealed mound, as if he could physically hold the secret in.
He practically fled back to his bedroom, the towel clutched like a shield. He slammed the door shut and twisted the lock with trembling fingers. Leaning his forehead against the cool wood, he took deep, gulping breaths, trying to steady the frantic rabbit-run of his heart. Okay. Okay. Think. Clothes. Layers. Armor.
He just needed to look normal. Act normal. Get through the day. Avoid the communal bathroom. Avoid changing where anyone could see. Keep the layers on. This… thing… would be gone by tonight. Or tomorrow. It had to be.
He yanked open his dresser drawers with too much force. First, a pair of soft, black cotton boxer briefs. He stepped into them carefully, wincing as the elastic waistband settled low on his hips.
He pulled them up slowly, the soft cotton brushing against the sensitive outer folds. It wasn’t pain, but a constant, low-level thrum of awareness, a hum of sensation centered there. It was impossible to ignore. He adjusted the fabric, trying to find a position that minimized the contact, but it was futile. The pressure was constant, unavoidable.
Next, thick, charcoal grey sweatpants. He pulled them on, the baggy fabric a small relief, but the drawstring waistband resting low added another point of pressure. He tied it loosely.
Then, despite the warmth already prickling at his skin under the layers, he pulled on a long-sleeved black thermal shirt, the tight weave feeling like a second skin.
Finally, he grabbed his biggest, baggiest black hoodie – the one with the slightly frayed cuffs he wore when he wanted to disappear. He pulled it over his head, the heavy fabric swallowing him, and zipped it all the way up to his chin, the collar brushing his jawline. He shoved his hands deep into the kangaroo pocket, balling them into fists.
He turned to face the full-length mirror on his closet door. The reflection that stared back was almost unrecognizable. Swamped in layers, face pale as chalk under the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, eyes wide and shadowed with panic.
He looked like a man trying to hide from the world. But it was hidden. Buried under cotton and fleece. A terrifying secret tucked away. The others couldn’t know. Couldn’t suspect. They were comfortable with nudity, with the casual intimacy of shared showers after practice, with changing clothes in the same room. If they saw… if they knew…
The humiliation would be crushing. The questions unanswerable. The stares unbearable. He was Choi Seungcheol. Leader. Pillar. He had to be strong, dependable, normal. This… this aberration… couldn’t exist.
He took another shaky breath, trying to force some semblance of calm. He could do this. Just get through the day. Avoid situations. Keep covered. Coffee. He needed caffeine to blunt the edges of the panic and the lingering headache. He unlocked his door, the click unnaturally loud in the quiet, and stepped out into the hallway.
The dorm was still, heavy with the aftermath of celebration. Empty soju bottles stood like fallen soldiers on the coffee table. Discarded snack wrappers littered the floor. The air smelled faintly of stale beer and fried chicken.
He padded towards the kitchen, his thick socks muffling his steps on the wooden floor, his movements stiff and self-conscious. Every rustle of his sweatpants felt amplified, the brush of fabric against the hidden sensitivity a constant, low-grade distraction.
He felt hyper-aware of his own body in a way he never had before, focused entirely on the secret nestled between his thighs.
As he skirted the edge of the living room, passing the large, slightly sagging couch where he vaguely remembered collapsing last night, the stiff, heavy seam running along the inner thigh of his jeans – forgotten beneath the sweatpants, but now pressing insistently through the soft cotton of his boxers – rubbed directly against the apex of his thighs.
The contact wasn't gentle. It was a rough, unexpected scrape of stiff denim against the most sensitive, nerve-packed spot hidden beneath the layers.
The jolt wasn't just electric; it was a lightning strike.
White-hot, blinding pleasure – shocking in its intensity and utter wrongness – exploded through him. It wasn't localized; it detonated in his core, radiating outwards like a shockwave, searing up his spine and down his legs.
He gasped, a sharp, punched-out sound, his body locking up. His knees buckled completely, giving way beneath him. His vision whited out, stars bursting behind his eyelids.
He threw out a hand, fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase on the back of the couch as he started to fall. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat, raw and desperate, before he could clamp his jaw shut, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. The taste of copper flooded his mouth.
He hung there, hunched over the couch arm, trembling violently, every muscle clenched tight. The aftershocks rolled through him, wave after wave of devastating sensation, leaving him weak, dizzy, and utterly shaken.
His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip despite the layers. Between his legs, beneath the concealing fabric, he felt a fresh, hot gush of wetness.
Oh god. Oh fucking god. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the sting of helpless tears. What is this? What the hell is happening to me? This wasn’t just a new body part. It was a live grenade.
A tripwire connected to a pleasure bomb wired directly into his nervous system. Hidden beneath layers, yes, but terrifyingly, dangerously alive. Hyper-sensitive. Uncontrollable. And he had no idea how to contain it, how to predict its triggers, how to stop it from betraying him again.
The panic returned, colder and sharper than before, a glacial fear that froze his blood and drowned out everything else – the hangover, the confusion, even the lingering echo of that devastating, shameful pleasure. How could he possibly hide this? How could he survive a single day?