Short Stories Collection

by reader2writer

Summary:

a cozy or steamy corner (depending on you) for fan-made one shots and imagines — mostly focused on the boys of Fourever You.

Chapter 1: Welcome/ Request Page ✨🤍

 

hi — welcome ♡

 

i’m back with something new.

 

 

this is my little space for imagines & one-shots.

 

for now, i’m mostly writing for fourever you (because let’s be real — my heart is still there). but i’m open to other couples or shows too, once i’ve watched them! i want the characters and their voices to feel right, so if i haven’t seen the series yet, i won’t write for it just yet.

 

📝 requests are open!

if there’s a scene you’re imagining — maybe a fluffy date night, a ghost ship (e.g Johan/ Hill), a trio or more ;), a little post-episode moment, some sweet angst, or even something completely AU — feel free to drop it in the comments. be as detailed as you want! include character names, relationship vibes, specific scenarios, outfits, moods — i love all the little things that make a story feel real.

 

i’m open to writing most things — sweet, angsty, emotional,spicy, even a little dramatic — as long as it fits the characters. just please no incest, step-sibling dynamics, or underage/older pairings — nothing in that realm. any comments requesting that kind of content will be deleted. let’s keep it safe and respectful for everyone ♡

✨ think of this like a moodboard, but with feelings and dialogue.

edit: for requests please state couple/couples, scenario and mood(s) (fluff/cute, angst, explicit etc), so I am able to better understand what you want.

 

thanks so much for being here. seriously.

 

i hope you find something you enjoy — and if not yet, then soon. ♡

Chapter 2: Just One Night✨ (Arthit x Daotok)

Notes:

I think it’s only right to start off with the request for the bonus scene prompt from my first story ( check it out if you haven’t). I’ll probably post again tonight.

Request from @Vernonslove1 🤍

The guy’s slur still echoed faintly even as he was dragged off by security, his voice drowned out by club music and shouted disgust from the crowd.

 

Daotok stood frozen, spine rigid, jaw clenched.

 

Arthit’s hand was still curled into a fist, muscles tight with aftershock. For a moment he didn’t even feel the pain blooming across his knuckles only the sting of fury, of protectiveness that burned in his gut.

 

“You okay?” Tonfah asked from the side, a hand hovering near Daotok’s back.

 

Daotok gave a short nod, but his expression was unreadable. He wasn’t looking at anyone just staring at the floor, somewhere far away.

 

Arthit’s voice cut through the bass, low and firm. “I’m taking him to the bathroom.”

 

And without waiting for a reply, he reached out, gently this time, fingers brushing Daotok’s wrist.

 

“Come with me,” he murmured, close to his ear.

 

Daotok looked up then. His eyes weren’t furious. They were… quiet. Stung. And that terrified Arthit more than any bruised knuckle.

 

He led Daotok through the crowd, shouldering past clusters of people until they reached the dim hallway and finally the club bathroom. The door swung shut behind them, sealing them in with the buzz of flickering fluorescent lights and a distant thump of bass like a heartbeat through the walls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthit turned the lock.

 

The room was empty, thank God. It smelled like disinfectant and faint cologne, and the mirror was fogged at the corners.

 

Daotok stood near the sink, back to the wall, breathing shallowly.

 

Arthit finally let go of his wrist and turned toward him. “Dao…”

 

Daotok blinked once, then looked up.

 

That was when Arthit saw it, how tight his shoulders were. How his throat moved when he swallowed. How his hands, clenched at his sides, were trembling just slightly.

 

Arthit stepped closer. “Say something.”

 

Silence.

 

Are you okay?” Arthit asked, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me you’re okay.”

 

Daotok exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the cracked tile floor. “Yeah. Just… shaken.”

 

Arthit’s gaze searched his face, jaw tight. “He touched you.”

 

A beat passed. Daotok nodded, once. “Yeah.”

 

Arthit looked like he might explode all over again, fists curling at his sides. “I should’ve hit him harder.”

 

Daotok finally looked up. “You hit him exactly enough.”

 

The weight of the moment thickened between them.

 

“Don’t give him more space than he already took,” Daotok added, quieter now. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

 

Arthit’s anger faltered, like a match burning out in his chest. He stepped forward, slowly, careful not to crowd. “You’re right.”

 

Daotok gave him the barest smile, grateful, tired, real.

Arthit fell silent. The words curdled on his tongue.

 

Then Daotok exhaled, a long shaky breath, and finally looked at him fully.

 

“You hit him,” he said. Not angry. Just… stating.

 

“Yeah,” Arthit replied, like it was obvious. “Of course I did.”

 

Daotok’s lip twitched. “You punched someone. For me.”

 

Arthit stepped forward again, eyes dark. “He grabbed you, Dak. He touched you without consent. I saw the look on your face. You froze. You didn’t even react right away—”

 

“I was processing,” Daotok whispered, voice raw.

 

“I know,” Arthit said, softer now. “That’s why I reacted for you.”

 

That cracked something open.

 

Daotok looked down again, voice barely above a breath. “I didn’t expect to freeze like that.”

 

Arthit closed the space between them and lifted a hand, carefully placing it against Daotok’s jaw. “That’s not on you.”

 

Daotok didn’t move. “I felt… disgusting. Like he owned my body for a second. Like I didn’t matter. And then you—”

 

Arthit’s arms were around him in the next heartbeat, strong and grounding. “Don’t finish that sentence,” he murmured into Daotok’s hair. “You matter. Every inch of you is yours. Not his.”

 

Daotok’s hands clutched at Arthit’s shirt.

 

“I hate how it made me feel,” he whispered. “Like I disappeared inside myself.”

 

“You didn’t disappear,” Arthit said, pulling back enough to look him in the eyes. “You were right here. With me. You still are.”

 

 

 

 

 

Daotok leaned forward, hands braced against the edge of the sink, his reflection blurry in the mirror. “It’s messed up. Stuff like this, it’s happened before. But tonight felt… different.”

 

Arthit waited, quiet but close.

Daotok braced his hands on the counter, head bowed, breathing out slowly.

 

“I’ve been groped before,” he said, voice low, measured. “Clubs, parties… it’s happened. You brush it off. Smile. Move away. Pretend it didn’t happen.”

 

Arthit stayed close, listening, his jaw tight.

 

“But tonight…” Daotok shook his head. “That guy didn’t just test the boundary. He ignored it. Like no didn’t apply to him. Like he could touch me just because I was there.”

 

Arthit’s voice came out hard. “He thought he could do whatever he wanted.”

 

“Exactly.” Daotok looked up, meeting his eyes. “I’ve dealt with drunk flirting, accidental brushes. I know the difference. But this? This was different. He was persistent. Like he thought he could wear me down if he just kept pushing.”

 

“You shouldn’t have to tolerate that,” Arthit said, stepping closer until their arms touched. “You shouldn’t have to calculate how angry someone might get just because you said no.”

 

“I didn’t even get to say no,” Daotok said, almost laughing, bitterly. “He didn’t give me time. You were already pulling me away.”

 

“Good,” Arthit said, voice sharp. “Because I would’ve lost it if I’d waited another second.”

 

Daotok looked at him, a wry smile forming. “You kinda did lose it.”

 

Arthit raised a brow. “No regrets.”

 

Daotok snorted softly. “Reckless.”

 

“Always,” Arthit said, softer now, brushing their fingers together. “When it comes to you.”

 

 

Then silence stretched between them, heavy and comfortable.

 

Arthit glanced at him, voice low. “You’re too quiet.”

 

“I’m trying to breathe.”

 

“I can help with that.”

 

Daotok gave him a sideways look. “Oh yeah?”

 

Arthit gently tugged him forward by the belt loop. “Yeah.”

 

Their foreheads pressed together. Arthit’s voice dropped. “You want a distraction?”

 

Daotok chuckled, the tension loosening slightly. “God, yes.”

 

 

 

 

It started tentative. A slow brush of lips. A silent check-in. But when Daotok kissed back, it was with hunger, like he needed to reclaim the space between them, his agency, himself.

 

Arthit cupped the back of his neck, deepening the kiss. His other hand splayed at Daotok’s waist, grounding.

 

When they broke apart, breathless, Daotok leaned his forehead against Arthit’s collarbone.

 

“Why are you so hot when you’re angry?” he muttered, a touch of his usual sass returning.

 

Arthit laughed. “You’ve got a thing for violence?”

 

“Only when it’s righteous.”

 

“Defending your honor,” Arthit said with a wink.

 

“Defending my ass,” Daotok corrected, lips quirking.

 

Arthit snorted, dropping a kiss on his temple. “You’re a menace.”

 

“I’m your menace.”

 

“Damn right.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They sat on the counter, Daotok curled between Arthit’s legs, heads resting together. The music outside was a dull throb. But inside, it was just them, a breath between moments.

 

“I love you,” Daotok murmured finally, voice quiet but steady.

 

Arthit froze, then pulled back just enough to see his face. “Say that again.”

 

Daotok didn’t hesitate. “I love you.”

 

Arthit kissed him again, no heat, just reverence. “I love you too. And I’m not letting anyone touch what we have. Ever.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

When they finally walked out of the bathroom, hand in hand, the others greeted them with relief—and teasing.

 

“Did you make out in the bathroom?” Tonfah asked.

 

“Yes,” Daotok said without shame.

 

Typhoon gave a thumbs up. “Power move.”

 

Arthit smirked. “I also threatened a man and punched him.”

 

“Balance,” Hill said sagely.

 

They rejoined the dance floor, and this time, Daotok danced like he was taking his body back, smiling, laughing, bold. Arthit didn’t let go of his hand once.

Chapter 3: Match Day🤍 (Arthit x Daotok)

Notes:

I started writing this last night, next thing I know it’s 7:30 AM.

Request from @Emotionless_Platypus, I hope you enjoy this.🤍

 

Prompt: Possessive Arthit, leading to a campus make out.

 

“Do I look like a football boyfriend or just a lost art major who wandered into the wrong crowd?” Daotok asked, smoothing his hair and checking his reflection in the vending machine glass.

 

“You look hot,” Typhoon said bluntly, tugging Tonfah up the steps toward the bleachers. “Face paint’s a little dramatic, but the crop top? You’re pulling it off.”

 

“I designed the face paint,” North announced, waving his iced coffee like a trophy. “Minimalist pride streaks. Strategic placement. It’s basically merch.”

 

Tonfah snorted. “Strategic? You drew a giant heart with ‘Captain A’ in it across his cheek.”

 

Daotok flushed. “I didn’t ask for that.”

 

“You didn’t wipe it off either,” Johan noted calmly, sliding his fingers into North’s hand with practiced ease.

 

Daotok looked down, pretending to be interested in his shoes.

 

The group migrated toward their spot in the stands, chatter bouncing easily between them, jokes overlapping like a chorus. But Daotok’s eyes kept flicking toward the field.

 

And there he was.

 

Arthit.

 

Jersey clinging to his shoulders, sleeves shoved up. Hair damp from warm-up. Jaw locked with focus. The kind of calm that looked like it might shatter the moment someone challenged him.

 

Daotok’s breath caught, unprepared for the way his chest tightened just watching him stretch. He had to look away.

 

Unfair.

 

That’s when he felt it,  that prickle on the back of his neck.

 

He glanced across the field.

 

Number 8.

 

Rival team. Tall. Lean. Confident in the way people are when they’ve never been told no.

 

And staring.

 

Not just looking. Tracking.

 

Eyes locked on Daotok. No shame in it.

 

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t fleeting. It was a slow, deliberate once-over, like he was weighing options, already imagining the outcome.

 

Daotok swallowed and looked away, spine tensing.

 

He’d been stared at before. Flirted with. Hit on.

 

A whistle signalling the start of the game brought Daotok out of his thoughts. 

 

 

Half time came and the score was 2-2.

“Okay, but that guy’s been staring for five straight plays,” Typhoon said, lowering his sunglasses to squint across the field. “We’re sure he’s not trying to psych out Arthit by thirsting over his boyfriend?”

 

“Number 8?” Easter asked, flicking his straw. “Oh yeah. He’s locked in. Like, murder-via-eye-contact levels of staring.”

 

“Or undress-with-eye-contact,” North added, scrolling lazily on his phone. “Honestly, kinda bold of him. Daotok’s giving committed boyfriend energy in a crop top.”

 

Tonfah didn’t laugh. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “He hasn’t looked away since the warm-up.”

 

Hill’s jaw was tight. “He’s not just staring. He’s calculating.”

 

Daotok chuckled nervously. “You guys are exaggerating—”

 

“You’re sweet,” Johan cut in, arms folded. “But he’s not being subtle. At all.”

 

Daotok shifted in his seat, the teasing starting to feel heavier. “Arthit hasn’t noticed. It’s fine.”

 

“He’s mid-match,” Typhoon said. “If he saw, he’d already be in a fistfight.”

 

“I give it ten minutes,” Easter said brightly. “Then we get a live demonstration of what happens when someone flirts with Captain Arthit’s boyfriend.”

 

North snorted. “Place your bets now. Shouting? Kissing? Public tackle?”

 

“Or homicide,” Johan muttered under his breath.

 

Tonfah nodded slowly. “I’ve never seen Arthit lose it over anything. But Daotok? That’s different.”

 

“Protective doesn’t even cover it,” Hill said, eyes still locked on Number 8. “It’s instinct.”

 

Daotok blinked. “Wait, are you guys actually worried?”

 

“We’re not worried for you,” Johan said, dry. “We’re worried for that poor idiot who thinks he can flirt with you and walk away with teeth.”

 

North leaned back, grinning. “Can’t wait.”

 

“Bet it ends with a dramatic kiss and someone storming off embarrassed,” Typhoon added. “Classic football boyfriend drama.”

 

Daotok flushed but didn’t deny it. He could already feel it — the slow burn of something boiling under the surface.

 

And when Arthit did notice?

 

Oh, there’d be fire.

 

 

 

Final score: 3–2, with Arthit’s team pulling a dramatic last-minute goal that had the bleachers roaring. His teammates surged toward each other, sweat-slicked and ecstatic, hands flying up in messy high-fives and victory shouts.

 

The friend group had already scrambled to grab their things from the stands, slipping past fans and discarded popcorn cups to get down to the sidelines.

 

“Alright, lunch at SOI?” North asked, looping his bag over one shoulder. “I’m starving.”

 

“Let’s wait for Captain A before we settle,” Easter added, nudging Hill. “He just saved the game. Let the man pick his post-match feast.”

 

“Maybe he’ll be too busy making out with Daotok behind the locker rooms,” Typhoon muttered with a grin.

 

Tonfah smirked. “Again.”

 

But Daotok lingered behind the group, his hands gripping the stadium rail for a second longer. He hadn’t moved with the rest of them, not fully. His heart was still hammering in his chest, not from the match, but from the look Number 8 had been giving him all day.

 

And then, like clockwork, the guy appeared.

 

Straight from the field. Jersey clinging to his chest, sweat trailing down his temple, posture relaxed, too relaxed. Confident. Certain.

 

“Hey,” he called out, not to the group, to Daotok. His voice cut through the post-match buzz. “Didn’t catch your name.”

 

Daotok didn’t smile. “Wasn’t offering it.”

 

The guy chuckled, undeterred. “You’re cute. Had to shoot my shot. Looks like everyone else in your crew’s paired off. Didn’t want the prettiest one to go home unclaimed.”

 

Daotok took a step back, the air thick with discomfort.

 

Before he could speak, Johan turned.

 

The shift was subtle,  the kind of calm that came before storms.

 

“Nope,” Johan said, standing straighter, body half-blocking Daotok from the guy’s view.

 

But Number 8 just smirked, unbothered. “Come on. He doesn’t have to be babysat. Just asking for a name.”

 

“You were told no,” Johan replied, voice level. “And you kept talking.”

 

The guy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Damn. Protective crew. He can answer for himself though, right?”

 

“Or,” Hill said smoothly, stepping up beside Johan, “you could learn to read the room. And shut the hell up.”

 

Typhoon had stopped walking. “Uh-oh.”

 

North raised his phone slightly. “Should I start recording? This feels like it’s about to get dramatic.”

 

Easter whistled low. “This poor guy has no idea what’s about to hit him.”

 

And then—

 

“He’s mine.”

 

The voice came from behind the guy.

 

Low. Rough. And cold.

 

Number 8 blinked and turned, startled. Arthit stood there, still in his jersey, cleats crunching slightly on gravel. Damp bangs clung to his brow, his jaw tense, his eyes fixed on the man in front of him with the kind of fury that didn’t shout, it simmered.

 

He hadn’t even changed after the match. He’d come straight from the field the moment he saw what was happening.

 

Daotok’s breath caught. “Arthit…”

 

Arthit didn’t look at him. His gaze never left Number 8.

 

The rival player raised an eyebrow, still trying to play it cool. “Didn’t realize he was taken. You weren’t with him, so—”

 

Arthit stepped closer, deliberately closing the gap until he was practically chest to chest with him.

 

“I’m always with him.”

 

The guy opened his mouth, maybe to laugh, maybe to push back, but he never got the chance.

 

 

Arthit just grabbed Daotok by the waist, yanked him in with force that stole the air from his lungs,  and kissed him.

 

Hard.

 

Not a kiss. A collision.

 

It was all heat and muscle and frustration, a territorial claim wrapped in desire. Arthit’s hand slid from Daotok’s waist down to his hip, gripping tight before slipping lower, fingers bold and palming his ass like he was daring anyone to look away. His other hand cupped the back of Daotok’s neck, anchoring him there, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

 

Daotok gasped, more shocked by how much he liked it than the kiss itself,  then melted into it, fingers twisting in Arthit’s damp jersey, pulling him closer.

 

The kiss deepened.

 

Sloppier. More desperate. Arthit tilted his head, lips parting, tongue sweeping in like he couldn’t get enough, like he hadn’t seen Daotok in weeks instead of hours. He tugged Daotok’s lower half against him, chest to chest, hips locked. Possessive didn’t even cover it,  he was devouring him.

 

And Daotok let him.

 

He kissed back with equal heat, his hand sliding up the back of Arthit’s neck to fist in his hair, nails grazing scalp. When Arthit squeezed his ass again, shameless, full palm, no hesitation,  Daotok made a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a whimper.

 

Someone gasped. Someone else said, “Oh my god.”

 

And still neither of them stopped.

 

When they finally broke apart, barely breathing, Daotok’s lips were kiss-swollen, eyes glassy, shirt bunched high from how tightly Arthit had gripped his waist.

 

Arthit turned, eyes dark, jaw set, to the stunned rival player.

 

“You can stop looking now,” he said, voice low and lethal. “He’s taken.”

 

The guy backed away without a word.

 

And behind them, the friend group exploded.

 

“OH MY GOD,” Tonfah shrieked, clapping a hand over Typhoon’s eyes.

 

Hill just muttered, “Christ,” and looked away.

 

Johan looked entirely unbothered. “Well. That worked.”

 

North made a strangled sound. “I need bleach for my retinas.”

 

Easter was laughing so hard he had to lean on Hill to stay upright.

 

Daotok just blinked up at Arthit, dazed. “You really just—?”

 

Arthit didn’t let go. His palm was still on Daotok’s lower back. His gaze still burning.

 

“He was looking at what’s mine,” Arthit muttered.

 

Daotok, cheeks flushed, smirked. “You gonna kiss me like that every time someone flirts with me?”

 

“I’ll do worse,” Arthit said. “Next time I’ll carry you out.”

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Bratty ✨ (Johan x North)

Notes:

If you have an idea or request, make sure to leave a comment on the first chapter ‘Welcome ✨🤍’

 

Request from @lanalala543 🤍 enjoy, I hope this is kind of what you had in mind.

 

Prompt: North regains some of his sassiness, with a bit of Johan jealousy.

 

Towards the end there is a NC scene, if you are uncomfortable with that, the scene is separate from the rest of the story with (****).

Johan shifted uncomfortably in the sleek leather chair inside his father’s office, absently rubbing at the crease forming between his brows. The long corridor was quiet now, late enough that most staff had clocked out, leaving only the night shift murmuring across the corridors. Around the office, voices buzzed low: two senior consultants were still talking through an upcoming deal, his father leading as usual, always in command.

 

Johan’s phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He pulled it out beneath the polished table, subtly enough not to seem rude.

 

North:

“You coming home?”

 

Johan stared at the screen. The time in the corner made his stomach twist—past 7:30. The dinner plans he’d made was already long gone. They were supposed to have met at home by 6:45, cook together, watch that cheesy drama North pretended to hate but always insisted they “accidentally” binge.

 

He’d promised. And he was still in the office, still nowhere near home.

 

He typed a quick reply with heavy fingers:

“Sorry. Got delayed. Back in 30.”

 

He didn’t expect a response. And none came.

 

With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, feeling the weight of the day, and now, the added sting of letting North down. Again. The sense of guilt crept deeper than his exhaustion, crawling under the skin. This wasn’t the first time, but it was the first he’d forgotten a day off hospital rotations, the one North had circled on the calendar with a smiley face and a dumb little heart.

 

He shoved the phone in his pocket, murmured his apologies to the remaining partners, and slipped out the door.

 

Outside, the city glowed. Neon signs flickered to life in the distance, the street lamps casting long shadows across the slick sidewalk. The wind was mild but tugged at his sleeves like a warning.

 

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud briefly in the air. He didn’t feel the chill.

 

Only regret.

 

 

 

 

The key clicked in the lock.

 

Johan stepped into their apartment and shut the door behind him, slower than usual, shoulders slouched under the weight of something heavier than fatigue. He kicked off his shoes, letting them fall unevenly near the door, North always scolded him when he didn’t line them up neatly. He did it anyway.

 

He called out, half-hopeful. “North?”

 

No answer.

 

He paused in the hallway, listening for the usual signs of life: the familiar laugh from the TV, the hum of music coming from the speaker in the kitchen, the soft shuffle of socked feet moving toward him.

 

There was nothing.

 

He wandered in further. The light above the dining table was on. A single bowl sat untouched beside a plate of chopped vegetables that hadn’t made it into the pot. The rice cooker glowed a dull orange, set to “keep warm” for far too long.

 

His heart sank a little lower.

 

Johan stepped into the kitchen, running his fingers along the edge of the counter, then looked down at the two ceramic mugs sitting by the sink. One had his lipstick-stained smiley face that North insisted on using every morning. It was empty now. Cold.

 

He noticed something new, North’s sketchbook left open on the counter, a half-finished drawing of the two of them curled together on the couch. His drawing skills improved over the years thanks to the art club. The lines were soft, careful. A tiny post-it stuck to the page read: “Don’t move, I’m going to finish this after dinner 🖤”

 

Johan felt something hollow tug at his chest.

 

He moved into the living room. The TV was on but paused, casting a static blue glow over the couch cushions. A half-folded blanket hung over the side like someone had stood up in the middle of watching.

 

He turned slowly.

 

That’s when his phone buzzed again in his pocket.

 

North:

“Late night study session. Don’t wait up.”

 

Johan stared at the message.

 

The words were neutral. Polite. But the coldness hit him like a slap.

 

No emoji. No playful nickname. No angry exclamation.

Just… blank space.

 

He read it again. And again.

 

His thumb hovered over the screen, wanting to reply. Wanting to call. To say “Come home, I’m here now” or “Let me explain.” But he didn’t know if North would answer.

 

And worse—he didn’t know if North wanted him to.

 

Johan lowered himself onto the couch, the quiet pressing in from all sides. The cushions still held North’s warmth. That somehow made it worse.

 

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, phone gripped tightly in both hands like a lifeline.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though no one was there to hear it.

Outside the window, the city buzzed on. Inside, the apartment was too still.

 

And Johan, usually so steady, so composed, sat there in the silence, not sure how to fix the crack he couldn’t see, but knew he’d caused.

 

Johan had never been the type to panic easily.

 

He was used to stress,  long days, late nights, exhaustion that settled deep in the bones and didn’t shake loose until his next day off. But in the days following the missed dinner with North, a different kind of tension crept into his chest.

 

Not the sharp pressure of med deadlines or his father’s constant expectations.

 

This one was soft.

 

Familiar.

 

Lonely.

 

North hadn’t mentioned it. Not once. No passive-aggressive comments. No fights. No storming off. But that was exactly the problem.

 

North was quiet.

 

Not the gentle, content kind of quiet. The kind that withheld.

It started the next morning. Johan had woken to the smell of coffee, thinking for a moment maybe North had forgiven him, maybe they could sit on the balcony and drink in that sleepy, sunlit silence like they always did.

 

Instead, the kitchen was empty.

 

One cup sat cooling by the window. Johan’s cup. His favorite mug. Filled, but untouched.

 

A yellow post-it was slapped on the fridge in North’s looping handwriting:

“Here’s your coffee. Already gone.”

 

No heart. No nickname. No little drawing in the corner like usual.

 

Just a message. Just enough to keep from being cold.

 

Johan stared at it longer than he should have.

 

 

 

 

That morning turned into days.

 

And things only got stranger.

 

North didn’t stop talking to him,  but he didn’t say anything important, either. Their usual chatter, their banter, the sarcastic jabs and gentle teasing that made up the rhythm of their relationship… faded.

 

Instead, Johan got curated brattiness. Just enough to not be confrontational.

 

“Can you pass me that?” North asked casually one night, gesturing to the remote. Johan leaned over and handed it to him.

 

“Oh,” North said sweetly, “you can still see me. Wasn’t sure.”

 

Johan blinked. “What?”

 

“Nothing.” North turned back to the TV. “Must’ve been the lighting. Thought I turned invisible again.”

 

It wasn’t just that.

He wouldn’t hold Johan’s hand anymore, unless he initiated it, and even then, North let it fall quickly.

 

He kissed Johan’s cheek goodnight like they were roommates.

 

He barely even teased him during breakfast, which used to be his favorite time to climb into Johan’s lap just to annoy him before classes.

 

And when Johan tried to talk?

 

North changed the subject like a professional deflector.

 

Johan began to notice more than just the silence.

 

North was dressing… different. Not wild, not scandalous, but intentional,  cropped shirts that clung to his waist, artfully messed hair, eyeliner sharp enough to slice skin. Johan noticed the looks he got on campus.

 

So did North.

 

He wore it like a dare.

 

 

 

 

By the fourth day, North’s brattiness hit a new level.

 

Johan came home from a full night shift and found North on the couch, headphones in, sketchbook open on his lap. There were two empty takeout boxes on the table, and the show they were supposed to watch together had been clearly binge-watched without him, three episodes ahead.

 

“Hey,” Johan said quietly, sliding his shoes off.

 

North didn’t look up. “Hey.”

 

“You started without me?”

 

“You missed dinner,” North said evenly. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

 

Johan’s chest pinched.

 

He didn’t know what stung more,  the words or the calm, flat way North delivered them. No fire. No fight. Just disinterest.

 

And then North stood and walked past him into their shared bedroom.

 

Later that night, Johan lay awake, North curled under the blanket but facing the opposite direction. He reached for him, his hand finding the soft skin of North’s back, trying to curl around his waist.

 

North didn’t move.

 

Didn’t reject it. Didn’t lean into it either.

 

Johan eventually fell asleep with his hand still resting there, heart heavy.

 

 

 

 

 

Johan’s next day off finally came.

 

He’d made coffee before North could, trying to flip the week around. He even made breakfast: toast, eggs, North’s favorite fruit. A tiny drawing of a sleepy cat on the napkin. A small olive branch.

 

He waited.

 

But the bed was empty when he turned back around.

 

North’s side,  cold.

 

Then came the sound of closet drawers.

 

Johan turned to find him in the middle of getting dressed,  hair already styled, lip gloss on. His shirt was revealing a line of pale skin that made Johan blink, half-awake and completely off-balance.

 

“Good morning?” Johan offered, crossing the room.

 

North glanced up through thick lashes but didn’t smile. “Is it?”

 

“…Where are you going?”

 

North grabbed a silver necklace from the tray and clasped it at the back of his neck. “Out.”

 

“Out where?”

 

“Not sure yet.” North shrugged, adjusting the hem of his shirt. “Maybe a gallery. Maybe shopping. Just needed air.”

 

Johan frowned. “We said we’d spend today together.”

 

“No,” North corrected without looking at him. “You said that after canceling twice.”

 

Johan opened his mouth, but North walked past him to grab his phone.

 

He was dressed to kill but casual, ripped, baggy jeans fitted perfectly at the waist, a yellow baby the showing enough just enough to tease. His lips were cherry red from his favourite lip balm. His eyes defiant.

 

Johan’s voice was soft. “North.”

 

“I’ll see you later,” North said breezily, pulling on his shoes. “Maybe.”

 

And then he left,  with the door clicking behind him and no kiss goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By noon, Johan’s phone had blown up.

 

Not with texts from North.

 

No, North had gone online.

 

His Instagram story was a chaos of curated thirst-traps: a selfie from the art gallery, then a video sipping boba tea with a painfully good angle on his collarbone, and a group photo with two other cute students, one of whom had their hand just a little too close to North’s hip.

 

The caption?

 

“Finally out with people who have free time. 🖤✌️”

 

Johan nearly choked on his coffee.

 

Tonfah was the first to message him.

 

Tonfah: “Your boyfriend is being a MENACE.”

 

Tonfah: “Please tell me you did something dumb so I can yell at you properly.”

 

Then:

 

Arthit: “North’s story is lowkey hotter than usual. You better go rescue your man.”

 

Even Hill chimed in:

 

Hill: “Dude. He’s pouting in boba selfies. You’re in danger.”

 

It wasn’t until Johan called and North ignored the call, twice,  that it really hit him.

 

This wasn’t just petty.

 

North was hurting.

 

He was pushing for attention the only way he knew how: through fire and flirtation.

 

And Johan… hadn’t seen it soon enough.

 

He stared at his phone, thumb hovering over the message box. Then he set it down.

 

He’d waited long enough.

 

Tonight, North would talk to him.

 

Even if Johan had to drag the brat home himself.

 

It was almost midnight when the door finally opened.

 

The lock clicked, the hinge creaked softly, and Johan looked up from where he sat,  waiting on the couch, hoodie rumpled, jaw clenched, half-empty glass of water still untouched in his hand.

 

North stepped inside with the casual drama of someone who wanted to be noticed but wouldn’t dare admit it.

 

He was glowing.

 

His makeup had faded into something smudged and sultry, his shirt was clinged to him more from the heat, and his laugh,  the one Johan had barely heard all week,  still lingered on his lips from some joke told just outside.

 

He froze when he saw Johan sitting there.

 

“…You’re still up?”

 

Johan didn’t answer. He stood slowly, eyes fixed on him. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

 

North blinked, toed off one shoe lazily. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

 

“That clear from the Instagram thirst traps.”

 

“Guess someone had to appreciate me.”

 

That did it.

 

Johan crossed the room in a few long strides, and North barely had time to blink before his back hit the wall, gently, but firmly, Johan’s hand pressed flat to the wall beside his head.

 

“North.”

 

The sound of his name, low, rough, controlled,  stole the air from his lungs. It wasn’t angry. It was something else.

 

Dangerous. Focused. Raw.

 

North refused to look up at him. “You said you were too tired this week. Thought I’d give you space.”

 

“I didn’t ask for space,” Johan growled, hand now sliding to grip North’s waist, thumb pressing into the soft skin just above his waistband.

 

“You took it anyway,” North shot back, bratty tone cracking just a little.

 

“I didn’t realize you needed me to fight for it.”

 

“You didn’t realize I was hurting.”

 

Silence.

 

Heavy. Cracked. Real.

 

Johan swallowed, his voice quieter now. “No. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

 

North blinked, lip trembling,  just for a second, before he tilted his head, defiant again. “And what, now you notice, so everything’s fine?”

 

“No.” Johan’s hand moved. Smooth, deliberate.

 

One slid around to cup the back of North’s neck.

 

The other? Dropped low,  grabbed a firm handful of North’s ass and squeezed.

 

North gasped, sharp, involuntary, and that sound undid something in Johan.

 

He didn’t ask permission. Not this time.

 

He kissed him.

 

Hard.

 

Messy.

 

The kind of kiss that came from aching days, pent-up guilt, and a desperate need to be forgiven without words. Johan pushed him into the wall, teeth grazing North’s bottom lip, tongue claiming.

 

North whimpered against him, fingers fisting in Johan’s hoodie like he wanted to fight back but couldn’t breathe.

 

Johan only deepened it, grabbing both wrists and pinning them over North’s head with one hand, while the other squeezed harder, dragging North’s hips forward until they were pressed flush.

 

North was melting,  knees wobbling, face flushed, lips swollen. “Y-you—”

 

“Mine,” Johan whispered against his jaw, voice so low it trembled. “All this brattiness.  All this show. Just to get my attention?”

 

North said nothing.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

“Next time,” Johan growled, hand sliding up to cup his throat gently but firmly, thumb brushing the line of his jaw, “use your words baby, not your body.”

 

North’s eyes fluttered.

 

“You’re not just something pretty in a feed, North. You’re mine. And I see you. Even when I’m fucking exhausted, I see you.”

 

The air between them stilled.

 

North let out a shaky breath, voice suddenly soft. “…I missed you.”

 

“I missed us,” Johan admitted, pressing his forehead to his.

 

North closed his eyes.

 

Then, very quietly “I didn’t mean to be mean.”

 

“I know,” Johan said, kissing his nose now,  softer, grounding. “You were just lonely.”

 

North nodded. “I thought if I looked hot enough online, you’d get jealous and finally kiss me like this again.”

 

Johan smirked, slow and crooked. “So you admit it.”

 

North grinned through his blush. “Maybe.”

 

“Brat,” Johan whispered.

 

“Med-zombie,” North countered.

 

They laughed, short and breathless,  tangled together in the quiet warmth that followed a storm.

 

Then Johan leaned close again, voice serious now. “Let me make it up to you.”

 

“You kinda already are,” North whispered, rolling his hips just barely, eyes dark.

 

“No. Properly.” Johan slid his hands down again. “Bed. Now.”

 

North hesitated,  but his pupils were blown wide.

 

He turned.

 

Johan followed.

 

 

 

 

*****

 

 

North gasped again as Johan lifted him off his feet like he weighed nothing,fingers strong under his thighs, pulling him in tight.

 

“J-Johan—!”

 

“Shut up,” Johan muttered against his lips. “You want my attention? You’ve got it.”

 

He carried him into the bedroom, letting North fall back onto the bed with a soft bounce.

 

North scrambled up onto his elbows, lips kiss-swollen, breath ragged. His shirt had ridden halfway up, exposing his waist. Johan didn’t stop to undress him slowly, no ceremony tonight.

 

He just grabbed the hem and yanked.

 

North hissed. “Rude.”

 

“Brat,” Johan growled again, and dragged his hoodie off too, baring his toned chest, the light catching the line of muscle at his waist.

 

North’s thighs parted instinctively.

 

Johan caught the movement,  eyes darkened, and dropped down over him, pinning him with the weight of his hips.

 

“You wore this shirt on purpose,” Johan said, voice thick.

 

“I wear a lot of shirts,” North whispered, grinning up at him.

 

Johan grabbed his wrists again and shoved them above his head, hard enough to hold but soft enough not to hurt. “You wore it so they’d look at you.”

 

“So you’d look at me.”

 

Johan’s control snapped. He kissed him again, open-mouthed, biting his lip, tongue claiming. He ground down,  slow, heavy,  hips rolling until North gasped.

 

“Fuck—okay—I’m sorry—!”

 

“No, you’re not.” Johan sat up, pulled North’s pants down in one impatient motion. “You liked being a brat.”

 

“Maybe I did,” North panted. “Maybe I needed to feel wanted.”

 

Johan froze for a heartbeat. Then he dropped between North’s legs and bit the inside of his thigh — not hard, but possessive.

 

“You are,” he murmured. “You’re wanted. You’re mine.”

 

North let out a desperate little moan, writhing under him. “Then show me.”

 

Johan didn’t need to be told twice.

 

His hand wrapped around North’s cock, already flushed, dripping, and stroked him slow, methodical. North whined, back arching.

 

“Been like this all week?” Johan asked, voice low.

 

“Maybe—fuck—”

 

“Dripping over selfies and comments from strangers while you waited for me?”

 

North groaned, breathless. “You’re such a fucking sadist—”

 

Johan kissed him again hard enough to steal the air from his lungs and slid two fingers into his mouth.

 

“Suck.”

 

North obeyed, lips wrapping around Johan’s fingers, tongue flicking just to be a tease.

 

Johan cursed under his breath.

 

He pulled back only long enough to slick them properly, then slid his hand down circling, then pushing in. North’s hips jolted.

 

“God—!”

 

“That’s what you get,” Johan whispered against his ear. “For pretending you didn’t need me.”

 

“I do need you—”

 

“I know.”

 

It didn’t take long after that.

 

Johan moved over him, slow but firm, eyes never leaving North’s. When he pushed in deep,  North’s legs wrapped around his waist like instinct.

 

“Johan—”

 

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

 

Every thrust was steady, grounding, rough with feeling,  no gentleness, just that heavy rhythm of built-up tension and longing.

 

The kind of rhythm that made North cry out and cling tighter. That made Johan groan into his throat and shove a hand under his back, holding him close like he might vanish again.

 

“You’re mine,” Johan repeated into his neck, hips slamming now. “Say it.”

 

“I’m yours,” North gasped. “Yours. Always—!”

 

Johan kissed him through his orgasm, hand wrapped around him as North arched and came hard, trembling under the weight of it all.

 

Only when he collapsed back did Johan chase his own release, biting into his shoulder as he spilled deep, groaning his name like a prayer.

 

They stayed tangled like that for long moments,  breathing hard, bodies sticky and pressed together, North’s fingers dragging through Johan’s hair in slow, grounding sweeps.

 

**********

 

 

 

 

 

 

After.

 

They lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin, North’s fingers lightly tracing circles on Johan’s chest.

 

“I wasn’t trying to punish you,” North said after a while, quieter now.

 

“I know,” Johan murmured, kissing his hair. “You just needed something I forgot to give.”

 

North nodded slowly. “You’re still my person. Even when you’re a med-zombie.”

 

Johan smiled, eyes closing. “And you’re still my brat. Even when you’re being petty on Instagram.”

 

“Hey,” North mumbled, mock-offended. “My thirst traps are art.”

 

“They’re trouble,” Johan corrected. “But you’re worth all of it.”

 

North curled tighter against him. “Don’t forget next time.”

 

“I won’t,” Johan promised. “Next day off is yours. Fully. Phone off. World off. Just you.”

 

North smiled, finally full of softness again.

 

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I like being seen.”

 

Johan kissed the top of his head again.

 

“You’re impossible to miss.”

Chapter 5: Is It Fake? 🤍 (Johan x Daotok)

Notes:

Ghost ship time. Daotok x Johan

Request from @Emotionless_Platypus 🤍

Prompt: Johan x Daotok ghostship

Johan walked into Verra like the city was his inheritance and the skyline owed him rent.

 

The rooftop restaurant gleamed under warm lights and polished glass, overlooking a city that sparkled beneath a full moon. It smelled faintly of citrus candles, truffle oil, and expensive perfume. It was the kind of place where cameras stayed tucked away and secrets slipped between wine glasses.

 

Johan was dressed in layered midnight black suit jacket draped open, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cufflinks still clipped on lazily. His shirt was silk, the kind that caught the light just enough to look like it cost more than most people’s rent.

 

With him: his inner circle.

Arthit was all angles and silence, his gray shirt crisp and collarbone sharp, watching the restaurant like he was already bored of it.

 

Hill wore a cream blazer with nothing underneath, chest on display, scent sharp and calculated.

 

Tonfah, of course, came in dark red, gold rings on his fingers, and an expression that said he was probably the one who suggested this place in the first place.

 

 

Their table, already scattered with crystal tumblers and lemon twists, was tucked near the windows. The waiter hadn’t even set down the last drinks before the low buzz of gossip started: “Is that Johan?” “I heard his father just bought a property in Tokyo.” “He’s hotter in real life.”

 

Hill sighed into his espresso martini, twirling the stirrer with dramatic boredom.

 

“Tell me this isn’t another overpriced menu and pretentious plating night.”

 

“I make no promises,” Johan said, distracted as he scanned the room.

 

Tonfah leaned lazily on one elbow, eyes flicking toward the entrance.

 

And then he smirked.

 

“Not boring anymore.”

 

 

 

 

 

Daotok walked in like a breeze through silk curtains, quiet, confident, and impossible not to notice if you were looking the right way.

 

Trailing slightly behind North, Easter, and Typhoon, he adjusted the ruffled sleeve of his soft ivory blouse. The top was sheer at the arms, with delicate lacework at the cuffs and a line of satin-covered buttons down the front. The blouse cinched just at the waist, tucked perfectly into fitted, high-waisted navy trousers that flared ever so slightly at the ankle. On his feet: cream-heeled loafers with a gold chain detail. On his ears: pearl studs. His makeup? Subtle shimmer, a gentle blush, and a tiny heart drawn in liner at the corner of one eye.

 

He looked like a romantic daydream. Tender but styled, timeless but modern.

 

North groaned dramatically as they passed the host stand. “You look like you walked out of a Bridgerton nightclub.”

 

“And yet,” Easter added, eyes on Daotok’s outfit, “you’re the only one who could pull that off and not look like a Pinterest cosplay fail.”

 

Daotok smoothed his sleeve with the grace of someone who knew how beautiful he was but never weaponized it.

 

“I dress for the mood I want to have,” he said softly.

 

Typhoon grinned, tugging him toward the elevator that led to the dining terrace. “So we’re in for a flirt-heavy, wine-fueled fairytale kind of night?”

 

“Exactly,” Daotok replied, flashing the kind of smile that made waiters pause mid-step.

 

Their table was just two over from Johan’s, though neither party seemed to realize it at first.

 

Daotok’s group had their own rhythm, bantering, teasing, sharing small appetizers over candlelight and clinking drinks laced with elderflower and citrus.

 

 

 

 

 

It happened mid-laugh.

 

Daotok turned, reaching for his wine glass, and his gaze lifted casually, unintentionally.

 

And locked.

 

With Johan.

 

The eye contact wasn’t immediate recognition. It was a slow burn of attention. A flick of curiosity. Johan, half-reclined in his seat, turned just enough to match the look.

 

No smirk. No leer. Just… interest. A glimmer of something slow and sharp, like heat building in a low flame.

 

Daotok, amused, looked away first.

 

But not without the smallest lift of his brow, like a dare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The restaurant’s garden terrace was strung with soft lights and scented with lavender hedges. Few guests wandered through it was mostly used for smoke breaks, private calls, and discreet moments away from society’s expectations.

 

Johan was there first, half a cigarette in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other, pretending not to be waiting.

 

Daotok stepped into the night with his phone to his ear, murmuring something into the line before slipping it into his pocket. The garden light hit the sheen of his blouse and made him look… moonlit.

 

They noticed each other again. Really noticed.

 

Johan said nothing at first. He just looked.

 

Daotok cocked his head slightly, curious. “Am I standing in your smoke?”

 

Johan shook his head once. “You’d smell like something better than tobacco anyway.”

 

Daotok smiled, more intrigued now than surprised.

 

“You’re Johan, right?”

 

Johan stepped closer, just enough to invade that thin line of personal space.

 

“Depends,” he said smoothly. “Are you Daotok?”

 

“I might be.”

 

Johan reached up, brushing something invisible, a stray eyelash, maybe, from Daotok’s cheek.

 

“You had something.”

 

“Did I?”

 

“No. I just wanted an excuse to get closer.”

 

Daotok didn’t move.

 

They were only inches apart now. Breath to breath. Barely touching.

 

Behind them, someone whispered, too loud, too excited.

 

“Wait. That’s Johan and Daotok. Look. Look. Take the photo!”

 

A flash went off. They turned but the person was already gone.

 

Too late.

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t staged. But it looked like it was.

 

Johan’s hand brushing Daotok’s cheek. Daotok tilting his head slightly, lips parted in surprise. The city blurred behind them like a film set. They looked less like strangers and more like lovers caught mid-confession.

 

By morning, it had gone viral.

 

“Johan & Daotok — soft launch or power move?”

 

#Joaotok #richboysoftlaunch #powercouple

 

The comments exploded.

 

“I knew they were dating!!”

“Did you see the EYE CONTACT??”

“Daotok looks like he’d ruin my life, and Johan would pay for the therapy.”

“I didn’t have this ship on my bingo card, but I’m invested.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Johan sat in the backseat of his town car, phone in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

 

He scrolled through the posts once. Twice.

 

His mouth curved slightly.

 

His phone buzzed.

 

Unknown Number

 

“Next time you fake seduce someone at dinner, maybe ask permission first.”

 

He smirked.

 

“I wasn’t faking. But noted.”

“You free tomorrow?”

 

A pause. Then—

 

“Are you asking me on a fake date?”

 

“I’m saying we might as well meet again to discuss this situation. This time with dessert.”

 

 

 

 

 

The air smelled like bergamot and chilled linen. A private bottle of champagne sat half-empty on the marble table between them, condensation beading elegantly down the glass.

 

Johan leaned back into the leather sofa, jacket draped over the seat beside him, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He sipped his drink, watching the city fade from gold to deep indigo outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

 

Daotok sat opposite him, legs crossed neatly, a raspberry macaron held delicately between two fingers. His blouse today was pale blue, edged with ruffles at the collar and sleeves, paired with sleek black trousers and a velvet ribbon at his throat. The kind of outfit that said: I came here to play nice—but I brought a knife in my smile.

 

He was every inch the soft heir he was painted to be, until he opened his mouth.

 

“So,” he said, setting the macaron down. “Are we pretending to fall in love, or just letting the internet do it for us?”

 

Johan grinned. “That depends. Are you pretending to be this charming?”

 

Daotok gave him a look over the rim of his glass. “Don’t flirt with me if you’re going to do it poorly.”

 

Johan laughed, low and genuine. Then he sat up, elbows on his knees, all business in a blink.

 

“Alright. Let’s talk terms.”

 

Daotok tilted his head slightly. “You’re making this sound like a merger.”

 

“In a way, it is.” Johan’s tone was calm, casual. Calculated. “You’ve seen the reaction. The picture alone has people making edits, writing thinkpieces. There’s already a trending tag.”

 

“I know. North sent me a meme of us photoshopped as ‘Beauty and the Beast.’” Daotok sipped his champagne. 

 

Johan looked vaguely offended. “That’s accurate. You’re clearly the Disney prince.”

 

“I said that,” Daotok agreed 

 

 

Johan cleared his throat, amused. “Anyway. Point is: people are invested. So we might as well control the narrative before someone else does.”

 

“Control it how?” Daotok asked, finally leaning forward. “Paparazzi hand-holding? Soft-launch Instagram posts?”

 

“Maybe,” Johan said. “Or just one very public appearance together. Let them wonder. Let them talk.”

 

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crisp ivory envelope.

 

Daotok arched a brow. “Is that an invitation? Or a threat?”

 

“A charity gala,” Johan replied, setting it on the table between them. “Formal. Black tie. My family’s on the sponsor list, so press will be there. So will every bored debutante and business rival who’s dying to see me attached to someone.”

 

“And you think I’d be a good… accessory?”

 

Johan’s eyes darkened, but his smile stayed easy. “You’d make a good headline. Even better partner. We both win.”

 

Daotok studied him for a long moment. “And what do I win, exactly?”

 

“You gain leverage,” Johan said without hesitation. 

I think,” Johan said, leaning back with practiced ease, “you’re tired of being underestimated. Tired of everyone assuming you’re soft because you’re quiet. You let them. But you’re not.”

 

Daotok tapped one manicured nail against the stem of his flute.

 

“And you?”

 

“My reputation’s already a mess,” Johan said with a shrug. “But being seen with someone as angelic as you? Makes me look tame. Balanced. And it might finally stop my father from trying to set me up with every oil heiress under thirty.”

 

Daotok hummed, tilting his head.

 

“You really think this will work?”

 

“I think people believe what they want to,” Johan replied. “We’ll show up together. We’ll smile. I’ll make sure someone catches us slow dancing. You’ll wear something devastating. We’ll give them enough to chew on and disappear before dessert.”

 

“And if they ask for more?”

 

Johan’s voice dropped just slightly. “Then we give them more.”

 

There was a pause.

 

Then Daotok stood, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “Alright. You’ve convinced me.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“I like chaos,” Daotok said airily. “And you’re clearly fun to play with.”

 

Johan stood as well, watching him walk toward the elevator, every movement deliberate, like he already knew the cameras were watching.

 

“Do I get to pick your outfit?” Johan called.

 

Daotok turned, hit the button, and smiled over his shoulder.

 

“No,” he said sweetly. “But I might let you unzip it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The grand ballroom of the  Foundation Gala gleamed under towering crystal chandeliers. A blue carpet led through a sea of press flashes and elegant attendees.

 

Daotok stepped out of the limousine in a jaw-dropping backless velvet suit jacket sapphire blue, body-hugging, revealing the curve of his spine and shoulders with breathtaking grace. His hair was swept up artfully, a few tendrils framing his face illuminated by the spark of the room.

 

Johan followed, impeccably tailored in midnight black. He immediately reached out, placing a confident hand on Daotok’s waist as they posed for the cameras, Daotok’s gown edge brushing Johan’s lapel. Their chemistry was undeniable: Johan’s arm protective, Daotok’s gaze serene but deeply present.

 

A photographer pressed forward with a phone light. Johan’s arm tightened naturally. Daotok shifted closer, heels clicking softly on the blue carpet. The flash froze them mid-pose: a moment of quiet belonging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inside, their entry launched a ripple: guests glanced, conversations paused, everyone felt the vowlike sincerity between them. They moved through introductions like a practiced duo: Johan leading, Daotok’s laughter followed like wind in a sail.

 

Everywhere they went, they were glued together.

 

Johan’s thumb brushed Daotok’s wrist as they passed dignitaries.

 

Daotok’s hand settled on Johan’s shoulder when he laughed at a queasy fundraiser joke.

 

They leaned in close as they listened together, heads angled  not hosting, but belonging.

 

 

Arthit, Hill, and Tonfah watched, noting that all traces of formality between Johan and Daotok had vanished.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just before the toast, light jazz started. Johan offered his hand.

Daotok smiled and followed.

They moved to the center of the floor.

 

The first steps were graceful, careful; then Johan led with surety, pulling Daotok in close. His hand on Daotok’s back slid down to his lower waist, guiding him into a slow turn. Daotok tipped his head against Johan’s shoulder.

 

They swayed effortlessly. The room blurred.

Cameras clicked.

Heartbeats aligned.

 

 

 

 

They slipped out after dinner. Street lights glowed as Johan draped a coat around Daotok’s shoulders. Daotok leaned into him as they walked to the car, soft warmth tucked behind Johan’s arm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They were over it. The press. The deal. The contracts. What remained was quiet ease.

 

They shared a booth at a local noodle bar. Johan poured Daotok’s broth without asking. Daotok flicked chili flakes into Johan’s bowl. They laughed about hospital gossip and upcoming art shows like an old married couple.

 

 

They looked at each other over steam, smiles sly and mutual. One hand would rest on the other’s thigh under the table, almost unconsciously.

 

No pretense. Just two people who’d unknowingly fallen into love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few months later, Johan’s apartment felt lived-in. Takeout containers neatly stacked, plush blanket thrown across the couch. A few art prints, Daotok’s, lined the wall.

 

Tonight’s dinner party: their long-time friend groups combined. Arthit, Hill and Tonfah on Johan’s side; North, Typhoon and Easter on Daotok’s. They clustered in the kitchen, passing wine, teasing each other about art versus medicine.

 

 

 

 

 

Johan moved behind Daotok, wrapping arms around his waist while he stirred the sauce. Daotok leaned back, head resting on Johan’s shoulder, humming along with a playlist they shared.

 

Arthit grabbed a glass of wine. “You two look… married.”

 

Hill laughed. “I thought this cooking takeover was a joke.”

 

Tonfah shook his head. “It’s like watching real life happen in HD.”

 

Easter smirked, raising an eyebrow at Johan’s sweater draped over Daotok. “When did the fake become real?”

 

 

 

Typhoon choked on his pasta. “Lol, yeah when did the publicity stunt turn into actual couple goals?”

 

Silence fell like a dropped knife.

 

Johan and Daotok looked at one another hands still laced. Their eyes widened with shared surprise.

 

 

 

 

Daotok set down his wooden spoon. Soft voice, but firm “We… kind of forgot.”

 

Negotiation? Act? Faded after months of Sunday breakfasts, half-watched dramas, goodnight kisses.

 

Johan lifted Daotok’s hand, pressed it to his lips. “We’re not pretending anymore.”

 

Laughter and soft ‘awws’ filled the room. The final guest let out a cheer.

 

Daotok laughed too, bright, genuine. “So.”

 

Johan winked. “Real date tomorrow?”

 

Daotok leaned in, lips brushing Johan’s. “Been waiting all this time”

Chapter 6: In Sickness and In Raids ✨ (Johan x North)

Notes:

What are the love languages you like to receive and to give?

Request from @Vernonslove1 🤍 I hope this is enough angst

Prompt: Johan is feeling neglected and under appreciated by North

The apartment was quiet, way too quiet.

 

Too still, too empty, too hollow in that way only a shared space could feel when one half of it forgot how to be there.

 

Johan sat curled on the couch, his body angled toward the door even though he told himself not to look. A thick gray fleece blanket draped over his shoulders, one end tucked under his chin like a child nursing a wound. His skin was clammy from the fever still lingering under the surface low and relentless. His normally sharp gaze was dulled, eyes red-rimmed not from tears, but from fatigue and the kind of ache that medicine couldn’t touch.

 

The single lamp by the couch buzzed faintly in the corner, throwing long, tired shadows across the room. On the coffee table: a forgotten bowl of congee, now cold and congealed. A half-finished bottle of electrolytes. A used thermometer. A mound of balled tissues like soft white ghosts haunting the edges of the surface.

 

And his phone.

 

Lit up again, then dimmed. Then again.

 

None of the notifications were from North.

 

Johan glanced down at the screen. Messages from Tonfah checking in, a forwarded article from Hill about some new health startup, and one lone reply from his dad’s assistant confirming tomorrow’s early meeting. Not even his parents knew he was this sick. He hadn’t told them. North was supposed to be the one who knew. The one who saw. The one who noticed.

 

But the door remained closed.

 

The lock didn’t click. The keys didn’t jingle. The familiar “I’m home” didn’t echo down the hallway. The apartment stayed hushed except for the low, soft sound of his own unsteady breathing.

 

And Johan hated it.

 

He hated how pathetic it felt to be sitting there waiting. Hated that he had to wait at all. He’d never needed much. Not really. Not from North. A cup of tea. A head rested on his shoulder. Someone to fuss over him a little, just once. That was all he ever wanted.

 

He rubbed the side of his face, feeling the heat in his cheeks and the burn behind his eyes. He was frustrated and exhausted.

 

 

 

 Earlier that Day

 

 

He’d woken up sweating, tangled in bedsheets damp with fever. The clock read 7:18 AM. Outside, the sky was pale gray, clouds hanging low and heavy with humidity. He tried to sit up and immediately felt the spinning behind his eyes, nausea curling like smoke in his stomach.

 

Still, he got dressed.

 

He moved slowly, hands trembling slightly as he buttoned a loose sweatshirt, his breath fogging the bathroom mirror as he tried to brush his hair into place. Everything felt heavier than it should’ve been. Like walking through water. His bones ached. His throat was raw.

 

At 9:17 AM, he sent a message:

 

“Hey, not feeling well. Can you come home?”

 

Read at 9:32 AM.

 

That was all. No typing bubble. No follow-up. Just… silence.

 

Hours passed. Johan tried to sleep again but couldn’t. He made his own soup. Barely ate it. Took meds. Stared at the ceiling. Drifted in and out. The apartment felt colder somehow. Or maybe it was him.

 

At 3:14 PM, North finally replied:

 

“Midterm review night. Sorry.”

 

No emojis. No softness. Not even a “Hope you feel better.”

 

Just a flat message.

 

Johan had stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could’ve said something “Okay.” Or “Be safe.” Or “I need you.”

 

He didn’t.

 

Instead, he tossed the phone onto the coffee table like it had stung him.

 

He knew North had new friends lately. Guys who liked gaming and late-night energy drinks and all-night PC cafés. Johan didn’t mind, at first. He liked that North found people who spoke that language, a space where he didn’t have to be soft or careful or explain himself.

 

But lately… North had started missing things. Little things. Meals. Routines. Conversations. Kisses.

 

He had started coming home with laughter in his voice, stories from people Johan didn’t know, jokes Johan didn’t understand. And Johan, tired and bleary-eyed, would just smile and ask how it went.

 

And North… never really asked back.

 

 

 

 

 Present 

 

 

The living room light flickered once as the A/C kicked in. Johan hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten. The ginger tea beside him had long gone cold, the steam that once promised comfort now just a memory in a chipped ceramic mug.

 

He picked up the phone again.

 

Still nothing.

 

Not even a meme. Not even a stupid TikTok video that North usually sent five of in a row.

 

He bit the inside of his cheek.

 

He tried to remind himself that North wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t doing this to hurt him. He just… didn’t see it. Didn’t see how quiet Johan had gotten. How withdrawn. How sick. How lonely.

 

He sighed, leaning back, the blanket tightening around his shoulders like armor.

 

It was funny, he thought, in the worst way  how you could live with someone and still feel like you were drifting further and further apart, one step at a time.

 

And then—

 

The lock clicked.

 

Johan’s head snapped up.

 

Footsteps. Light ones.

 

The door opened, and North walked in, backpack slung over one shoulder, a bag of snacks from the 7-Eleven near the PC café clutched in one hand. He was still laughing softly at something someone had said to him on the phone call.

 

He didn’t even notice Johan right away.

 

Didn’t look at him.

 

Didn’t ask how he was.

 

Johan stayed quiet. He waited.

 

And that was the moment something shifted.

 

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call North’s name.

 

He just… watched.

 

And something in his chest, so patient for so long, finally cracked.

 

 

 

 

 

A Few Nights Later

 

 

There was a knock at 8 PM. Quiet, like someone wasn’t sure they wanted to be heard.

 

Johan didn’t answer it. He was still on the couch, blanket clutched tightly over his chest, a cold compress sliding slightly off his forehead. The soft glow from the living room lamp had dimmed with time, casting long, tired shadows over the floor. His soup had long gone cold on the table.

 

When the door finally creaked open, it was Tonfah.

 

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping into the stillness like he was afraid to break it. “Didn’t get your texts, but North wasn’t picking up either, so…”

 

On the floor near the door sat a plastic bag of takeout and North’s favorite lemon-lime energy drink unopened. Forgotten.

 

Tonfah glanced at it, then at Johan.

 

“He’s not coming home tonight?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

 

Johan didn’t speak at first. He reached for the bag slowly, inspecting the contents. Lukewarm rice, barely eaten. A container of chicken soup, the kind North liked to buy when he was the one sick. It felt like a performance now. Like guilt dropped off too late.

 

Johan shook his head once, small and tired. “He’ll be there for his gaming crew,” he said, voice hoarse, “like always.”

 

Tonfah didn’t try to defend North. He didn’t even try to offer comfort. He just moved quietly into the kitchen, heating the soup, pouring some hot tea, and setting them within reach.

 

They didn’t speak again. Johan didn’t have the strength.

 

And Tonfah knew enough to leave after that, closing the door softly behind him.

 

 

 

 

It was close to midnight when Johan heard the lock turn.

 

The sound alone made something in him stiffen. He didn’t look up at first.

 

North walked in with the same brightness he’d left with. Laughing at something on his phone, earbuds still in. Hoodie slouched over one shoulder, hands full of convenience store snacks. Like it was just another casual night.

 

Then he saw Johan, still curled on the couch, pale, shivering slightly under the blanket.

 

His laughter died.

 

“Johan?” North blinked. “Hey, I—what’s wrong?”

 

Johan turned slowly, eyes dull with fever but sharp with something else entirely. “Why are you home now?” he asked, voice soft and dangerous.

 

North blinked again, caught off-guard. “I… I finished early. I thought you were sleeping.”

 

Johan let out a bitter, airless laugh. “At midnight? After gaming ended?”

 

North’s expression faltered. He set down the snacks on the coffee table. “Babe, I’m sorry. I just got caught up.”

 

“I don’t want to hear about how good your raid was,” Johan said flatly, eyes locked on him. “I wanted you.”

 

That was the first crack in the silence that had been building between them for weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

North opened his mouth, but Johan stood first.

 

The blanket slid off his shoulders and onto the floor.

 

He was wearing a wrinkled shirt, too big on him, and sweatpants that sagged at the knees. His hair was messy, his eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. He looked nothing like the composed, focused Johan North was used to seeing.

 

“You don’t see it,” Johan said, quietly. “You never really saw it.”

 

“See what?” North asked, sounding helpless now.

 

“How far I’ve been pulling back,” Johan said. “How long I’ve been waiting for you to notice that I was drowning.”

 

North’s eyes widened. “That’s not fair, I didn’t know.”

 

“You didn’t ask,” Johan snapped, voice rising for the first time. “I told you I wasn’t feeling well. I asked you to come home. And you didn’t. You didn’t even check again.”

 

“I thought you’d be fine!”

 

“That’s the problem!” Johan’s voice cracked. “You always think I’ll be fine. Like I’ll keep waiting. Like I don’t need anything. But I do, North. I need you. And lately, I don’t even know if you want to be here.”

 

North looked stricken. “Of course I do!”

 

“Then act like it!”

 

A silence dropped between them like a lead weight.

 

Johan wiped at his eyes, angry that he was even crying. He didn’t cry often. Not like this.

 

Then, quieter he said,

 

“I know I don’t say it the way you do. I’m not loud with my feelings. I don’t cling often. But when I ask for comfort, that’s me saying I need you.”

 

North didn’t speak. Johan pressed forward.

 

“You want to know my love language?” he said, voice softer now but no less raw. “It’s not grand gestures or noise. It’s presence. It’s when someone stays. It’s when I’m sick, and you put your phone down and hold me.”

 

North’s shoulders slumped.

 

“You think just because I buy you things, or work long hours, that I don’t care in other ways,” Johan said. “But this?” He gestured around them. “This is how I ask for love. And you didn’t come.”

 

North stepped closer. “Johan…”

 

“No,” Johan said, eyes shining. “I don’t want to be the afterthought. I don’t want to be the thing you remember when your screen dims or your friends log off.”

 

North stood frozen, grief lining his face like cracks in porcelain.

 

Then, carefully, “I didn’t realize you felt this way.”

 

“I know,” Johan whispered. “That’s the problem.”

 

 

 

 

North sat down beside him, slowly, like the floor had disappeared beneath his feet. He reached for the edge of the blanket, pulled it back up over Johan’s shoulders. Johan let him.

 

“I’ve been selfish,” North said quietly. “I got excited about new people. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

 

“You didn’t mean to,” Johan echoed. “But you did.”

 

“I forgot how to love you the way you need,” North murmured. “I thought… you were always strong.”

 

Johan rested his forehead against North’s shoulder, finally letting the weight sag out of his body.

 

“I’m tired of being strong.”

 

“I’ll do better,” North said. “I promise.”

Chapter 7: Bruises 🤍 (Tonfah x Typhoon)

Notes:

request by @justanextra 🤍 I hope you enjoy… sorry it took so long. Life has been… life this week.

Prompt : Typhoon’s father comes back into his life taking his money and leaving bruises.

Nights in Tonfah and Typhoon’s apartment no longer felt like peace. It felt like a place that held its breath. A trap dressed in warm lighting and silent corners. The amber glow from a single hallway lamp cut through the dark like a whisper, casting shadows that looked too much like memories. The couch was half-covered in a blanket. A glass, half full, sat forgotten on the floor. Somewhere, a clock ticked, but it didn’t mark time; it only counted down.

 

Typhoon stood before the bathroom mirror, still in his clothes from the evening, his collar wrinkled, one side dropped low enough to expose the swollen skin just under his jaw. A bruise spread like a tide: purples and angry yellows, like something sour pressed against the surface of him. He touched it gently, fingertips reverent and ashamed. As if kindness might convince the pain to disappear.

 

He hadn’t told Tonfah.

 

Not about the first slap a week ago. Not about the knock that will come soon. Not about the voice, his father’s, that he heard long after the man was gone.

 

He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not by Tonfah. Not by anyone.

 

He didn’t want to be small again. And yet here he was, pressed into corners, hiding injuries like secrets, flinching at his own reflection.

 

Then it came.

 

A sound outside the door. Quiet. A shuffle, like worn-out soles brushing linoleum. Typhoon’s breath caught in his throat. His skin prickled cold. He stayed frozen, willing it to pass.

 

But it didn’t.

 

A knock followed. Not loud. Confident. Arrogant.

 

That knock didn’t need volume. It already knew it would be answered.

 

“Phoon…” came the voice, slurred and low. “Open up.”

 

Typhoon stepped back like the voice had weight. His hands hovered near the bolt, uncertain if they wanted to lock it or open it. He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve shut off the lights, pretended no one was home.

 

But it wouldn’t matter. That voice had always found a way in.

 

The knock again, this time sharper. Less patient.

 

He opened the door.

 

His father leaned on the frame, face shadowed under a low hat, shirt stained under the arms. The smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes clung to him like a second skin. His jaw clenched tight, lips thinned in irritation, and his hand grimy, trembling clutched a wrinkled wad of cash.

 

“Where’s the money?” he asked without preamble.

 

Typhoon hesitated. “It’s… in the car. I just—”

 

“You think I’m that fucking stupid?” the man growled, stepping closer.

 

The air between them collapsed like it had before. Typhoon backed up instinctively.

 

Too slow.

 

The blow came out of nowhere, his father’s fist crashing into the side of his jaw, sending him stumbling into the hallway wall with a dull thud. His vision blinked white for a moment. The pain bloomed fast and hot.

 

“Coward,” his father snarled. “You always were.”

 

Typhoon didn’t cry out. That part of him had been trained out years ago. He pressed a hand to his cheek, blood wetting his fingertips. His other hand braced against the wall as he struggled to steady himself.

 

His father didn’t stop. “What, you ashamed of me now? You forget who kept you alive all those years? Think you’re better than me, boy?”

 

Typhoon reached into his jacket with trembling fingers and pulled out a torn envelope. It was fat with bills. Everything he had. Tuition money, café shifts, photoshoot payments. All of it.

 

He set it down on the console by the door like it was an offering at an altar.

 

“Please,” he said, softly. “Just take it. Just go.”

 

His father snatched the envelope, barely glancing at it. “This won’t stop next time,” he said, voice sharp with threat. His eyes flicked down to the bruises Typhoon had tried to hide. “What’s this? Hiding it now? What do you say if someone sees the bruises?”

 

Typhoon shook his head, still not meeting his eyes. “I fell.”

 

The lie tasted familiar. Almost easy.

 

But his father wasn’t done. He stepped inside just a few inches, but it was enough to fill the room with menace.

 

“Wednesday,” he said flatly. “Double.”

 

Typhoon’s heart dropped. He wanted to vomit.

 

“You don’t answer?” His father’s lips curled into a sneer. “I’ll come for that boyfriend of yours. Or those soft-talking uni friends. I don’t care. I’ll collect.”

 

Then he backhanded a stack of unopened mail off the console table before finally turning to leave. His boots echoed down the hall, each step heavier than the last.

 

Typhoon stood motionless in the doorway, cheek pulsing, heart loud and erratic.

 

He didn’t close the door so much as collapse against it. He slid to the floor, palms pressed over his face, too numb for tears.

 

The apartment felt too quiet, like something important had been erased. In the kitchen, he opened a granola bar, took one bite, and gagged. Everything inside him twisted.

 

Typhoon stood motionless in the kitchen, back to the door, staring blankly at the cup of tea he’d made two hours ago and never touched. The lights were dim, soft shadows pooling in the corners of the room. Outside, the city buzzed quietly distant, removed from the quiet devastation coiled inside him.

 

From the hallway came the sound of keys at the door. The soft click of the lock. The weight of a long day dragging into the apartment.

 

“Phoon?” Tonfah’s voice was soft, tired but warm. “I’m home.”

 

Typhoon didn’t move. He quickly ran a hand through his hair, then scrubbed it down his face trying to erase the evidence. The sting in his jaw flared under his fingers.

 

Tonfah padded in, setting his hospital bag by the door and kicking off his shoes. His scrubs were wrinkled, his shoulders slouched from hours of nonstop rounds, but his smile bloomed at the sight of Typhoon still awake.

 

“I was thinking takeout,” he said, dropping a soft kiss to the back of Typhoon’s shoulder as he passed him to the sink. “Didn’t think you’d wait up.”

 

Typhoon forced a quiet laugh, avoiding eye contact. “Couldn’t sleep.”

 

Tonfah opened the fridge, rummaging with one hand while the other rubbed at his aching neck. “I was craving something spicy. You want me to order, or should we reheat the noodles from last night?”

 

Typhoon stepped slightly to the side, subtly turning his body away. “You eat. I’m not hungry.”

 

That got Tonfah’s attention.

 

He turned fully, watching him now. “You okay?”

 

Typhoon nodded too quickly. “Just tired. Long day.”

 

Tonfah crossed to him, brushing a hand along Typhoon’s arm, his thumb rubbing soft circles into his elbow. “You sure?” His voice lowered. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

 

Typhoon leaned into the touch for a heartbeat too long. Then pulled away. “I think I’m just going to shower and go to bed early.”

 

Tonfah’s brows knit, concern flickering across his face, but he didn’t press. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll clean up and come to bed soon.”

 

Typhoon nodded, stepping past him, eyes fixed on the floor.

 

He didn’t see Tonfah pause and watch him walk away, didn’t see the small frown that settled in behind the fatigue.

 

Later, Tonfah would remember this moment the strange way Phoon moved, how he kept his face turned, how carefully he seemed to avoid the light.

 

He didn’t know it yet.

 

But the bruises were already there.

 

And his heart was already breaking for something he hadn’t seen.

 

 

 

Typhoon lay against Tonfah’s chest, breath soft and uneven, his head nestled into the crook of Tonfah’s shoulder. He wore an old tank top that dipped just enough to tease skin but also, unintentionally, the shadows beneath.

 

Tonfah, still warm from the shower and wrapped only in sweatpants, ran his fingers absentmindedly through Typhoon’s hair. His hand drifted lower, tracing the edge of his jaw… and paused.

 

The skin beneath his fingertips felt off. Swollen. Too warm.

 

He tilted Typhoon’s face gently toward the lamplight and saw it.

 

A bloom of discoloration was beginning to rise beneath Typhoon’s cheekbone. Faint, but unmistakable. It wasn’t red. It was purple—blue around the edges. Fresh.

 

Tonfah’s hand dropped.

 

“Phoon,” he said, quiet and afraid of the answer, “what happened to your face?”

 

Typhoon tensed in his arms.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“That’s not nothing,” Tonfah said. “That’s a bruise. And it wasn’t there yesterday.”

 

Typhoon swallowed hard. He turned his face away, but Tonfah reached up, gently, and turned him back again.

 

That’s when he saw the collarbone.

 

The tank top had slipped during their shifting, revealing the edge of another bruise, larger and more violent, blooming over the bone like a storm cloud. Tonfah froze, the breath punched clean from his lungs.

 

“Phoon…” His voice trembled. “Jesus.”

 

Typhoon sat up fast, tugging the fabric back over the mark. “I didn’t want you to see it.”

 

“Why the fuck not?” Tonfah’s voice rose, not in anger at him, but in terror—for him. “Who did this?”

 

Silence stretched.

 

Then: “My father.”

 

The two words fell between them like a weapon.

 

Tonfah’s face slackened, then hardened, his jaw tight, eyes sharp. “Again?”

 

Typhoon nodded slowly, the tears starting now, hot and guilty.

 

“He came back a week ago… including tonight. He knocked like he always does. Said he needed money. Said he’d only take what I had. I gave him everything. But—” Typhoon’s voice cracked. “It wasn’t enough. He hit me. Told me I was hiding money. That I was a liar. That I was his.”

 

Tonfah was already on his feet, pacing. “And you didn’t tell me?”

 

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to get involved. He’s coming back tomorrow. He wants double. He said if I don’t give it to him, he’d hurt you.”

 

Tonfah stopped. His entire body stilled.

 

That’s when Typhoon realized: this wasn’t just anger. It was fear. Fury. Love, distilled to its rawest edge.

 

Tonfah turned back and crossed the room in two strides. He dropped to his knees in front of Typhoon, cupping his face, but so gently it nearly broke him.

 

“I don’t care what he said. I don’t care what he wants. You are not going through this again. I’m not going to let him touch you. Not ever.”

 

Typhoon’s lip trembled. “But if you go near him, he’ll hurt you.”

 

“No,” Tonfah said, shaking his head. “He won’t. Because I’m going to stop him first.”

 

Then, quieter: “You’re mine. You’ve been mine since the moment I laid eyes on you in that white hoodie and couldn’t stop staring. And no one…not even him…gets to rewrite that.”

 

Typhoon broke, falling forward into Tonfah’s chest. The sobs came hard and sudden, ragged with months of silence.

 

Tonfah held him like something sacred.

 

Rocked him. Whispered promises into his hair.

 

 

Typhoon’s sobs slowed gradually, quieting to hiccupped breaths as Tonfah continued to hold him. Neither of them moved Tonfah kneeling, Typhoon curled in his lap like something cracked and worn, held together only by the rhythm of another person’s chest.

 

The weight of it had crushed him. The shame. The silence. But in Tonfah’s arms, something loosened, just enough to let sleep pull at him.

 

“I didn’t mean to ruin tonight,” Typhoon murmured, voice barely there.

 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Tonfah said softly. He pressed a kiss to the top of Typhoon’s head, and then another, lingering one against the fading edge of the bruise near his temple. “He did. And I’m going to make sure he never gets another chance.”

 

Typhoon sighed against him, the words almost lost to the hum of the fan in the room. His body grew heavier, his breathing leveling out.

 

Tonfah waited long enough to be certain that sleep had claimed him.

 

Then, slowly, carefully, he eased him down onto the bed.

 

Typhoon shifted, one hand reaching instinctively for Tonfah even in his sleep. Tonfah took it, pressed it gently to the center of his chest, and whispered, “I’m right here.”

 

He pulled the blanket over him, tucking it to the edges like he’d break if left exposed.

 

Then he crossed to the nightstand and picked up his phone.

 

His thumb hovered a moment before tapping the contact.

 

Tiger.

 

He hit call.

 

The line didn’t even finish the first full ring.

 

“Fah.” Tiger’s voice came through immediately low, calm, dangerous. “What happened?”

 

Tonfah stepped into the hallway, voice barely above a breath. “He hit Phoon again. The bastard came to our home. He’s coming back tomorrow for more.”

 

A pause. Then: “Is Phoon safe?”

 

“He’s sleeping now. Finally.” Tonfah swallowed. “But he’s terrified. Covered the bruises. Lied to me for a week. I didn’t see it until tonight.”

 

Another pause. Longer. Thicker.

 

“Where do you want me?” Tiger asked.

 

“Wherever he is. Wherever I can catch him before he touches him again.”

 

There was a crackling sound Tiger lighting a cigarette, maybe. Or just flexing his knuckles.

 

“I’ll find out where he stays.”

“No mistakes,” Tonfah said, voice like stone. “I don’t want to scare him, I want him leave Phoon alone. Permanently.”

 

Tiger exhaled. 

 

Tonfah didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.

 

He ended the call and stood there in the darkened hallway, his phone still clenched tight in his palm.

 

The apartment was quiet again.

 

Behind him, Typhoon slept, curled on Tonfah’s side of the bed, arms tucked up to his chest like he was trying to hold himself together even in dreams.

 

Tonfah looked at him a long time from the doorway.

 

Then, he turned back toward the window, phone still warm in his hand, and waited for dawn like a man bracing for war.

 

 

Sunlight slid slowly across the bedroom floor, brushing up against Typhoon’s face like the hand of someone too polite to wake him. His body ached, not just from bruises but from the way he’d curled into himself in the night. His limbs felt heavy, like his soul had packed weight behind his bones while he slept.

 

But the other side of the bed was warm.

 

Tonfah’s warmth. Still there.

 

He blinked slowly. Tonfah sat beside him, freshly showered, dressed in dark jeans and a navy T-shirt, elbows resting on his knees, watching him wake with a tired kind of patience.

 

“Hey,” Tonfah said gently. “Did you sleep?”

 

Typhoon nodded, still groggy. “Yeah.”

 

“Pain?”

 

Typhoon lifted his hand to his jaw. The bruise there had matured overnight, deepening to a harsh, wine-colored blotch that stretched toward his cheekbone. He winced slightly. “Not bad.”

 

Tonfah’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes flared a protective flash, quickly smothered.

 

“Don’t move yet,” Tonfah said. “Tiger’s making breakfast.”

 

Typhoon blinked again. “Tiger’s here?”

 

“He got in before sunrise. I asked him to stay close.”

 

Typhoon sat up slowly, the sheets falling to his lap. His chest ached, half from muscle, half from memory.

 

And then, from the hallway—

 

“Phoon!” came a familiar voice, deep and teasing. “I made congee. And eggs. No vegetables. I’m not your mom.”

 

Typhoon let out a surprised huff, caught between laughter and confusion. “He’s in our kitchen?”

 

Tonfah smiled. “He wanted to ‘look useful.’ He said that while eating half the congee.”

 

There was a knock, then Tiger appeared at the door, barefoot, wearing a hoodie too big for him, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He carried two bowls in one hand and a mug of coffee balanced in the other.

 

“You look like hell,” Tiger said matter-of-factly, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Eat.”

 

Typhoon blinked at the tray, then up at him. “I—uh, thank you?”

 

Tiger plopped down at the foot of the bed like he owned it. “Tonfah said I couldn’t kill your dad unless you were fed. So here we are.”

 

“You’re terrible at comfort,” Typhoon muttered, but his lips curled, just barely.

 

Tiger grinned and elbowed him. “You’re terrible at hiding bruises. Don’t worry, we’re all learning.”

 

Typhoon leaned gently against Tonfah’s shoulder, letting the warmth of the bed and the closeness of people who actually gave a damn wash over him.

 

Then Tiger leaned in and tapped his bowl. “Eat or I’ll spoon-feed you like a child.”

 

“Okay, okay, dictator.”

 

“You love it.”

 

Tonfah watched the exchange with soft amusement his shoulders easing for the first time in days. Typhoon was laughing again, even if it was small. Even if it hurt. It was something.

 

 

 

It was late, dark enough that the streetlamps outside painted sharp orange streaks through the blinds. Typhoon sat completely still on the couch, hands curled tight around the sleeves of Tonfah’s hoodie.

 

Then it came.

 

The knock.

 

Not loud. Not urgent. Just familiar.

 

Tonfah stood from the hallway, calm and silent, while Tiger cracked his knuckles from his spot near the kitchen, eyes already cold.

 

Typhoon’s heart thudded against his ribs. His breath hitched. But he didn’t get up.

 

He didn’t have to anymore.

 

Tonfah walked to the door and opened it slowly.

 

Typhoon’s father stood in the hallway, same old ratty jacket, same stench of stale liquor and false confidence. But this time, when he took a step forward—

 

Tonfah didn’t move.

 

Instead, Tiger appeared behind him, solid and quiet, arms crossed, jaw tight.

 

The older man blinked.

 

“Who the fuck—?”

 

“You’re done,” Tonfah said simply.

 

The voice was so even, so final, that it made the hallway colder.

 

Father scoffed, stepping closer. “I came for what I’m owed.”

 

Tiger smiled. “No, you came to disappear.”

 

There was a shift in the air. Not violence. Not noise. Just control, like the floor had tilted and the old man hadn’t realized he was already slipping.

 

He glanced past them. “Where’s Phoon?”

 

Tonfah stepped forward. “Where you’ll never reach again.”

 

Father laughed, dry and bitter. “He still hiding behind you?”

 

That’s when Tiger moved. No swing. No shove. Just a hand on the man’s chest and a step forward, just enough pressure to make him stumble back against the wall.

 

Then Tiger leaned in, close enough that his voice never had to rise.

 

“If you come near him again…if you even think his name again…you won’t leave with legs.”

 

The man swallowed, mask faltering.

 

Tiger’s voice stayed smooth. “We know where you sleep. We know where you beg. And I know men who like chewing up scraps like you.”

 

“Threatening me?” the man croaked.

 

“No,” Tonfah said, voice soft and sharp. “Promising.”

 

They didn’t hit him. Didn’t raise their voices.

 

They just stood there, unmovable, unflinching, until the weight of their presence made the old man back away, one step at a time. Like a kicked dog trying to decide if it’s worth one last bark.

 

When he finally turned and stumbled off down the hallway, Tonfah shut the door. Locked it.

 

The silence that followed felt like the air after a storm: still charged, but clean.

 

Typhoon stood just inside the hallway, knees weak, heart a thundercloud in his chest.

 

“Is he gone?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Tonfah crossed the room and took his face in both hands, thumb brushing over the fading edge of a bruise. “He’s gone.”

 

Tiger walked past, tossing his hoodie over his shoulder, casual as anything. “Told you. Terrified is easy.”

 

Typhoon let out a shaking breath, half relief, half disbelief.

 

Tonfah pulled him into his arms and held him close, tight and quiet, forehead pressed to temple.

 

“You’re safe now,” he whispered.

 

And this time—Typhoon believed it.

Chapter 8: Life of A Streamer ✨ (Johan x North)

Notes:

Request from @Nephilim_Seeker 🤍 I hope this is what you were hoping for. I was trying to make it different from other Johan North stories I have read.

 

Prompt: North is a popular streamer and Johan is his bodyguard and secret boyfriend.

The studio lights dimmed, signaling “stream starting” on North’s side. He sat at his sleek white desk, headphones already in place, the familiar hum of fans flickering across the live chat. He clicked the button, leaned forward with that signature grin that made screens crack from too much brightness, and said,

 

“Hey guys! It’s your baby boy, live in thirty seconds!”

 

In the background, Johan stood by the door. Just a silhouette against the bright lights, body upright but bowed at the waist, overdue for a shower and long overdue for rest. None of the fans would see him. North didn’t want them to. But Johan had refused to leave, and now he waited for the moment when North needed a drink, a towel, or a silent shoulder.

 

North cleared his throat, leaned back, tossed a lock of hair behind his ear, and winked at the camera. “Okay, let’s get this party started.”

 

The first wave of live chat exploded:

“STAY SAFE 🍑🥰”

“JOHAN?????”

“GUY NEXT TO NORTH 🔥🔥🔥”

 

North just laughed. “Yep, that guy’s my bodyguard. Shut up.”

 

He delivered his gaming intro in recorded-calibers of sweetness, fingers flying across the keyboard, voice rose when he scored laughs or wins, voice softened into tease and breathy taunts. He was streaming as himself, like sunlight held inside a phone.

 

At one point mid-session, a user named SweetArmor69 wrote:

“Guard you say? He looks like he owns you.”

 

The chat leapt.

 

North looked toward the door, eyes flicking toward Johan’s still-sharp silhouette. His heart squeezed. He laughed. “He doesn’t own me. He—he’s just… here.”

 

Johan stiffened, then stepped forward, crossing the room in long strides. He lowered his gaze. North’s chest tightened.

 

A silent warning.

 

 

 

 

The event hall smelled like flowers, cameras, and sugar. Too many perfumes layered on one another, too many eager voices pressed together in a queue that stretched down the block.

 

North stepped into the venue wearing a cropped varsity-style bomber jacket, crisp white tank top underneath, and high-waisted black slacks that hugged just enough to cause a stir.

 

The jacket was soft matte satin with baby-blue piping and a stitched patch on the chest: “♡N.” The cropped hem showed just a sliver of toned waist whenever he raised his hand to wave or sign something.

 

Around his neck: a slim silver chain with a dangling star charm, subtle but noticeable under the flash of cameras.

 

On his feet: chunky black platform sneakers with pale blue soles that matched the jacket trim.

 

Rings adorned three fingers delicate, mismatched, clearly chosen with intention. A soft swipe of gloss on his lips caught the light. Effortless. Lethal.

 

Fans gasped the moment they saw him. He smiled like he didn’t know the power he held.

 

Johan, standing behind in all black, knew. He watched the crowd like a lion among tourists.

 

 

Silent. Immoveable. His eyes scanned every line, every raised phone, every breath too close.

 

The first few fans were polite, adoring but distant. A compliment here, a shy gift there.

 

But as the line moved on, things started to test limits.

 

One girl refused to let go of North’s hand after he’d signed her photo. Her grip lingered, her thumb sliding down the inside of his wrist, deliberate, flirtatious.

 

“North,” she giggled. “Do you ever date fans?”

 

North smiled, uncomfortable but polite. “I usually just date—uh, food delivery apps.”

 

Her laughter bubbled.

 

Before she could add something bold, Johan stepped forward. Not a word. Just the simple movement of his hand lifting hers gently off North’s and placing it back across the table. He didn’t touch her again. He didn’t have to.

 

She left pink-faced and fuming.

 

Another fan leaned in more casual, but bold. “Can I get a hug?”

 

“Over the table?” North blinked. “Uh—I don’t think—”

 

Before he could finish, she leaned halfway across. Johan’s hand was instantly on North’s shoulder, guiding him back in the chair as he moved between them like a wall of steel.

 

“He said no,” Johan said quietly.

 

That fan backed off fast.

 

North peeked up at him, eyes soft. Johan just shook his head once, meaning don’t say anything. So North kept smiling. He signed. He waved.

 

And then came the one that broke him.

 

A man, tall and entitled, clearly more interested in seeing what he could get away with than meeting his idol.

 

He didn’t bring a photo. Just a sharpie.

 

He leaned close, cocky grin cutting across his face. “Can I have you sign something for me?”

 

“Sure,” North said, trying to keep it light.

 

The man turned sideways.

 

And lifted his shirt.

 

“Sign here,” he smirked, tapping the waistband of his jeans. “Right above the hip.”

 

For a second, North laughed, assuming it was a joke.

 

But then the man reached for North’s wrist to guide him closer.

 

North flinched.

 

And Johan was there in an instant.

 

His hand gripped the fan’s forearm tight. Not hard enough to bruise. But hard enough to stop movement completely.

 

The man froze.

 

Johan’s voice was low, lethal. “You don’t touch him.”

 

Security surged forward. Cameras clicked like gunfire.

 

North’s eyes widened, hands shaking slightly as he pulled away. Johan stood in front of him now, back straight, shielding him.

 

The event manager rushed up with a panicked expression. The fan was escorted out, but the buzz couldn’t be stopped. The murmurs grew too loud. The signing was called off early.

 

Johan turned to North, chest heaving slightly.

 

“You okay?”

 

North just nodded.

 

But his hand reached out, trembling, and Johan took it.

 

Not inside the dressing room. Not behind a wall.

 

Right there in front of everyone.

 

Their fingers laced, palms flush. It wasn’t a PR move. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was honest.

 

And the crowd? Exploded.

 

 #JOHANORTH #HANDHOLDING #HE’SREAL trended within minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their apartment was quiet when they stepped in. Johan dropped his jacket, shoes kicked neatly beside the door. He hadn’t said much on the drive home.

 

North stood in the living room, still clutching Johan’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to gravity.

 

Johan finally looked at him.

 

“You didn’t need to hold my hand back there,” he said quietly.

 

North turned to face him fully. “But I wanted to.”

 

Johan’s jaw ticked. “You know what they’re saying online.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Johan stepped closer. “They’ll twist it. They’ll say I’m too possessive.”

 

North’s eyes sparkled. “You are.”

 

Johan paused, uncertain.

 

“And I love it.”

 

Those three words changed everything.

 

North reached up, fingers tangling in the collar of Johan’s shirt. “I love that you don’t let them touch me. I love that you don’t let them take what’s yours.”

 

“Mine?” Johan’s voice cracked slightly, in surprise .

 

North leaned in. “You think you’re the only one obsessed?”

 

 

Clothes came off, peeled one by one under trembling fingers and heavy eyes. Johan’s touch wasn’t hurried, not at first. He undid North like he was unwrapping a treasure he’d nearly lost, the kind of unraveling that whispered, You’re safe. But you’re mine.

 

North stood in front of him in the soft lamplight, shirt slipping down his arms, mouth parted, breath caught between anticipation and surrender. His chest rose and fell with slow, shy exhales.

 

“Johan…” North whispered, voice caught between a laugh and a plea. “You’re staring.”

 

“You wore this shirt for me, didn’t you?” Johan murmured, tracing a finger just under the loosened hem, grazing bare skin.

 

North swallowed, smile tilting up. “Maybe I wear everything for you.”

 

Johan surged forward, lips crashing to his in a kiss that was not gentle, not now. It was rough with restraint, desperate in devotion, filled with everything Johan had held back in public: the jealousy, the ache, the sharp knife-edge of watching people touch what was his.

 

North gasped against his mouth. “That’s what you wanted, huh? To pull me away from the table and—”

 

“Yes,” Johan growled. “Wanted to claim you in front of them.”

 

North’s knees buckled as Johan guided him back, down, onto the bed. They fell together like puzzle pieces, limbs tangling, hearts thundering. Johan’s shirt came off next, tossed to the side, muscles rippling under moonlight and want.

 

North’s fingers roamed over Johan’s chest, reverent. “You’re always protecting me. Watching me. Wanting me.”

 

Johan bent down, lips brushing the corner of North’s mouth, then down his throat. “I don’t just want you, North. I worship you. I’d burn down the whole world if someone made you flinch like that again.”

 

North’s eyes fluttered. “Then show me. Show me how much I belong to you.”

 

Johan didn’t need to be told twice.

 

His hands memorized every inch, slow first, like he was learning North’s body again from scratch, then greedy, urgent, as desire overtook discipline. He kissed every freckle, every scar, every soft part hidden under public armor. His mouth mapped North like sacred territory, his to guard, his to taste, his to mark.

 

North gasped as Johan’s touch slid lower, his thighs parting on instinct, welcoming everything Johan had held back.

 

“Say it,” Johan growled, breath hot against North’s ear. “Say who you belong to.”

 

“You,” North whispered, hips rising in answer. “Always you.”

 

And when Johan finally moved inside him, it wasn’t just physical. It was possession, devotion, heat, and hunger spun into something too big for names. He moved slow at first, watching every inch of North’s face for every shiver and sigh, then harder, deeper, as North clung to him with a kind of desperation that spoke louder than words.

 

North’s fingers dug into Johan’s back. “Don’t stop,” he panted. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

 

“You have all of it,” Johan groaned, burying his face in North’s neck. “You have all of me.”

 

Their rhythm built into something raw, a thunderstorm of need and heat and love disguised as hunger. Johan’s possessiveness wasn’t cruel, it was care sharpened into need. North’s surrender wasn’t weakness, it was trust made flesh.

 

And when they finally came undone, together, bodies locked tight, voices tangled in breathless moans, it wasn’t just release. It was a promise.

 

North stroked Johan’s hair as they lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his voice a whisper. “You’re so intense.”

 

Johan pulled him close, nose nuzzled into his hair. “I can’t help it. You make me insane.”

 

North smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Good.”

 

Because if anyone was going to be obsessed with him—let it be Johan.

 

 

 

 

#NorthFanEvent was still trending by the time the sun rose.

 

Clips flooded the internet—blurry, phone-shot, slightly shaky, but undeniable:

 

• A fan grabbing North’s hand and leaning too far across the table.
•  Johan’s arm shooting out in one swift motion, catching the fan by the wrist.
•  North’s startled gasp.
•  Johan stepping between them like a wall of muscle and wrath.
•  A short, tense silence. Then the event security quickly escorting the fan out.

 

And then, the final viral moment:

North’s fingers quietly sliding into Johan’s hand as they walked out of the venue together, not a word spoken, but everything said.

 

“YOOOO NORTH HOLDING HANDS W THE BODYGUARD????”

“HE LOOKED SO SCARED AND THEN HE JUST HID BEHIND JOHAN I’M GONNA CRY”

“did y’all see how FAST johan moved tho 💀 that man was like: THOU SHALT NOT TOUCH THE STREAMER”

“this is NOT parasocial i support them they are in love YOUR HONOR”

“i thought north was untouchable and now i get it. he’s someone’s whole world 🥲”

 

Fan edits bloomed like wildfire: Johan pulling North close. Johan stepping in front of him. Johan gripping his hand. Audio swaps with dramatic K-drama music. The tag #BodyguardBoyfriend trended for two days.

 

But North said nothing. Not on Twitter. Not on Instagram. Not on stream.

 

Not yet.

 

 

 

 

 Two Days Later

 

 

The camera blinked to life at exactly 8:00 PM.

 

North was wearing his signature cozy oversized hoodie, a  black one with the subtle moon embroidery on the chest. His hair was loose, and his eyes sparkled with just enough mischief to make people lean in.

 

He gave the usual intro: “Hey guys! It’s your baby boy—live and alive.”

 

But the chat wasn’t paying attention to the game window on the side of the screen.

 

It exploded:

 

“WHERE’S JOHAN 👀”

“KING ARE YOU OKAY??”

“NO LIKE ARE YOU SAFE BLINK TWICE”

“WE SAW THE CLIPS. WE SAW THEM.”

“DID YOU HOLD HANDS???????”

“NORTH WHO WAS THE GUY. THE GUARD. THE GOD.”

“IS THIS THE SOFT LAUNCH OR THE HARD LAUNCH”

 

North grinned, biting his lip.

 

“Okay. Okay. Everyone calm down.” He laughed, adjusting the mic. “Yes, I saw the videos. Yes, it was intense. And… yes, that was Johan.”

 

He paused. The chat flew.

 

“I didn’t mean for that moment to go viral,” he continued, fingers tapping idly on his desk, “but I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen either.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“I’m fine. He’s fine. But that wasn’t just a ‘bodyguard protects client’ moment.” He glanced off-screen, where Johan was no doubt leaning against the far wall like always. “That was someone who loves me protecting me. Because I was scared.”

 

The chat exploded.

 

North tilted his head, smile tender now. “So yeah. We’re… together. We’ve been together for a while.”

 

He added quickly, “And yes, he’s always like that. He glares at baristas who spell my name wrong.”

 

Another line came, gentler. “He’s just… mine. Okay?”

 

He ended the stream early that night—not out of panic, but because for once, he wanted the rest of the night to be just theirs.

 

 

 

 

 

North turned off his computer. The room dimmed.

 

Johan was in the doorway. Still wearing black, still solemn, still watching him like he was guarding a cathedral instead of a man in sweatpants.

 

North padded across the room and stood in front of him.

 

“That was okay, right?” he asked, a little breathless. “Me telling them?”

 

Johan didn’t answer at first. Just touched North’s cheek. Ran a thumb along his temple.

 

Then, finally: “You didn’t have to.”

 

“I wanted to,” North whispered. “I wanted them to know who keeps me safe. Who I belong to.”

 

Johan exhaled sharply, like those words hit somewhere deep.

 

He cupped the back of North’s head and pulled him into a kiss—slow this time. Not rushed. Not proving a point. Just a thank you.

 

North curled into his chest. “They’re gonna go crazy in the morning.”

 

“They already have,” Johan muttered.

 

North chuckled. “Good. Let them. They’ll never know what it feels like to be loved like this.”

 

Johan tightened his arms. “No. They won’t.”

Chapter 9: The Bet 🤍 (Johan x North)

Notes:

Request from @riz_9795. 🤍
I have been sitting on this story for a few days because I’ve been debating on whether it’s worth posting but i think it’s just self doubt talking and I’m forcing myself to post it. So I hope you enjoy.

Prompt: Johan bets North that he can’t go one week without physical contact.

The university quad glowed under the late-afternoon sun, golden rays spilling between the leaves of tall flame trees, casting broken light across students sprawled on picnic blankets and benches. The air was thick with youth, laughter, lazy arguments about final exams, and the distant scent of grilled meat from the food trucks parked near the gates. Motorcycles purred like tired cats in a cluster nearby. A Bluetooth speaker somewhere blared “Sunroof” on repeat, too loud, too cheerful, and absolutely inescapable.

North lounged on the trimmed grass beside Easter and Daotok, one ankle crossed over the other, hair fluffy and wild from the breeze. His oversized baby blue sweatshirt hung off a shoulder, pale legs stretched out under striped shorts. He was mid-complaint about getting the wrong flavor Pocky from the vending machine when Easter interrupted, smirking into a mouthful of seaweed chips.

“You know, he hasn’t looked away from you in twenty minutes,” Easter said, cocking his chin toward the edge of the quad.

North didn’t need to look. He could feel Johan there,he always could. The man didn’t hover, didn’t stalk, didn’t even crowd. But his presence pulsed like a low drumbeat just outside the circle of casual safety. Guarding. Watching.

North gave Easter a dry look. “He’s just making sure I don’t trip on my own shadow.”

Daotok snorted. “Yeah, or making sure no one else even thinks about casting one near you.”

Just then, Typhoon and Tonfah arrived, dragging a sleepy Arthit and a grinning Hill behind them, arms full of overpriced drinks and fried squid sticks.

“Who’s shadow are we beating up now?” Tonfah asked brightly.

“North’s shadow,” Daotok replied, perfectly straight-faced.

“Sounds about right,” Typhoon said, tossing North a bubble tea. “Johan looked ready to break a kneecap earlier when that freshman from engineering waved at you.”

“I was just being polite!” North whined. “You guys are so dramatic.”

“Polite is blinking twice,” Hill chimed in, pulling off his sunglasses. “You smiled. He probably thinks you’re married now.”

 

Before North could retaliate, a shift in the atmosphere pulled everyone’s attention. Johan stepped forward out of shadow ending his call, boots soundless against the stone path. He looked like a storm in calm clothing, hair tousled, dark t-shirt clinging to muscle, the glint of a watch at his wrist. He walked like someone who owned his space and the people in it.

He didn’t say a word, just sank into a low crouch behind North, one knee pressing into the grass. Then, with infuriating calm, he ran the pad of a single finger along North’s exposed shoulder.

 

North tensed. Then relaxed, like always.

 

Johan leaned in, his lips brushing just close enough to stir the tiny hairs at the curve of North’s ear. “I think you’re worse than me,” he said, voice low and slow. “You’re the one always finding reasons to keep me close be.”

North’s eyes widened just a little, and Easter howled.

“Oooh, burn! Confirmed!”

“Traitor,” North mumbled under his breath, flushing furiously. “What the hell are you even talking about?”

Johan didn’t answer. He just watched him with a soft, almost indulgent look, one that said you know exactly what I mean.

Typhoon gasped in mock horror. “You’re clingier than Johan? North, you hypocrite!”

North huffed, grabbing his phone as if it could block out the ridiculous heat creeping up his neck. “He’s the clingy one, actually.”

“You sure?” Johan’s mouth curved. “Because if you’re not, I bet you couldn’t go one week without touching me.”

North blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Johan leaned closer. “One week. No touches. No cuddling. No clinging to my arm when you sleep, or laying across my lap during movie night, or those little back-of-the-neck kisses you think I don’t notice.”

Daotok choked on her tea. “Oh my god, he’s laying out the receipts.

 

Easter cackled, leaning into Hill. “This is better than the K-drama we watched last night.”

North sat up straight, scandalized. “That’s not—those aren’t—!”

“Wait.” Typhoon grinned. “So what’s the bet?”

Johan tilted his head, that slow, quiet smile never leaving his face. “If he wins, I’ll buy him the gaming rig he’s been obsessing over. Full set-up. Chair included.”

North narrowed his eyes. “And if you win?”

“You have to,” Johan said smoothly, “do everything I say for a day”

Hill let out a low whistle. “That wouldn’t be a good thing.”

Tonfah grinned. “That’s crazy. I’m in.”

North blinked. “What do you mean you’re in? You’re not part of the bet.”

“Obviously, we are the Rule Committee,” Easter said, already tapping open his Notes app. “We’ll call it the ‘No Touch Treaty of Chaos’, effective immediately.”

“Conditions?” Typhoon asked, rubbing his hands together.

“No physical contact,” Daotok declared. “None. Not even hand-holding. No lap pillows. No sleepy cuddles on the couch.”

“Can he flirt?” Hill asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” Tonfah said with delight. “Johan can flirt all he wants. Seduce, even. It’s part of the trap.”

Arthit folded his arms. “And North’s job is to resist it. Like a monk. In heat.”

North groaned. “You’re all evil.”

“You agreed to it,” Johan murmured, brushing invisible lint from North’s sleeve… just close enough to make North twitch.

And as the late sun dipped lower behind the buildings, painting the quad in molten flame, the bet was sealed.

North, flustered but stubborn, glared at Johan like he had something to prove.

Johan just smiled like he already owned the victory, and the boy.

And from the look in his eyes, maybe he did.

 

 

DAY ONE 

 

It started innocently. Sort of.

 

North was on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending not to be distracted by Johan across the gym. Johan was doing weighted pull-ups, tank top barely hanging onto his shoulders. His abs glistened, sweat trailing down into the waistband of his shorts like it had a mission.

 

North nearly fell off the treadmill trying to look away fast enough.

 

Later, at home, Johan stepped out of the shower shirtless, towel low, muscles carved by God and grievance. He leaned over the kitchen counter, hair damp, skin flushed, drinking water straight from the bottle.

 

“Hydration,” he said, winking.

 

North dropped his chopsticks.

 

 

DAY TWO

 

Johan flopped on the couch first, stretched across it like he owned the place (he did). Shirt unbuttoned halfway, forearm over his eyes, skin golden under the lamplight. He patted the cushion beside him, smirking.

 

“Join me. There’s space. You’re not touching, right?”

 

North sat as far as possible on the edge. The silence between them burned.

 

Johan sighed, lifting his arms in a lazy stretch, the motion pulling his shirt tight across his chest. Then he moaned, soft and completely unnecessary, like he’d just solved world peace.

 

North stood up and left the room. “I hate you.”

 

“You love me,” Johan called after him.

 

Silence.

 

Then, from the hallway: “Shut up.”

 

 

DAY THREE

 

They met for lunch with the group, Easter, Daotok, Typhoon, Tonfah, Hill, and Arthit all present. Johan showed up ten minutes late, in a fitted black polo and black jeans, hair too perfectly mussed.

 

He sat beside North. Not touching. Just close.

 

Then he opened a bottle of green tea, North’s favorite, and took a slow sip. North stared.

 

“You want a taste?” Johan asked. “It’s sweet.”

 

North blinked. “I—no. I’m good.”

 

Johan licked the rim of the bottle before setting it down.

 

North excused himself and went to the bathroom. Cold water. Face. Now.

 

DAY FOUR

 

North thought he was safe. He was in bed. Under blankets. Hiding.

 

Then Johan came out of the shower shirtless again, wearing only gray sweatpants that should not have fit that well. He leaned in North’s doorway casually, towel slung over his shoulder, smirk barely held together.

 

“Want to borrow my charger?”

 

“No.”

 

“You sure?” Johan padded across the room and knelt beside the bed, plugging the charger in. “I could help with that game you’re stuck on. Just lean over and—oh wait. You can’t.”

 

North gritted his teeth.

 

“You’re evil,” he muttered.

 

Johan smiled like a saint. “I’m patient.”

 

 

DAY FIVE

It was hot out. They were in the parking lot. North forgot a book in the car, which was tucked away in a secluded corner in the fairly empty parking lot. Johan had peeled off his overshirt, now wearing a snug black tank top, neck glistening, that vein in his arm absolutely popping.

 

He leaned against his car, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, one hand tucked into his pocket.

 

He looked at North.

 

Bit his lip.

 

And stretched his arms over his head in a perfect arc that made everything shift.

 

That was it.

 

North stormed over, yanked open the car door, grabbed Johan by the shirt, and shoved him inside.

 

The car door slammed shut behind them. The heat trapped inside was instant, suffocating, windows rolled up, the black leather seats already hot beneath North’s thighs as he climbed over Johan like he had a mission.

 

Johan let himself be shoved backward, a low, surprised laugh catching in his throat. “That all it took? One stretch?”

 

North didn’t answer. He grabbed Johan’s tank top by the hem and yanked it up in one hard pull, dragging it off his body and tossing it somewhere in the front seat. Then he kissed him biting, starved, violent. Like every day of restraint had boiled to this single point.

 

Johan groaned into his mouth, hands flying to North’s waist, gripping the soft cotton of his shorts before sliding underneath, palms flat against bare, burning skin.

 

“You cracked,” Johan said, breathless as North pulled back to strip his own shirt off, revealing the flushed skin beneath. “You really couldn’t last two more days.”

 

North straddled him in the back seat, nails digging into his shoulders. “I didn’t come here to talk.”

 

Johan smirked. “Then do what you came for.”

 

And North did.

 

He kissed his way down Johan’s neck, nipping at the pulse there, hard enough to bruise. His hips moved with instinctive rhythm, rolling down against Johan’s already-straining jeans. Johan cursed under his breath, one hand cradling North’s jaw, the other slipping lower, guiding, coaxing.

 

Johan spent a few minutes opening North up, their mouths met again, sloppy, wet, open, and North moaned when Johan thrust up into him, finally, with a slow, aching slide that made the whole car creak. North clung to him, face buried in the crook of his neck, gasping like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to lose.

 

“You’ve been teasing me all fucking week,” North panted, moving now, riding him hard. “Walking around shirtless. Stretching in front of me. You knew.”

 

Johan’s grip tightened on his hips, helping him move, grinding deep into every bounce. “Of course I knew.”

 

“Asshole,” North gasped.

 

“Mine,” Johan growled, and suddenly he flipped them, pinning North to the seat with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. “Say it.”

 

North grinned, wild and wrecked and already shaking. “Yours.”

 

Johan kissed him like the car wasn’t rocking from the force of them. Like the windows weren’t fogging and they weren’t both soaked in sweat. Like he could brand the word into North’s bones with nothing but his mouth.

 

When they finally collapsed, tangled together, both shirtless and spent, the car smelled like skin and sin and victory.

 

North lay with his head on Johan’s chest, heart still racing. “You win,” he murmured.

 

“I know,” Johan said, pressing a kiss to his damp hair. “But you’re the prize.”

 

 

 

 

Ten minutes late wasn’t that late.

 

But when North and Johan strolled across the café patio, North walking and trying to be calm with his lips just a little took pink, hair a little too messy and Johan walking behind him with that smug, devoured something sweet and sinful look. It may as well have been an hour.

 

Everyone at the table stopped mid-bite.

 

Easter was the first to react, chopsticks clattering against his plate. “No fucking way.”

 

Daotok narrowed her eyes like a bloodhound. “North,” she said slowly, “why are your ears red?”

 

North didn’t break stride. “Sun,” he said coolly, sliding into the seat between Johan and Typhoon.

 

“Sun?” Tonfah sniffed the air dramatically. “Okay, but why do you smell like desperation and sex?”

 

Hill burst out laughing, while Arthit raised a brow without looking up from his noodles. 

 

“Shut up,” North snapped, grabbing a glass of water.

 

“Oh my god,” Easter shrieked. “You folded in a parking lot?!”

 

Johan casually poured chili sauce over his rice, unbothered. “Technically he broke the rules when he touched me first.”

 

Daotok slammed the table. “I knew it! I said day four would be the breaking point!”

 

“You guys are disgusting,” Typhoon muttered, face buried in his elbow, but he was clearly grinning.

 

“Disgustingly in love,” Tonfah corrected with a soft smile.

 

Hill held up his phone. “Twitter’s exploding. Someone saw you two stumbling out of the car and tagged North. Fans are feral.”

 

“Great,” North groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Just what I needed.”

 

Johan leaned in, lips grazing his ear. “You owe me a confession, remember?”

 

North sighed like a man being executed. Then, reluctantly, dramatically, he sat up straight, met everyone’s eyes, and said:

 

“Fine. I lost the bet. Johan wins. I am touchy. I do like clinging to him. And yes, I have to do everything he says for a day.”

 

The table exploded in hoots and laughter and fake tears.

 

 

Chapter 10: Four Years ✨ (Johan x Tonfah x North)

Notes:

Request from @escapingtodreams 🤍 Enjoy love.

 

Life has been kicking my ass, so mentally I’m drained and just trying to get through the days. Job hunting after university is extremely humbling.

 

Prompt: North has been secretly in love with Johan and Tonfah for four years.

The restaurant hummed with low jazz and the soft clinking of cutlery. Lantern-like pendant lights cast an amber glow across the rustic tables, and the scent of garlic butter and grilled seafood clung to every breath.

 

North sat curled into the booth seat, half-hidden behind the menu, laughing softly as Typhoon dramatically tried to swap out his coriander-laden dish with Easter’s. Across from them, Hill scrolled through his phone, raising a brow now and then to contribute a sarcastic comment.

 

It was a rare, golden night—free of rehearsals, performances, livestreams, and shadows he couldn’t quite shake.

 

Until Daotok leaned in, squinting past the potted fern divider, and whispered with narrowed eyes, “Wait. Don’t freak out. But isn’t that Johan?”

 

North froze.

 

He didn’t look. He didn’t need to.

 

“He’s with Tonfah,” Hill added, sounding vaguely amused. “Dressed like they own the building. Probably a business meeting.”

 

Easter craned his neck for a peek. “Damn. Johan in a button-up? I get it now. I’d fall in love too.”

 

Typhoon nearly spit out his drink. “Wait—what?”

 

And suddenly all eyes turned to North.

 

He blinked. “What?”

 

“You’ve been in love with them for years, haven’t you?” Easter asked, casually savage.

 

North’s heart twisted. “I—no—I never—”

 

Daotok tilted her head. “North, you literally glow whenever either of them is around.”

 

“I just admire them,” he tried. Weak.

 

Hill didn’t look up from his phone. “Adore, pine, fantasize. Pick your flavor.”

 

“Okay!” North hissed, setting down his glass too hard. “Fine. Maybe I liked them a little. Once.”

 

Typhoon grinned. “Once? North, we had to drag you out of the gym one time because Johan was shirtless on the treadmill and you were watching like you were in church.”

 

North buried his face in his hands. “Can we not—”

 

Daotok leaned closer, voice gentler. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

 

North let his fingers slide down slowly. The smile he gave was soft, almost small. “Because they’re… them. And I’m just me. They’re too close. Too important. I didn’t want to lose what I had.”

 

For a moment, the table fell quiet.

 

Unnoticed, just on the other side of the partition, Tonfah had paused in the hallway on his way back from the restroom. One hand still drying with a napkin, the other suddenly clenched at his side.

 

He hadn’t meant to listen. But the sound of North’s voice, small, honest, sad, rooted him in place.

 

“I loved them,” North continued, quieter now. “Both of them. And for so long it hurt. But I got used to loving them from afar.”

 

And Tonfah, always calm , logical, self-contained Tonfah, felt something crack open in his chest.

 

 

 

 

The business meeting ended smoothly, all contracts reviewed and polite handshakes exchanged. Johan stood to the side as Tonfah walked their partners out, nodding graciously, his smile composed but distant. He was like that when something bothered him, quietly unreadable, a ripple just under still water.

 

Johan didn’t press him.

 

Not yet.

 

The restaurant had emptied slightly, the hum of conversation thinning into soft murmurs and jazz piano.

 

When Tonfah returned to the table, he slid into his chair slower than usual, posture precise but rigid. He waved over the server. “Two whiskeys, neat,” he said, low.

 

Johan studied him. “Since when do you drink at lunch?”

 

Tonfah didn’t answer. Just leaned back, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing.

 

Johan’s jaw ticked. “Something happened.”

 

A beat.

 

“I overheard something,” Tonfah said finally. “Back from the restroom. North… he was with his friends. They didn’t see me.”

 

Johan stilled. “What did you hear?”

 

The drinks arrived. Tonfah didn’t touch his.

 

“He was talking about us,” he said. “Said he’s been in love with us. Both of us. For years.”

 

Johan’s breath caught.

 

“He said he never confessed. That we were too important. That he didn’t want to lose what he had by saying it.”

 

The weight of the moment pressed down like gravity.

 

Tonfah finally reached for the drink. Didn’t sip it. Just held it, gaze fixed on the golden swirl of whiskey. “He said he got used to loving us from afar.”

 

Silence stretched between them like pulled wire.

 

Johan exhaled slowly, brows furrowed. “All this time…”

 

“We never saw it,” Tonfah murmured.

 

“No,” Johan said. “We convinced ourselves he wouldn’t feel the same way.”

 

Tonfah finally looked up at him, something wild and unfamiliar flickering in his eyes. “Johan. He loved us. Silently. For years.”

 

Johan’s hand tightened on his glass.

 

Tonfah leaned forward, voice lower now, words almost a vow. “I don’t want him to be alone anymore.”

 

Neither did Johan.

 

They didn’t need to plan it. They’d always moved in tandem, different in nature, but united in purpose. Protecting North came naturally.

 

But loving him, openly, would be a new kind of devotion.

 

Johan’s voice was steady. “Then we show him.”

 

Tonfah nodded once.

 

And in the quiet that followed, both of them imagined the way North used to look at them, not knowing they were about to look back for real, for the first time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The mirror room echoed with the steady thud of bass, the shimmer of high notes, and the sound of North’s breath caught between movement and music.

 

He was mid-rehearsal, halfway through the third run of the day. His dancers were sharp behind him, but all eyes were on him, on the lines of his body, the aching rawness in his voice, and the story etched into the choreography.

 

It was a new track.

 

One he’d written himself.

 

Slow, melodic, and painful, like bleeding in rhythm. A song about longing. About being near the people you love and never being able to reach them. The verses ached with vulnerability. The chorus hit like confession.

 

He let it pour out of him. Each movement more like memory than dance.

 

He spun, dropped to his knees, let his arms sweep out and rise like waves. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat. His hair stuck to his face in damp strands. He was beautiful and wrecked, caught in the high of creation, and somewhere beneath that, still heartbroken.

 

One of the newer dancers, Min, was behind him again during the partner choreo. Always a little too close. Always holding a beat too long. It was the kind of chemistry meant to be stylized, measured for performance. But Min blurred the line.

 

His hands gripped North’s waist as they turned in tandem. Not aggressively, but not exactly professionally either.

 

“You’re perfect, P’North,” Min murmured during the lift section, breath close to North’s cheek.

 

North didn’t answer. He was too focused on the music. Too wrapped in the memories behind it to think about anything else.

 

He hit the final note of the chorus with a breathless turn, chest rising and falling as the beat slowly faded.

 

The music cut.

 

North blinked, expecting a cue from the choreographer.

 

Instead—

 

Stillness.

 

Then silence.

 

He turned toward the door and his heart stopped.

 

There they were.

 

Tonfah stood just inside the doorway, his crisp black shirt tucked into tailored pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his dark eyes unreadable. Quiet. Watching.

 

Beside him, Johan.

 

Johan’s arms were crossed, the edge of his jacket slightly shifted from how tightly his muscles were clenched beneath it. His jaw was locked. The set of his shoulders was all tension.

 

North’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

 

Behind them, North’s CEO lingered, trying very hard to pretend this wasn’t awkward. “Ah, surprise visit. Johan and Tonfah are now major investors in the label,” he said with a weak laugh. “Just stopping by to observe.”

 

North’s mind spun.

 

Why would they…?

 

Before he could finish the thought, Min, still behind him, slid a hand to his waist again, chuckling like they shared some inside joke. “Your vocals were crazy good, P’North. Wanna go over the floor work again—”

 

He didn’t finish the sentence.

 

Because Johan was suddenly in front of him.

 

No one saw him move, one moment he was by the door, the next he was gripping Min’s wrist, fingers tight, pressure calculated.

 

“That’s enough,” Johan said, voice calm and low but terrifying in how it stopped the room.

 

The dancer stiffened. “I—I was just—”

 

Tonfah was next, stepping in smoothly, like ice poured over coals. “He’s taken,” he said, gaze fixed and flat. 

 

North’s breath caught. His whole body froze.

 

The CEO, to his credit, was quick on the uptake. “Alright, thank you everyone! Let’s give North some space to cool down. Practice ends here for today!”

 

Staff and dancers scattered, confused and wide-eyed.

 

North didn’t move. Couldn’t.

 

When the door finally shut and they were alone, the air was thick with heat and history.

 

He turned, slowly, to face them.

 

Johan was still close, close enough that North could see the veins in his arms twitching beneath his rolled sleeves. His eyes were burning.

 

Tonfah lingered behind, quieter. Watching both of them. As always.

 

North’s voice came out rough. “Why are you here?”

 

“You know why,” Johan answered.

 

North’s lips parted, but before he could speak again, Tonfah walked in further, toward the mirrors. His expression was unreadable.

 

“How long?” he asked.

 

North stared. “What?”

 

“How long have you been in love with us?” Tonfah repeated.

 

North looked away, throat tightening.

 

Johan moved in closer again, gentler this time. “Three years? Four?” he asked, voice lower now. “That long, and you never said a word?”

 

“You were never mine to say it to,” North whispered.

 

The truth echoed through the room like a confession to God.

 

Tonfah was suddenly behind him, his warmth unmistakable. He placed a hand flat between North’s shoulder blades, grounding him.

 

“You should’ve let us love you sooner,” he murmured, voice breaking at the edges.

 

Johan lifted his hands slowly. Placed one against North’s cheek, the other at his waist, touching him like something precious.

 

“We’re here now,” he said, and something in him cracked. “And you’re not going anywhere.”

 

North looked up at him, eyes wet, lip trembling and surged forward.

 

Their mouths collided.

 

Johan’s hands flew up, catching North’s face fully, kissing him back with aching restraint then all of it fell away. His lips parted and North melted into him, years of longing pouring out in a breathless moan.

 

Tonfah wrapped his arms around North from behind, pressing into the small of his back, resting his chin on North’s damp shoulder.

 

“I wanted this every day,” North gasped when he broke the kiss, turning in Tonfah’s hold.

 

Tonfah smiled, small and sincere. “Then take it now.”

 

 

North kissed him next—fierce, a little clumsy, biting back the sob in his throat. Tonfah held him steady, one hand at the base of his neck, the other gripping his hip like he didn’t intend to let go.

 

Johan pressed in too, kissing the spot behind North’s ear, while Tonfah nuzzled his cheek.

 

“You’re ours now,” Tonfah whispered.

 

North exhaled, eyes fluttering closed.

 

And for the first time in years, he felt something deep inside him unlock. Like maybe, just maybe, this love was never meant to stay silent.

 

It was meant to burn.

 

 

 

North stood there, dazed and breathless, heart still galloping from the weight of that kiss, those kisses. From Tonfah’s arms still loosely around him, and Johan’s hand possessively at his hip.

 

His knees felt like jelly.

 

“I… I should finish practice,” North mumbled, even as his body leaned instinctively into Johan’s chest.

 

“No, you shouldn’t,” Tonfah said into his ear, voice warm and final. “You’ve done enough for today. You’re exhausted.”

 

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” Johan added, brushing a damp strand of hair from North’s forehead. “You need food. Rest. A real night off.”

 

North laughed, breath catching. “I don’t think I can be alone with you two after that.”

 

“You won’t be alone,” Tonfah said softly. “We’re taking you home.”

 

“Home?” North frowned, confused. “You mean… my condo?”

 

Johan’s thumb pressed to his lower lip. “No. Ours.”

 

Tonfah stepped back and tugged his hand gently. “We bought a place. Just outside the city. A few months ago.”

 

“For what?” North whispered.

 

“For you,” Johan said simply. “For us.”

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t a palace. It didn’t scream money the way you’d expect from two high-powered CEOs. But it was warm. Quiet. Wooden floors. Low lighting. A record player spinning soft jazz in the corner. A kitchen that smelled like garlic and lemongrass and home.

 

North blinked in the entryway, still not fully processing what was happening.

 

“You bought this… before anything even happened?” he asked, slowly pulling off his jacket.

 

“We hoped it would,” Tonfah said, setting down grocery bags. “Eventually.”

 

“I never said anything.”

 

“You didn’t have to.” Johan stepped in behind him, locking the door. “You wore it on your face every time you looked at us.”

 

Tonfah was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, prepping takeout containers onto plates like it was a ritual he’d done a hundred times.

 

“Sit down, North,” he said gently. “Let us take care of you for once.”

 

North obeyed, because his body was too tired to argue and because, for once, someone wanted to care for him without asking anything in return.

 

The three of them sat at the small dining table, a warm bowl of rice between them, grilled pork, stir-fried vegetables, and dipping sauces all laid out.

 

They talked.

 

About university. About the years they’d lost to misread signals and separate paths. About how Johan started noticing North’s silences meant more than anyone realized. How Tonfah had watched every live performance North posted, always with the volume low but his attention sharp.

 

“We waited too long,” Tonfah said quietly.

 

“You didn’t know,” North whispered.

 

“But now we do.” Johan reached across the table and linked their pinkies. “No more waiting.”

 

 

 

 

North tried to keep it private. He really did.

 

But Johan and Tonfah were awful at being subtle.

 

It started small, Johan showing up at his filming sets with coffee, casually sliding an arm around North’s waist. Tonfah sitting beside him at photoshoots, resting his hand over North’s knee when he thought the camera wasn’t on.

 

The internet noticed.

 

Fast.

 

Clips. Edits. “Is this Tonfah’s jacket on North??” tweets. A viral video of Johan yanking a mic from a reporter who asked if North was single.

 

The rumors exploded.

 

But the actual confirmation came with a single Instagram post.

 

A candid shot.

 

North, sitting between them on the balcony of their apartment, the sunset casting all three of them in gold. His head tucked against Tonfah’s shoulder. Johan’s hand over North’s on the armrest. A bowl of strawberries in North’s lap.

 

No caption.

 

Just a soft, unfiltered moment.

 

Comments went wild.

 

“Wait… are we just casually soft-launching a TRIO?!”

 

“North you better be drinking water and getting eight hours now 😭”

 

“This explains the way Tonfah was staring at him at that gala.”

 

“Johan looks like he’d kill and then help North stretch.”

 

For a few days, North turned off his phone. Hid under Tonfah’s blanket. Refused to check Twitter.

 

But when he finally did, it wasn’t hate.

 

It was celebration.

 

Support. Fans who had followed his journey cheering him on.

 

And later that week, when they all appeared at a music festival together, Johan’s hand on North’s lower back, Tonfah holding North’s hand.

 

It was official.

 

North had never looked more alive.

 

He still blushed every time someone asked about it.

 

But he never denied it.

 

Because after years of watching from the sidelines, he was finally theirs.

 

And they made sure he never forgot it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

North stood in front of the backstage mirror, blotting a smudge of gloss from his bottom lip with a folded tissue. His outfit was daring tonight, hand-picked by the stylists, approved by his agency, and painfully perfect for camera angles. Sheer black top, silver chains, fitted pants that clung low on his hips. The look screamed solo star, but it also left a lot of skin bare.

 

And apparently, visible skin was an invitation.

 

A junior idol from another group hovered close, grinning like he didn’t know danger. He handed North a bottle of water with both hands, polite on the surface, but his gaze lingered too long on North’s collarbone, then his mouth.

 

“You did amazing during rehearsals,” the guy said, stepping closer. “Really clean lines. Do you, um, need help stretching before the final stage?”

 

North blinked, smile polite but strained. “I’m good. Thanks.”

 

“Sure?” The idol’s hand ghosted toward North’s arm.

 

Before it could land—

 

A much larger hand clamped down on his wrist.

 

Hard.

 

The idol jolted and turned, only to meet the ice-flat stare of Johan, who had emerged from behind a stack of lighting rigs like some grim reaper in black designer. His grip was calm, unshakable.

 

“He doesn’t need help,” Johan said, voice low. Deadly.

 

A moment later, Tonfah appeared at North’s other side, like twin gravity. He wasn’t smiling either.

 

“Especially from you,” Tonfah said, tone deceptively mild, eyes sharp. 

 

The idol froze. “Oh—I—I didn’t mean anything by—”

 

“You did,” Johan said, tightening his grip just once before letting go. “Don’t try again.”

 

The junior idol mumbled something and backed away fast.

 

As soon as he was gone, Johan stepped in close, one hand finding the small of North’s back, protective and grounding. Tonfah moved in on the other side, brushing invisible lint from North’s shoulder, voice quieter now.

 

“Was he bothering you?”

 

North exhaled slowly, tension melting under their touch. “Not really. Just annoying.”

 

Tonfah tilted his head, brushing their cheeks. “Your mouth still tastes like cherry gloss?”

 

North flushed. “Ton—”

 

But Johan leaned in too, kissing the corner of North’s jaw. “You look too good tonight,” he murmured. “We should’ve stayed in the dressing room and taken that shirt off before anyone else could see it.”

 

North barely managed to breathe. “You both know I have a live stage in ten minutes, right?”

 

“You’ll perform better with a reminder,” Tonfah whispered, trailing a hand down his back, “of who you belong to.”

 

Johan’s mouth ghosted over his neck. “We’ll be watching. Right in front. So keep your eyes on us when you sing that chorus. You remember which part.”

 

North did. The part about the two loves he was scared to lose.

 

And when he walked onstage minutes later, heart hammering and lips still tingling, he didn’t need a spotlight to know where they were.

 

Johan, arms folded, eyes dark and fixed only on him.

 

Tonfah, a ghost of a smirk on his mouth, like he already knew how the night would end.

 

North hit every note flawlessly.

 

Possession had never felt more like love.

And performance had never felt so personal.

 

 

The stage lights had faded, the cheers gone quiet. North still felt the adrenaline buzzing under his skin, a phantom energy pulsing through his fingertips. He’d won again—another award, another standing ovation, another trending hashtag. But none of that was why his knees nearly gave out the second the front door to their apartment clicked shut behind him.

 

He didn’t even have time to take off his boots.

 

Johan was already on him.

 

He pressed North into the wall, not rough but demanding. His mouth caught North’s before a word could escape, hand cupping his cheek, other sliding around his waist. The kiss was hot, deep, and full of things he hadn’t been allowed to say in public.

 

“Good job tonight,” Johan murmured into his mouth. “You looked too damn good on that stage.”

 

“I saw him watching you again,” came Tonfah’s voice, lower and smoother, from behind.

 

North gasped as hands slipped under his jacket, tugging it off gently. He turned—and Tonfah was there, pupils blown, lips parted, pulling him into a softer but no less intense kiss. The contrast between them always made North feel like his mind was short-circuiting—Johan all heat and restraint, Tonfah all sweetness wrapped in fire.

 

“You made us proud,” Tonfah whispered, mouth brushing against the shell of North’s ear. “Every move. Every breath. But that shirt…” His fingers skimmed under the sheer fabric. “We should burn it. Or you wear it only for us next time.”

 

Johan hummed in agreement, already dragging North toward the bedroom. “I kept counting how many people looked at you tonight. Do you know how hard it was not to put a hand on your waist? Just to remind everyone?”

 

The door slammed shut behind them.

 

They didn’t even make it to the bed at first. Tonfah pushed North against the mirror near the wardrobe, kissing down his throat while Johan knelt to unbuckle his boots, slow and steady. It felt ceremonial, reverent. Like unwrapping something precious.

 

Clothes hit the floor one by one. Breath turned to gasps.

 

“Let us take care of you tonight,” Johan said against his stomach, kissing just above his waistband. “You gave them a show. Now give yourself to us.”

 

North nodded, unable to find his voice.

 

 

 

 

 

North lay sprawled between them, chest still rising fast, body warm and boneless with afterglow. The lights were dim, just the golden hue from the bedside lamp casting soft shadows over skin.

 

Johan was at his back, broad chest flush against him, one strong arm curled around his waist. Tonfah lay facing him, fingers carding gently through his damp hair, lips brushing his forehead between murmured kisses.

 

“You were ours from the start,” Tonfah whispered. “You just didn’t know it.”

 

“Now everyone knows who you belong to,” Johan added, voice rough with affection.

 

North, still catching his breath, blinked slowly, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips bitten red.

 

“I waited for years,” he admitted in a breath. “Wanted you both so bad it hurt.”

 

“You’ll never wait again,” Tonfah murmured, thumb brushing his cheek.

 

Johan kissed the back of his shoulder. “And you’ll never fall asleep alone again.”

 

North didn’t say anything after that.

 

He just curled in tighter, tears prickling faintly at his lashes—not from sadness, but the kind of relief that turns your bones to honey.

 

Possession had never felt so safe.

Love had never felt so real.

 

And as their warmth cradled him on both sides, North finally believed:

He was wanted. Entirely. Endlessly.

And completely theirs.

Chapter 11: Troublemaker 🤍 (Arthit x Daotok)

Notes:

Request by Oattie 🤍, I hope you see this because your request is from a guest account.

 

Prompt: Arthit is the football/ soccer team’s captain but also a troublemaker and Daotok is the art student everyone on adores.

 

QOTD: what is your favourite BL drama airing right now and what is top of your to watch list ?

My answer: currently I am loving Revenged Love and Reset. I want to watch The Next Prince but I think I will leave that until it’s completed. 🤍

 

I think I have two more requests left, I will definitely do those this weekend. So anyone reading can go leave their requests in the comment section of the first chapter.

The courtyard pulsed with heat and sound.

 

It was the annual Spring Fair, which meant music, food stalls, booths run by clubs, and students looking for any excuse to skip class in daylight. The air shimmered with warmth and the smell of grilled skewers, cotton candy, and too-sweet soda. Colorful banners flapped from every fence and canopy, the sound system crackling now and then as student volunteers rushed to keep the schedule running.

 

In the middle of it all, literally standing center stage with a mic and a smile, was Daotok.

 

Not smiling like someone trying to be polite.

 

No, his smile was warm in a way that made people stop moving. He smiled with his whole face, like he meant it, like he was laughing with the world even if it hadn’t told a joke. The sunlight caught in his messy black hair, which curled just slightly at the nape, and he wore his art club T-shirt tucked loosely into paint-smeared jeans, like he’d rushed here straight from a mural and forgot to clean his hands.

 

And yet?

 

He looked perfect. Not in the polished, influencer way. He looked like someone you trusted to hold your secrets, someone you wanted to sit beside under a tree, someone you’d swear had been drawn into life from the pages of a soft romance manga.

 

He was loved.

 

Girls whispered behind fingers. Juniors giggled and pointed. Even teachers paused to wave at him as he read through the list of stage acts with casual confidence.

 

Arthit watched all of this from behind the curtain.

 

And hated it.

 

Or, at least, he told himself he did.

 

He was only here because the band’s original lead singer, Boyd, who couldn’t sing on-key if you gave him a map, had caught food poisoning. The teacher in charge of the fair stage had looked over at Arthit with a tired glare and said, “You have too much attitude. Make it useful.”

 

He’d scowled. But then he’d picked up the mic anyway.

 

Now he stood backstage, guitar slung low, one boot tapping impatiently against the old wood as he glared out at the crowd, trying not to listen too hard to the voice he always recognized instantly in the hallway.

 

“Next up,” Daotok called, grinning wider as he leaned forward against the mic stand, “please give a loud, warm welcome to a band called Low Signal! Featuring—wait—Arthit?”

 

Laughter from the crowd. Some surprised cheers.

 

Arthit’s spine stiffened.

 

“Give it up everyone!,” Daotok added quickly, flustered for the first time, blinking out toward the wings of the stage like he was seeing something he didn’t expect.

 

Their eyes met.

 

And for a single breath, the noise of the crowd blurred. Daotok tilted his head slightly, brows pulling together in that soft, puzzled way he had when he was trying to figure out how a new color worked on canvas.

 

It wasn’t judgment.

 

It was interest.

 

It was curiosity.

 

That, more than anything, made Arthit look away.

 

He didn’t like that look.

 

Didn’t like how warm it made his ears feel or how his chest squeezed like he’d forgotten to take a breath.

 

He stomped out onto the stage with his guitar slung low, chin tilted like a challenge, pretending not to notice that Daotok was still looking.

 

But from where Daotok stood, mic in hand, smile still half-faded…

 

He was.

 

Cheers rippled through the crowd. Daotok flashed one last grin, handed the mic to a junior MC, and bounded down the stage stairs with practiced ease. He tugged off the bandana knotted around his wrist, already flushed from the lights, the heat, and the rush of being seen.

 

He spotted his group under a booth tarp near the iced soda station. North waved him over, legs tucked under him like a well-folded cat, his phone in one hand and a half-drunk soda in the other.

 

“You survived!” Easter called, leaning back into Hill’s lap like he owned it. His hair was braided with silver tinsel someone had woven in earlier, and Hill was quietly running his fingers through his hair.

 

“Barely,” Daotok muttered, plopping down beside North and taking the offered juice box from North. “I almost called the dance club ‘Chaotic Romance’ instead of Rhythmic Kaos.”

 

“That would’ve been accurate,” North mumbled, glancing up.

 

Typhoon grinned from where he sat tucked under Tonfah’s arm, the two of them curled up against the drinks cooler like models in an indie magazine. Matching monochrome tees, linked fingers, legs tangled. It would’ve been infuriating if it wasn’t so typical.

 

“You’re just jealous because you’re single,” Tonfah teased, nudging Daotok’s ankle with his foot.

 

“I’m not jealous,” Daotok replied, popping the juice straw like it insulted him. “I just hate couples.”

 

“You love us,” Easter said.

 

“I love North and tolerate Johan. The rest of you are here by association.”

 

Laughter bubbled around the group, but then—

 

“Shh. They’re starting,” Typhoon murmured, sitting up straighter.

 

All heads turned.

 

Arthit stepped onto the stage.

 

Daotok had seen him before, how could he not? Arthit was the guy who always looked like he’d gotten into trouble. Always half-out-of-uniform, bruised knuckles, a crooked grin that seemed to dare the world to try him.

 

But this was different.

 

This wasn’t Arthit the hallway menace. This was Arthit in his element.

 

He wore a threadbare black band tee under an open uniform shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows. His guitar was slung across his chest like it belonged there, like he belonged there. His scuffed boots tapped once against the stage floor as he adjusted the mic.

 

And then he looked up.

 

For half a second, just before the beat kicked in, his eyes scanned the crowd and stopped.

 

On Daotok.

 

Just for a moment.

 

Daotok’s heart thudded in a way he didn’t like admitting.

 

Then the music started.

 

Rough, unpolished, magnetic. Arthit didn’t sing so much as declare the song, raw vocals that cracked around the edges and dragged something real from the air. The lyrics weren’t complicated. But they were honest. Honest enough to sting.

 

Around him, the crowd swayed. People clapped to the beat. North leaned into Johan and hummed under his breath. Easter rested his chin on Hill’s knee.

 

But Daotok couldn’t look away.

 

He sat frozen, straw hovering near his mouth, eyes locked on the boy who was supposed to be a joke act. The one who didn’t care what anyone thought.

 

And yet somehow sang like every word mattered.

 

By the second verse, Daotok was sure of one thing.

 

This was no accident.

 

He’d looked at him.

 

And Daotok had felt that look all the way down to the center of his ribs.

 

“I thought you said he was trouble,” he whispered to North.

 

North blinked lazily. “He is. But trouble’s not always a bad thing.”

 

Typhoon, overhearing, added, “Especially not when it’s in those jeans and knows how to play power chords.”

 

Daotok didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. Because his stomach was fluttering and his throat was dry and something was unfolding here something slow and loud and dangerous.

 

The song ended.

 

The crowd roared.

 

Arthit glanced up again but this time, his eyes didn’t linger.

 

Daotok felt oddly disappointed. Like he’d just missed a bus he hadn’t realized he was waiting for.

 

He clapped along with the others, but slower. Distracted.

 

“What,” Easter teased, “suddenly into bad boys?”

 

Daotok didn’t answer.

 

Because maybe… just maybe… he’d been watching longer than he realized.

 

And maybe, if that look on stage meant anything, Arthit had started watching too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sky broke open just as Arthit finished locking up the sports equipment room.

 

One second it was humid and heavy, the next it was dumping water like the campus had offended the heavens.

 

Arthit stood under the edge of the athletics building, watching the downpour ripple across the courtyard. The streetlights blurred into halos. Puddles formed instantly on the cobblestone path leading toward the main academic wing.

 

“Great,” he muttered, adjusting the strap on his duffle bag. His damp jersey clung to his back. He’d been the last to leave practice again. The responsibility of being captain apparently included being the last one mopping mud off the locker room’s floors and hauling cones and balls into storage.

 

And now he was trapped here with no umbrella, no dry change of clothes, and no hope of getting to his car without soaking himself to the bones.

 

He sighed and turned, only to stop short.

 

Someone else was in the corridor.

 

Daotok.

 

Of course.

 

He stood just down the hall, under a different alcove near the art studio entrance, canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hair curling slightly from the humidity. A few sketchbooks were pressed to his chest, and there was a smudge of blue pastel near his jaw. He hadn’t seen Arthit yet, he was too busy watching the rain like it was performing a private ballet.

 

Even from a distance, Arthit could see the way other students occasionally glanced at Daotok. Admiring. Familiar. He was campus-famous, in a quiet way, his radiant smiles during open-mic nights, the soft charm in his voice during emcee gigs, his paintings in the common hall. People just liked him.

 

Arthit had spent most of his first year pretending that didn’t bother him.

 

Now, though…

 

Now, Daotok turned and caught sight of him.

 

And smiled.

 

“Oh,” he said, pushing his damp bangs from his forehead. “You too, huh?”

 

Arthit shrugged. “Guess the weather’s out to get both of us.”

 

Daotok tilted his head. “You look like you just lost a war with a garden hose.”

 

“Try a slide tackle drill on a muddy pitch.”

 

Daotok laughed. “Come on. You can wait in the studio with me. Unless you enjoy standing around dramatically in the rain.”

 

Arthit hesitated for all of half a second. “Lead the way.”

 

 

The art studio was cool and dim, light humming softly overhead. It smelled like turpentine and worn wood. The long tables were scattered with drying canvases, watercolor palettes, and half-sketched figures taped to boards.

 

Daotok walked with the kind of ease that made silence feel full rather than awkward. He set down his sketchbooks on a nearby desk and pulled two stools close together.

 

Arthit sat, stretching his tired legs out. “So this is your lair.”

 

Daotok raised an eyebrow. “If I had a lair, it’d have more fairy lights.”

 

Arthit let out a laugh, surprising himself.

 

Daotok sat sideways, one knee drawn up. “You’re quieter off the field.”

 

“You’re louder off the stage.”

 

They both smiled at that.

 

Raindrops ticked softly against the old glass windows. The storm was still going, but the moment felt strangely still.

 

“You know…” Daotok said after a beat, “I saw your set at the spring fair.”

 

Arthit glanced at him sideways. “Yeah?”

 

“You weren’t bad.”

 

“Wasn’t trying to be good.”

 

“Yeah,” Daotok said softly. “That’s what made it interesting.”

 

That made Arthit look up.

 

Daotok was watching him closely now, eyes warm but searching. Like he was sketching lines across Arthit’s face in his head, not to draw him but to understand him.

 

“You looked at me before you sang,” Daotok said. “Did you know?”

 

Arthit swallowed. “Yeah. I knew.”

 

The sound of rain was the only thing between them for a long moment.

 

“Why?” Daotok asked, voice quiet.

 

Arthit leaned back against the table, eyes on the ceiling like the answer might be carved there. “Because you always look like you’re too good for whatever room you’re in. And that night… I guess I wanted to prove I belonged in the same one.”

 

Daotok blinked.

 

That quiet, magnetic stillness between them grew warmer. Thicker.

 

“You did,” Daotok said softly. “Belong.”

 

The next thing Arthit knew, Daotok was offering him a charcoal pencil. “Draw something.”

 

“I can’t draw.”

 

“So?”

 

“Seriously, I’ll ruin your paper.”

 

Daotok grinned, open and golden. “Then ruin it with me.”

 

Arthit took the pencil.

 

Rain continued to fall. Somewhere inside, a warmth settled, deep and blooming. And in the corner of a quiet art studio, with soft laughs and smudged fingers, they let something begin.

 

Something slow. Something certain.

 

Something worth waiting out the storm for.

 

The rain didn’t stop.

 

If anything, it only grew thicker, drumming against the windows of the art studio like a second heartbeat. Inside, the world had stilled into a quiet cocoon of soft humming lights and scent of paper and graphite.

 

Arthit stared at the blank page Daotok had slid between them.

 

He held the pencil like it might explode.

 

Daotok sat close, elbow brushing against Arthit’s every time he shifted. Their knees bumped under the table and neither moved away.

 

“Go on,” Daotok said, propping his chin in one hand, grinning. “Draw literally anything. A stick figure. A blob. The concept of failure. I won’t judge.”

 

Arthit muttered, “You say that like failure’s not the most likely outcome.”

 

“You just cleaned up after twenty dudes in cleats. You can handle a pencil.”

 

Arthit narrowed his eyes in mock offense, then lowered the tip of the pencil to the page and started a slow, shaky line.

 

Daotok leaned closer, pointing gently. “Try from the shoulder, not the wrist. Loose strokes.”

 

And then it happened.

 

His hand covered Arthit’s.

 

Casual. Light. Like it didn’t mean anything. But it did.

 

Arthit froze… completely still except for the way his pulse spiked. Daotok’s fingers were warm. Calloused in that art-student way, soft in others. Their palms touched for barely a second before Daotok guided the pencil in a gentle arc across the page.

 

“Like this,” he said, his voice lower now. More focused. “See?”

 

Arthit wasn’t sure if he saw anything except the way their hands fit together too well.

 

The pencil wobbled. “Yeah. I see.”

 

But he didn’t move his hand.

 

Neither did Daotok.

 

For a second, they stayed like that hands overlapped on the paper, pencil forgotten, breathing close.

 

Then Daotok blinked, like waking from a daydream, and pulled back with a soft laugh. “Sorry. Habit. I do that with my little cousin when she’s learning to draw.”

 

Arthit gave him a look. “You just compared me to a child?”

 

“She’s seven. She’s gifted.”

 

He snorted, and the tension melted into quiet smiles again.

 

Still, his palm tingled.

 

 

 

Eventually, the rain faded into a soft mist, just enough to see the concrete glistening outside the art building.

 

Daotok glanced at the clock. “Shit. If I wait for the bus now, I’ll get home by next year.”

 

Arthit stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Where do you live?”

 

“Campus dorms. Why?”

 

“I parked behind the gym.”

 

Daotok blinked. “You have a car?”

 

“No, I keep a personal shopping cart for emergencies.” He raised an eyebrow. “Come on. I’ll drop you off.”

 

Daotok hesitated, then smiled not the blinding on-stage one, but something smaller. Quieter. Real.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Thanks.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Campus life blurred into midterms, rainy afternoons, and takeaway iced coffee cups left on windowsills. Somewhere in the middle of it, Daotok started running into Arthit more than seemed reasonable.

 

At first, it was purely coincidental, twice outside the canteen. Once at the vending machine near the design building.

 

But then…

 

Once under the tamarind trees behind the music wing, where Daotok was sketching a cluster of birds and Arthit just… sat on the next bench.

 

Didn’t say anything.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

Daotok noticed him right away, of course. The lazy sprawl of his legs. The way he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, like he’d been looking for that exact pocket of shade all day.

 

Daotok’s pencil slipped once.

 

He said nothing.

 

But when his friends cornered him later that week, there was no escape.

 

 

 

They were crammed into a booth at the cafe near the library. North stirred his iced latte too hard and sloshed foam onto the table. “So. You and Arthit.”

 

Daotok didn’t look up from his sketchbook. “What about us?”

 

Easter leaned forward, grinning. “You tell us. Because word is he sits with you at least three times a week now, naps next to you like it’s his job, and oh starts driving you home?”

 

Typhoon raised his brows. “And he waited for you during your entire printmaking lab last Thursday. We saw him.”

 

Daotok’s ears turned pink. “He… just had nothing else to do.”

 

“Oh, baby,” North whispered, “that man has everything to do. He’s team captain. And he’s making time for you.”

 

Tonfah snorted from where he was scrolling through something on his phone. “That’s not nothing.”

 

Hill nodded solemnly. “It’s basically courtship.”

 

Daotok made a face and tried not to smile. He failed a little.

 

 

 

After that, the campus noticed too.

 

It was hard not to.

 

Arthit wasn’t the type to fawn. But he was consistent. Every couple of days, he’d appear wherever Daotok was working, under the trees, outside the print studio, on the green roof above the art hall, and just exist beside him.

 

Sometimes with a water bottle or snack. Sometimes with earbuds in.

 

Sometimes he’d lie down, hoodie pulled over his face, and nap like Daotok’s presence was the only peace he needed.

 

The art kids whispered about it.

 

The design girls swooned.

 

And Daotok… well.

 

He tried not to hope.

 

Too hard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It had been three weeks since Arthit started walking Daotok home.

 

Two since he first showed up under the tamarind trees and stayed, silent, steady, while Daotok sketched with feigned indifference and a heart racing too loud.

 

Twenty-one days.

 

That’s how long it had been since Arthit last got in trouble.

 

Which, if you knew anything about Arthit, was practically a miracle. No sarcastic flyers, no hacked announcement systems, no pranks involving the dean’s office door and a hundred plastic flamingos.

 

He’d been… quiet.

 

Grounded.

 

Until someone crossed a line with Daotok.

 

 

 

The university’s spring showcase was in full swing, music echoing from the quad, projects displayed like offerings across the arts building. Paintings, models, experimental structures. Sculpture gardens in miniature.

 

Daotok’s work had its own corner. A line of portraits done in aching black ink, each one an emotion carved into paper. No names. Just truth.

 

They were everything he didn’t say out loud.

 

He was fixing the alignment of one frame when a voice behind him said, loudly:

 

“Guess the art department’s still handing out participation ribbons for traced Pinterest garbage.”

 

It was meant to be a joke.

 

But it wasn’t funny.

 

Daotok froze, fingers tightening on the edge of the frame. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer. Just stared at the reflection of his own eyes in the glass and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt.

 

A few people laughed nervously. One girl told the guy to shut up. The boy just chuckled, swaying a little from the beer in his hand.

 

And then the air changed.

 

A hum low, sharp, electric.

 

Because Arthit was already there.

 

No one had noticed him approach,he moved like shadow. Hoodie pulled over his head, dark t-shirt hugging his frame, expression unreadable.

 

And dangerous.

 

“What did you say?” he asked, voice low, threading with ice.

 

The boy blinked at him. “It’s just a joke, man—”

 

Arthit stepped in. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that everyone felt the shift in pressure.

 

“Say it again,” he said. “Slower this time. Real careful.”

 

The guy scoffed and tried to back up but Arthit didn’t even flinch. His jaw was tight. His hands at his sides, fisted. Like it would only take a word to snap.

 

The whole courtyard stilled.

 

Someone whispered, “Oh shit.”

 

And then—

 

 

“Arthit,” came a soft voice behind him.

 

Everything in him pulled tight.

 

But he turned.

 

And Daotok was there, still by his display, eyes wide. Not scared, just steady. Like he saw all of him. Like he wasn’t trying to calm him down but remind him… that he didn’t need to burn the world to protect what he loved.

 

“Hey,” Daotok said again, gentler. “I’m okay.”

 

Arthit stared at him for a beat.

 

Then unclenched his fists. Took a breath. Nodded once.

 

And walked away.

 

Just like that.

 

The stunned silence that followed was louder than shouting.

 

 

 

It became the talk of campus before the hour was out.

 

“I swear, he was this close to punching him.”

 

“But then Daotok just said his name, and he backed down? What kind of spell is that?!”

 

“Arthit? Backing down? For anyone?”

 

Be the next morning, someone scrawled in chalk on the path outside the arts building:

 

Daotok: The only known Arthit-whisperer in the wild.

 

 

 

In the art studio, Daotok heard the whispers. Heard the teasing.

 

Blushed, smiled into his thermos. Pretended he wasn’t glowing.

 

Because it wasn’t just that Arthit showed up for him.

 

It was that he stopped for him.

 

Like there was a version of himself only Daotok got to see. One with restraint. One with care.

 

One with love building up between the silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later that evening, It was quiet. One of those soft, warm Bangkok nights, where the air clung to your skin and the distant hum of scooters echoed down alleyways like lullabies.

 

Daotok stood at the entrance of his apartment building, bag slung over one shoulder, sketchbook under one arm. Arthit was beside him, just like he’d been nearly every night for the past three weeks—driving him home and walking him to the entrance in silence, or not-silence, depending on the evening.

 

This one had been quiet.

 

Unspoken things hovered in the space between them like fog.

 

Arthit kicked lightly at a stone on the pavement. “You okay? After earlier?”

 

Daotok looked at him. “You didn’t actually hit him.”

 

“Didn’t need to,” Arthit said, voice low.

 

Daotok laughed softly, then looked away. “They’re saying stuff. About us.”

 

Arthit shifted, not awkward, just deliberate. “Let them.”

 

Another beat. The streetlight flickered above them, throwing golden shadows over Daotok’s cheeks, his lashes, the ink stain still smudged on his hand.

 

Daotok swallowed. “Why are you really driving me home all the time?”

 

Arthit’s answer was immediate, but soft. “Because you let me.”

 

Daotok’s chest tightened. He turned to fully face him, biting the inside of his cheek again like he always did when nervous.

 

“You make it hard to ignore you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

 

Arthit stepped closer. His hoodie sleeve brushed Daotok’s elbow.

 

“You make it hard not to try,” he murmured back.

 

The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was alive. Crackling.

 

“I don’t… really know what this is,” Daotok confessed, eyes flicking up to Arthit’s. “But I think I’ve liked you for longer than I knew how to admit.”

 

That was when Arthit reached out, slowly, gently, like Daotok was something he didn’t want to startle. Fingers touched his cheek. His thumb brushed a smudge of pencil from his skin.

 

“I’ve liked you since you mispronounced ‘synthesis’ in front of the whole lecture hall and turned red to your ears,” Arthit said. “And you still tried to defend it.”

 

Daotok blinked. “That was you in the back row laughing?”

 

Arthit nodded. “Yeah. That was the moment I knew.”

 

Their eyes met. The distance was gone now.

 

Daotok leaned in first but Arthit closed it.

 

Their lips met in a kiss that was everything they weren’t out loud: slow, sure, trembling and bold all at once.

 

And then another, just longer.

 

When they pulled apart, Daotok’s forehead pressed against Arthit’s collarbone, breath unsteady.

 

“I’m not hiding it anymore,” Arthit said, voice hoarse. “Not from them. Not from anyone.”

 

Daotok nodded against his chest.

 

“Me neither.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daotok and Arthit walked through campus side-by-side.

 

Then hand-in-hand.

 

It was casual.

 

It was not subtle.

 

And it caused immediate destruction.

 

Because North spotted them first from across the quad, iced Americano halfway to his mouth. He choked.

 

“GUYS,” he gasped, slapping Tonfah’s shoulder. “LOOK. AT. THAT.”

 

Easter spun. “OH MY GOD.”

 

Typhoon dropped his banana bread.

 

Hill blinked. “Wait. Is that real? They’re holding hands?!”

 

Tonfah just grinned like a man who knew a slowburn endgame when he saw one. “Called it.”

 

Easter bolted over like a squirrel with gossip to deliver. “DAOTOK—EXPLAIN. NOW. Are you dating him? Did he confess? Did you? Was it outside your building like a drama?? Was there RAIN?!”

 

Daotok flushed ten shades of red.

 

Arthit, however, stood tall. Smug. Like a cat who knocked the crown off the table and claimed it.

 

“Yeah,” he said plainly. “I’m your friend’s boyfriend now.”

 

Daotok groaned into his palms. “I hate all of you.”

 

“You love us,” North said, squeezing his shoulder.

 

Easter fanned himself dramatically. “You better. This slowburn nearly killed me.”

Chapter 12: A Trip To The Beach ✨ (All Couples)

Notes:

Request from @Vernonslove1🤍

 

Prompt: North, Easter, Typhoon and Daotok go on an art club trip, but encounter some persistent guys.

The art room was packed.

 

Once upon a time, university art club meetings had maybe six attendees. Now?

 

Now they spilled out into the hallway.

 

Thanks to a string of successful art fairs, two viral mural videos, and the combined public appeal of Daotok, North, Typhoon, and Easter, campus sweethearts, social media darlings, and unofficial visual arts mascots, the club had exploded.

 

Everyone wanted in. Everyone wanted to be part of whatever they were doing next.

 

Daotok stood at the front of the room, whiteboard marker in one hand and that easy, honey-smooth smile on his face. He wore a paint-streaked canvas tote slung crossbody and a shirt that might’ve once been white before being loved by too many acrylics.

 

“Okay,” he said brightly, clapping once. “Before we end today’s meeting, I have one more announcement.”

 

The room hushed immediately. Phones tilted up to record.

 

Daotok beamed.

 

“We’ve been invited by a local school in Chumphon province, coastal area, super cute, to do a mural and help paint their new primary wing. Lodging is covered, and meals too. It’s four days, three nights over the break. I’ll be taking sign-ups after this, but please only join if you’re serious.”

 

Easter perked up from the back, raising both eyebrows. “We get to paint near the beach?”

 

Daotok nodded. “Yep. Beach, mural, kids, fresh seafood, sunburns—”

 

“I’m in,” North declared immediately.

 

Typhoon raised a hand. “Do I need to know how to paint or just how to hold a ladder?”

 

Daotok snorted. “If you can hold a ladder and a paintbrush, you’re overqualified.”

 

Laughter rippled across the room.

 

“Alright,” Daotok continued, “I’ll post the full info tonight in our LINE group. Now go finish your assignments, people.”

 

The room burst into applause, chatter, and the shuffle of shoes and portfolios as students gathered their things and filed out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside, leaning on the railing and looking like a boyband reunion tour, stood Arthit, Johan, Tonfah, and Hill.

 

Each one was a different brand of intimidating.

 

Hill, sharp in monochrome, was talking quietly on his phone with a professor. Arthit and Johan leaned against a parked motorbike, chatting low. Tonfah stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, a pencil behind one ear, eyes flicking to the doors every few seconds.

 

When the club members began trickling out, the group snapped to alertness, each zeroing in on their boyfriends.

 

North was the first to appear, immediately crossing to Johan with that soft curve of a smile that only he got.

 

Easter spotted Hill and threw his arms dramatically around his neck. “Hi, babe. Did you miss me for the whole ninety minutes I was in there?”

 

“Deeply,” Hill said with a deadpan he only used when amused.

 

Typhoon trotted up to Tonfah, swinging their linked hands without shame. “We’re painting a mural by the sea,” he said in place of hello.

 

Tonfah blinked. “Come again?”

 

And then Daotok stepped out last, slinging his bag higher and smiling when Arthit fell into step beside him without a word.

 

“We’re going on a trip,” Daotok said lightly, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

 

Arthit stilled. “A what?”

 

 

 

They gathered at a corner Thai BBQ place just off campus, their usual spot. The staff already knew to bring extra dipping sauce when these eight showed up.

 

“So…” Johan said slowly, eyeing North as he added mushrooms to the grill. “You’re going to a beach town. Without us.”

 

“It’s just four days,” North replied. “And I’ll send pictures.”

 

“Is there a medical clinic nearby?” Tonfah asked Typhoon, as if it was relevant.

 

Typhoon blinked. “What—why?”

 

“In case someone gets paint in their eye,” Tonfah said, very seriously.

 

“You just don’t want me out of your sight,” Typhoon teased, jabbing a chopstick at him. “You’re clingy.”

 

Tonfah huffed. “Protective.”

 

Hill turned to Daotok. “You organized this?”

 

Daotok, mid-sip of iced tea, nodded. “The principal reached out. It’s good community work.”

 

“You realize Arthit is going to spiral for three days, right?”

 

Arthit glared at Hill. “I’m not going to spiral.”

 

Daotok glanced over at him, lips twitching. “You’re literally squeezing your cup like it owes you rent.”

 

Arthit looked down and loosened his grip. “I just think a murally inclined beach town sounds full of hazards.”

 

“You’re all being dramatic,” Easter laughed, tossing some shrimp into the pot. “We’ll be back before you even start missing us.”

 

“We already miss you,” Johan muttered, just loud enough for North to hear.

 

North flushed.

 

Easter paused. “Okay. Maybe that was kind of cute.”

 

The food sizzled, drinks clinked, and even with the growing anxiety of temporary separation, it was hard to be anything but soft when they were all tangled in each other’s lives like this.

 

Until someone (probably Easter) said:

 

“We have to make sure to pack cute swimsuits!”

 

And suddenly, all four doctor-to-be boyfriends went very still.

 

 

 

The campus parking lot was alive with luggage wheels and excited chatter as the art club members gathered early in the morning for their beach trip. Daotok wore a sun-faded cap and a canvas tote bulging with sketchbooks; Easter lugged paint cans in both hands; Typhoon circled the bus with the deliberate calm of someone in charge; North adjusted each strap of his backpack twice, as if that would prevent reality from changing.

 

From the pavement below, their boyfriends, Arthit, Johan, Tonfah, and Hill, watched with sulky expressions.

 

Daotok gave Arthit a quick, nervous smile. “I’ll text.”

 

North waved cheerily. “We’ll do a group chat!”

 

Typhoon gave Tonfah a quick hug. “Back soon.”

 

Easter turned to Hill and did a grand bow. “Your chaos emissary shall return triumphant.”

 

Hill raised an eyebrow. “Try not to burn the town down.”

 

Arthit stepped forward last, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “Bring me back a seashell.”

 

Daotok rolled his eyes, looping his arm through Arthit’s. “You can’t go in the bus with us?”

 

Arthit gave a tight, tolerant grin. “I just want a seashell.”

 

Behind them, a few club members snickered. There was muted understanding, yes, he wanted to come, but he couldn’t.

 

The bus driver called them to board.

 

Daotok, Typhoon, Easter, and North piled up steps under murmurs of “Bye!” and “Text us!”

 

They waved from open windows: Daotok pressed his face to the glass, North gave a dramatic salute, Typhoon offered a careful thumbs-up, Easter blew exaggerated kisses.

 

Johan closed his eyes, Tonfah squeezed his fist, Hill cracked a smile, and Arthit caught Daotok’s gaze before the doors shut.

 

When that final hiss sounded, doors down, engine on, every one of them exhaled.

 

 

 

 

The bus rolled into the coastal town just past noon, sunlight painting everything gold. Sea breeze snuck through the windows as the art club kids leaned toward them, noses full of salt and possibility.

 

The town was small, warm, and sleepy, the kind with hand-painted shop signs and bicycles parked with no locks. At the base of the hill sat the primary school: three long, low buildings and one battered wall facing the street, the perfect canvas for the club’s project.

 

Daotok was the first to hop off the bus, immediately calling out to the teacher on site with a grin so bright even the sleepy town dogs blinked.

 

Easter stretched long and exaggerated, his paintbrush pouch slapping against his thigh. “This smells like freedom and mosquito bites.”

 

North had already unzipped his tote and handed out little fabric sun hats he’d made with the club’s logo. “Uniforms, everyone. For morale.”

 

Typhoon just quietly pulled a clipboard from his bag and started listing supplies.

 

The club moved like a small, organized storm, laughing, hauling paints, sketching out rough outlines of animals and alphabet letters for the wall. Their presence lit up the campus. The children giggled as they passed, peeking from classroom doors. Teachers bowed politely, more amused than worried.

 

But even as laughter echoed around the playground, something quieter tugged under the surface.

 

 

 

 

 

They were staying at a local guesthouses. Daotok shared a room with Typhoon, while North and Easter bunked across the hall.

 

After dinner at a small noodle shop, they returned to the rooms with sunburns forming and paint still dusting their wrists. The village was quiet by 9 PM, save for the waves in the distance and the occasional bark from a stray dog.

 

Daotok sat on the edge of his bed, towel-drying his hair, phone clutched but unopened. Arthit hadn’t texted. Or maybe he had, but Daotok didn’t want to be the first to look needy. Again.

 

Typhoon stood by the window, pretending to sketch, but he hadn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes. He’d checked his phone twice already for Tonfah’s texts. Nothing new. Nothing since “be safe.”

 

In the other room, North rolled onto his stomach with a sigh loud enough to rustle the sheets. “Do you think they’re sad we’re not there?”

 

Easter blinked at the ceiling. “I think they’re trying not to be sad we’re not there.”

 

“…Should I call Hill?”

 

“You just called him.”

 

“I didn’t say much, though.”

 

North’s voice softened. “He sounded a little hoarse. Like he was pretending to be annoyed but he wasn’t.”

 

Easter reached over and gently thwacked North with a pillow. “They miss us.”

 

The second day bloomed hotter than the first.

 

 

 

By midmorning, paint had streaked across arms and cheeks, and the massive wall was transforming into a bright jungle, giraffes with sunglasses, rainbow alphabets, and wide-eyed animals the kids had helped design.

 

The art club had broken into smaller groups. North was detailing clouds. Typhoon and Easter had a crowd of first graders watching as they painted cartoon frogs. And Daotok?

 

Daotok was crouched by the lower right corner, painting delicate linework on a lion cub’s face, brush gripped loosely, lips pressed together in concentration.

 

That was when the locals wandered in.

 

Three university-aged guys from the neighboring town, shirt collars open, leaning lazy against the school fence. One of them sauntered closer—tan, confident, hair pushed back like he knew exactly how good he looked.

 

“Hey,” he said smoothly, nodding toward Daotok’s crouched form. “You’re the president, right? Saw your post about the mural on IG. Looks amazing up close.”

 

Daotok blinked up, squinting into the sun. “Uh—thank you.”

 

The guy crouched beside him. Too close. “You free later? My cousin owns a beach bar. We could show you around.”

 

Daotok, caught off guard, smiled politely but inched a centimeter away. “We’re here with a full schedule. Maybe some other time.”

 

The guy wasn’t getting the hint. “What about after dark? Pretty boys like you shouldn’t waste a beach night with paint fumes.”

 

Easter glanced over and narrowed his eyes. Typhoon, nearby with a bucket of blue, stilled completely.

 

Across the mural wall, North dropped his brush.

 

The other two locals had made their way to where North was standing, one of them grinning at his “customized” bucket hat and asking for a selfie. “You a model or something? You look like someone famous.”

 

North stammered, trying to laugh it off. “Just an art club member.”

 

“With a face like that? Must be dangerous,” the guy said, eyes lingering.

 

Typhoon’s jaw flexed.

 

“I think he’s busy,” he said coolly, voice flat as paint water.

 

Daotok stood, brushing off his knees. “We really should get back to work.”

 

The first guy looked him over once more and smirked. “Alright, alright. Maybe I’ll come back later. You boys need drinks delivered?”

 

“Actually,” Easter cut in brightly, “we’re taken and allergic to compliments. So… no.”

 

Laughter followed, strained and uneven, and the locals finally walked away, leaving a trail of unsettled paint strokes behind.

 

The day wore on, full of color and laughter and aching shoulders.

 

Despite the heat and the flirtation that had ruffled everyone mid-painting, Daotok, North, Typhoon, and Easter didn’t say a word about the interaction to their boyfriends. There wasn’t much to tell, they told themselves. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a weird few minutes.

 

 

 

 

By the third day, the murals were nearly done, and the club adviser surprised them with a half-day off. “Beach time,” she declared. “You’ve all earned it. Sunscreen, snacks, and nobody drown.”

 

By late afternoon, they were settled on the soft curve of a public beach. The sand was warm, the water cool, and the laughter was loud—until it wasn’t.

 

Because they weren’t the only ones there.

 

The same group of locals strolled over just as the tide started coming in. Shirtless this time. Still grinning.

 

“Look who it is,” the first guy said smoothly, eyes immediately raking over Daotok’s tank top and sandy knees. “Still too busy for that drink?”

 

Daotok shifted uncomfortably. “We’re here with our club,” he said. “Just relaxing.”

 

“Didn’t say you couldn’t relax with us,” one of the other guys added, already reaching for North’s wrist where he sat in the shallows. “You look like you could use some fun.”

 

North flinched. “Please don’t touch me.”

 

“Come on, no need to act shy now,” the guy insisted, tightening his grip just a little.

 

Typhoon was up in a heartbeat, but Easter beat him to it.

 

“Let him go.”

 

The local hesitated but eventually scoffed and did.

 

“Y’all are real uptight,” he muttered, backing off with a half-hearted chuckle. “We were just being friendly.”

 

They finally wandered off, muttering amongst themselves, leaving only silence behind.

 

The boys didn’t laugh this time.

 

North’s wrist had a red mark. It would bruise, for sure.

 

Typhoon crouched beside him, furious but trying not to show it. “Are you okay?”

 

North nodded. “It’s fine. Just surprised me.”

 

Daotok bit his lip and glanced at Easter, who looked like he was ready to throw someone into the ocean.

 

“We don’t tell them,” North said quietly. “Not yet. The trip’s almost over. Let’s just get through it.”

 

Nobody argued. But none of them swam again that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, they all called home.

 

Daotok was in one of the bedrooms, FaceTiming Arthit, who had been half-sulking since the moment Daotok left.

 

“I miss you,” Daotok said, flopping onto a couch with his sketchbook balanced on his knees.

 

“I miss my peace of mind,” Arthit grumbled. “I feel like someone’s gonna flirt with you the second I blink.”

 

Daotok laughed. “That’s ridiculous. It’s just art and sunscreen here.”

 

On the other side of the room, North had propped his phone on a pillow to FaceTime Johan, while Typhoon sat near the foot of the bed with Tonfah on his screen and Easter giggled at something Hill had said.

 

It was meant to be a quick goodnight.

 

But at one point, Johan frowned.

 

“North… what’s on your wrist?”

 

North blinked and looked down. The sleeve of his oversized tee had slipped up.

 

He tugged it back down quickly. “It’s nothing. Just bumped it.”

 

Johan didn’t buy it for a second. “Did someone touch you?”

 

North hesitated.

 

Typhoon, overhearing, suddenly turned around. Easter looked up. Daotok froze mid-sentence.

 

The boys hadn’t told them.

 

But now the room felt like the air had cracked open.

 

“North,” Johan said, deadly calm now. “Answer me.”

 

“…Someone got a little handsy on the beach,” he admitted, voice low. “But it’s fine. It didn’t go far. We shut it down.”

 

On Daotok’s screen, Arthit had gone very, very still. His voice dropped an octave.

 

“What. Beach.”

 

“We handled it,” Daotok tried. “It was just some guys from town. They were pushy, but—”

 

“Did they touch you?” Arthit interrupted.

 

“Only North,” Typhoon said quickly, trying to play it down. “And it wasn’t anything serious—”

 

Tonfah’s voice sliced in from the screen. “North got bruised and none of you thought to tell us?”

 

Hill, on Easter’s call, spoke next—quiet but firm. “Where exactly are you staying again?”

 

The four boys stared at each other.

 

“…You’re not going to drive down here, are you?” Easter asked weakly.

 

“Too late,” said Johan, already grabbing his keys on camera.

 

“I swear to God,” Tonfah growled, “if one more man lays a finger on any of you, I’m repainting this entire province in his blood.”

 

“Very vivid,” Typhoon muttered.

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“We know,” said all four younger boys at once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning dawned early, with the smell of salt and acrylic paint still clinging to the air. The art club was back at the school wall, repainting the sky and finishing fine lines in the mural’s borders. It was supposed to be a quiet morning.

 

Until the gravel at the front of the volunteer house crunched under four pairs of very determined shoes.

 

Daotok was the first to spot them from the corner of the schoolyard, Arthit, Johan, Tonfah, and Hill. All looking like they’d been driving since late last night. All four had their jaws clenched tight and eyes locked on their respective boyfriends.

 

Daotok blinked from where he was sitting with a paintbrush, sweat dripping down the side of his neck. “…You didn’t.”

 

“I said I would,” Arthit said evenly, hands in his jacket pockets. “You didn’t believe me?”

 

Easter scrambled over from the opposite wall. “They really drove here?”

 

North coughed. “Six hours. Johan. Drove. For six hours.”

 

Johan was already at his side, brushing fingers over the now-yellowing bruise with an expression of barely-contained rage. “You didn’t even ice it.”

 

“I didn’t want to make it a thing—”

 

“It was a thing.”

 

Meanwhile, Tonfah practically swept Typhoon into a hug so tight the boy squeaked. “Who was it?” he murmured into his ear. “Names. Descriptions. Preferred method of disposal?”

 

Typhoon laughed nervously. “It’s not a war.”

 

“It was a crime of taste and personal space.”

 

And Hill?

 

Hill stood silently at Easter’s side, took one look at his flushed cheeks, and pulled him in with one hand behind the neck. “Did they touch you?”

 

“No,” Easter whispered. “Just North. And they were… weird. It scared Dao a little.”

 

Hill nodded once, then kissed his forehead.

 

Daotok, for his part, had expected a lecture. Or at least some teasing. What he didn’t expect was Arthit to walk up, take the brush out of his hand, and set it aside with surprising gentleness.

 

“Come with me,” he said softly.

 

“…Why?”

 

“Because if I keep seeing you this close to the street, I’m gonna start a fight.”

 

 

 

 

 

The same group of locals showed up again later that afternoon.

 

Cocky. Loud. Wearing the same confident smirks they’d worn last time.

 

One of them even raised his hand in a mock-wave. “Hey, pretty boy,” he called out clearly at North. “You cool to talk today, or is the boyfriend gonna bark again?”

 

Bad move.

 

Because Johan, who had been seated on the edge of a paint bench, stood.

 

And that would’ve been enough.

 

Except all four of them stood at once.

 

Arthit. Tonfah. Hill. Johan.

 

They didn’t lunge. They didn’t shout.

 

They walked.

 

Deliberate.

 

Measured.

 

The locals faltered almost immediately. “Look, we were joking—”

 

“You bruised him,” Johan said, voice steady but deathly cold.

 

“No—man, that was an accident—”

 

“You don’t talk to them,” Tonfah added, stepping slightly in front of Typhoon.

 

“You don’t touch them,” Arthit snapped.

 

“And if you ever see them again, you walk the other way,” Hill finished. “Do we understand each other?”

 

The locals raised their hands. “Loud and clear.”

 

“Good,” Johan said, taking North’s hand and tugging him gently back toward the rest of the club.

 

As the local boys slunk off like kicked dogs, the entire art club, now gathered awkwardly near the mural, started clapping.

 

It started with one of the juniors. Then another. Then the whole club joined in.

 

Daotok turned bright red. “You’re making a scene.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Arthit muttered, still glaring in the direction the guys had gone.

 

 

 

 

 

They didn’t go back to the boys’ volunteer house or traveled with the club back to the university that evening.

 

The doctor squad had booked a beachside bungalows. Just for all of them. 

 

“We’re not that fragile,” Daotok tried to argue.

 

“Let us spoil you,” Arthit said. “Just tonight.”

 

And maybe… they needed it more than they thought.

 

That night, it was moonlight and waves. Quiet laughter and shoulders brushing under shared blankets. Typhoon slept curled under Tonfah’s arm. Johan braided North’s hair while muttering something about sand being “a personal enemy.” Easter fell asleep mid-sentence, and Hill didn’t stop smiling for hours.

 

Daotok, warm and safe in Arthit’s hoodie, leaned into his boyfriend’s shoulder and whispered, “You’re not as scary as everyone says.”

 

Arthit turned to kiss his temple. “You haven’t seen me really scary yet.”

Chapter 13: Love Letters 🤍 (Tonfah x Typhoon)

Notes:

Request from Amber 🤍

 

I am going to be honest, this is a bit shorter compared to the other short stories, that’s because I haven’t gotten the chance to finish Tonfah and Typhoon’s book. I believe I read about five chapters🤍 so hopefully you guys enjoy. I am going to post again tonight it make up for it.

It began quietly, almost like a dream.

 

A neatly folded piece of paper slipped between Tonfah’s exam schedule and a half-crushed snack wrapper in his locker. He had been rushing that day, hands full of textbooks and his brain foggy from back-to-back practicals, but the note caught his eye.

 

“You always look tired after late clinic days. There’s chamomile tea in your bag. Sleep early tonight. – ❤️”

 

The handwriting was delicate, almost too careful, like someone had rewritten the note more than once before getting it right. Tonfah had laughed at first. It felt like something Johan might do in a dramatic mood or maybe North being poetic for a joke.

 

But the notes kept coming.

 

There were encouraging lines scribbled on post-its. Short poems folded into quarters. On the day he failed a difficult practical, he found a note saying, “Even the best fall sometimes. You are still brilliant.” When he aced his psych module, there was a card taped inside his locker, congratulating him with confetti glued around the border.

 

And every single one was signed the same way.

 

“– ❤️”

 

There was no name, but Tonfah began to anticipate them. Look forward to them. He started checking his locker like it was a mailbox. His heart skipped every time he saw the familiar penmanship.

 

Because whoever T was, they didn’t just see the polished version of him. They saw the tiredness behind his smiles. The weight he carried in silence. They saw him.

 

And that made Tonfah ache in a way he wasn’t ready to admit.

 

 

 

Her name was Mira.

 

Once, she had been Tonfah’s everything. Smart, passionate, driven—and terrifyingly possessive. Their relationship in second year had flared fast and burned out even faster. The breakup was loud, messy, and unforgettable. Mira had stormed out of the program soon after, transferring universities with nothing more than a scathing goodbye.

 

Everyone thought it was over.

 

So when she returned during hospital rotations, now in the same cohort again, the air around the friend group thickened with unease.

 

“I swear I smelled sulfur in the elevator,” Hill muttered as they walked past her in the cafeteria.

 

“That’s just her perfume,” Easter said, deadpan.

 

She played nice at first. Icy smiles. Vague greetings. But beneath it, there was something sharp, something watching. Waiting.

 

And then, one day in the break room, she spotted a familiar piece of paper sticking out of Tonfah’s scrub pocket.

 

One of the letters.

 

Her smile turned from icy to poisonous.

 

 

 

 

Typhoon had no idea how Mira figured it out.

 

He’d never signed his name. Never left a trail. But somehow, she knew.

 

And then things started falling apart.

 

An anonymous complaint was filed against him for “inappropriate bedside behavior”—an accusation completely false but taken seriously by admin. He was pulled in for questioning about an exam he hadn’t even struggled with. Then came the worst of it: a forwarded email to the dean containing a blurry photo of him and Tonfah laughing in the study lounge, cropped and angled to suggest something inappropriate.

 

Typhoon tried to endure it all quietly. He didn’t want to make waves, didn’t want to drag Tonfah into drama. He told himself he could weather it.

 

Until Mira cornered him one evening in the emergency stairwell. Her smile was razor-thin as she stepped into his path.

 

“You really think you can steal him from me with scraps of paper?”

 

Typhoon stared, stunned. “I’m not stealing anyone.”

 

“He belongs to me,” she hissed. Her manicured nails dug into the skin of his arm. “Back off, or I’ll make sure the next thing admin hears is that you tried to force yourself on me.”

 

Typhoon’s blood ran cold. He froze. Terrified.

 

And then, a voice sliced through the silence.

 

“Get your hands off him.”

 

 

 

 

 

Tonfah stood at the top of the stairwell, white coat flaring behind him like a shield. His face was pale with fury, and his fingers were clenched tight around a piece of paper.

 

The latest letter. Now crumpled in his grip.

 

“I knew it,” he said, voice trembling with emotion. “I knew it was you, Typhoon.”

 

Typhoon’s throat closed. “I—I didn’t want you to find out like this. I’m sorry.”

 

But Tonfah didn’t look angry at him.

 

He stormed down the steps, pulled Mira away with more strength than he realized he had, and stood protectively in front of Typhoon.

 

“You ever touch him again,” Tonfah hissed, “and I’ll report you myself. You think your dad’s money will save you from what you’ve done? Try me.”

 

Mira’s face twisted. “You don’t have the guts.”

 

A voice from behind replied, “No. But we do.”

 

Johan, Easter, North, and Hill had arrived, all looking like a wall of vengeance.

 

“You messed with our friend,” Easter said coolly. “You tried to ruin a good person’s career. That’s not jealousy. That’s psychological abuse.”

 

Hill lifted his phone, screen still recording. “And thanks to the hallway cams, we’ve got enough to make sure you never do this to anyone again.”

 

Mira paled.

 

That was the last day anyone saw her on campus.

 

 

 

 

A week passed.

 

Admin confirmed Mira had been removed from the program pending investigation. No one argued. Most of the hospital staff were quietly relieved.

 

Typhoon, however, still felt numb. He’d written the letters because he couldn’t say the words. Because Tonfah deserved something gentle, not the storm Typhoon always feared he was.

 

So when Tonfah appeared at his dorm door one evening, holding the first note in both hands, Typhoon’s heart nearly collapsed in his chest.

 

“You saw me when I couldn’t see myself,” Tonfah said, voice soft. “When I was at my worst. When I hated being tired. When I hated feeling not enough.”

 

“I didn’t think I had the right to tell you how I felt,” Typhoon whispered.

 

“Well,” Tonfah stepped closer, “I’m telling you now. You deserve to be loved, Typhoon. And I choose you.”

 

Then, in the dim glow of the corridor light, he leaned forward and kissed him.

 

Sweet. Certain. Real.

 

 

 

 

 

A month later, the first letter hung in a frame over Tonfah’s desk in his condo, carefully pressed between glass and wood.

 

Typhoon groaned when he noticed it. “You really had to frame that one?”

 

Tonfah grinned. “It’s the one that started it all.”

 

Every week, Typhoon still wrote him a new note. Not hidden anymore. Sometimes folded beside a coffee cup, sometimes slipped into Tonfah’s tablet case. Always thoughtful. Always his.

 

And if Johan and the others came over every other weekend and teased them both relentlessly about how obnoxiously in love they were?

 

Well.

 

After what they’d all survived, Tonfah and Typhoon had earned every single page of their love story.

Chapter 14: Unknown Competition ✨ (All Couples)

Notes:

Request from : @Vernonslove1🤍 thanks for the request ENJOY

 

Prompt: The doctor squad has a two week rotation program, leaving their boyfriends to face their “rivals”

 

 

 

It started like any other Wednesday.

 

Lecture hall. Half-full coffee cups. Half-awake med students.

 

Arthit was slouched with his hoodie up. Hill was taking notes so fast his pen sounded like a scalpel. Tonfah had already highlighted half the slide deck. Johan had his legs stretched into the aisle like he paid rent.

 

Then, midway through a case study, the lecturer cleared his throat

 

“And don’t forget, starting Monday, you’ll all begin your two-week introductory hospital rotation. Check your emails for your assigned hospitals and groups.”

 

The room buzzed.

 

After the lecture, Hill gathered his stuff. “I forgot about those rotations”

 

Arthit sat up. “Two weeks?”

 

Johan pulled up the email. “Yep. 7 a.m. call time every day. Assigned mentors. Scrub hours. Observation shifts. And night rounds for three of the days.”

 

Tonfah tilted his head. “Sounds… intense.”

 

They all nodded.

 

Quiet.

 

Until it hit.

 

Hill suddenly gasped. “We can’t do lunch for two weeks.”

 

Arthit stared at his phone in slow horror. “We can’t walk them to class.”

 

“We can’t nap with them,” Johan muttered, genuinely distressed.

 

“I won’t see Typhoon in the library,” Tonfah whispered like someone just told him romance was outlawed.

 

It was silent.

 

Then all four stood at once and rushed out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their boyfriends were already waiting.

 

North had claimed the shadiest table, earbuds in.

Easter was sipping iced tea and people-watching like a judge on a reality show.

Typhoon was flipping through his planner with precision.

Daotok was sketching something lazily in the corner of a napkin.

 

When the Doctor Squad arrived, they looked weirdly… solemn.

 

“You guys okay?” North asked immediately.

 

“Are you injured?” Typhoon added, half-rising.

 

“We have tragic news,” Arthit announced.

 

Easter blinked. “Who died?”

 

“We,” Tonfah said, sitting down heavily, “are being separated.”

 

Typhoon blinked. “…what.”

 

“We’re starting the hospital programme on Monday,” Arthit explained with a dramatic sigh, collapsing onto the bench next to Daotok like a soldier reporting from war. “Two full weeks. Off-campus. No lunch breaks. No free periods.”

 

“No soft sunlight naps,” Johan added.

 

“No cheek kisses between classes,” Tonfah mourned.

 

Easter narrowed his eyes. “You mean you’re… going to work? Like med students do?”

 

“Yes!” Hill said. “But it’s so unfairly scheduled!”

 

Typhoon crossed his arms. “You knew this was coming.”

 

“We repressed it,” Tonfah said softly.

 

Daotok chuckled. “Honestly, this is good practice.”

 

Everyone turned to him.

 

Daotok just shrugged. “You’re all going to be real doctors soon. You think two weeks is bad? Try residency. I might have to marry your voicemail.”

 

“Don’t joke about that,” Arthit said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.

 

Easter sipped his drink. “So we’re supposed to what, just… survive without you?”

 

Hill leaned across the table. “Exactly. So today? Today we cherish each moment.”

 

Johan nodded solemnly. “We hold hands longer. We give forehead kisses. We document everything.”

 

“Are you writing a goodbye speech?” North asked.

 

“Maybe,” Johan answered. “Don’t judge me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

North’s phone buzzed at 4:45 a.m.

 

He didn’t even flinch, just rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed, and shuffled to the kitchen. Johan’s uniform shirt was already ironed and hanging on the doorframe. North had done it the night before while pretending to watch TV.

 

Now, he moved quietly, putting together Johan’s favorite coffee, and took out the packed breakfast box he’d made at 1 a.m.—rice, stir-fried tofu, a boiled egg with a dumb smiley face drawn on it.

 

When Johan stumbled out, still towel-drying his hair, North handed him the mug without a word.

 

Johan blinked at him. “You didn’t have to get up.”

 

North just shrugged. “Shut up and eat.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment. Johan pressed a forehead kiss into North’s temple. Then, without looking up:

 

“I’m already counting the hours.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tonfah had set three alarms to make sure he didn’t oversleep.

 

Typhoon beat them all.

 

He was up at 4:30, hoodie over pajamas, slicing fruit in the kitchen while singing under his breath. The rice cooker pinged at the same time Typhoon came out of the bathroom, half buttoned, hair still wet.

 

“Sit,” Typhoon said, pouring congee into a thermos. “I’ll do your hair.”

 

Tonfah obeyed, yawning. “You’re spoiling me.”

 

“No, I’m preparing you,” Typhoon replied, smiling. “For greatness. Now tilt your head.”

 

Once Tonfah was ready, he stood at the door looking at Typhoon like he might combust.

 

“I hate this,” he muttered. “Leaving.”

 

Typhoon adjusted his lapel and smiled up at him.

 

“I’ll be right here when you get back tonight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hill hadn’t slept.

 

Not really. He kept waking up to check the time.

 

Easter caught him pacing at 5 a.m., wearing a hoodie backwards and one sock.

 

“Sit down,” Easter ordered. “You’re going to vibrate out of your body.”

 

“You’re going to miss me too much,” Hill blurted.

 

Easter just rolled his eyes and pulled him into a slow, sleepy hug.

 

“I already do, dummy.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, they sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, sharing leftover mango sticky rice and coffee.

 

“I’ll call on breaks,” Hill promised.

 

“You better. Or I’m texting your attending with embarrassing baby photos.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthit found Daotok already awake, sitting on the couch with his sketchbook open and a tray of toast and bananas beside him.

 

“You drew me,” Arthit said, voice scratchy with sleep.

 

“I draw what I miss,” Daotok answered simply, and handed him a piece of toast.

 

Arthit sat down, still in his undershirt, and leaned his head on Daotok’s shoulder.

 

“I’m nervous.”

 

“I know.”

 

Daotok pressed his lips to the side of Arthit’s head.

 

“But you’re brilliant. And I believe in you.”

 

Arthit didn’t say anything just reached for Daotok’s hand under the blanket and squeezed it.

 

 

 

It was a Thursday afternoon, and the university quad was in that soft, golden lull where the sun stretched long and lazily across benches and tiled walkways. The art club had ended early, and North, Easter, Typhoon, and Daotok found themselves gathered beneath their usual tamarind tree with cold drinks and quiet conversation.

 

Typhoon was sitting cross-legged on the bench, scrolling through photos of murals from their last volunteer trip.

 

North lounged beside him, earbuds in one ear, the other left free for casual eavesdropping.

 

Daotok had his sketchbook open, resting it lightly against Easter’s knee while he shaded in a portrait of a sun-dappled koi pond. Easter, half-distracted, was peeling the label off his smoothie cup and humming under his breath.

 

Typhoon poked at the straw in his iced drink. “He literally fell asleep mid-sentence last night. He was trying to tell me about a patient and just… knocked out. Head in my lap.”

 

Easter leaned over, chin in hand. “Hill texted me, ‘I miss you’ at 3 a.m., followed by forty typos and a voice note of him snoring.”

 

North huffed a laugh. “Johan didn’t even eat dinner. Just walked in, looked at me like I was a dream, and then passed out on the floor. I had to roll him onto the couch like a burrito.”

 

Daotok gave a small smile. “Arthit sat down to change his shoes and never stood back up.”

 

They all laughed softly, but it was tinted with something wistful.

 

“I know it’s just two weeks,” Daotok added, eyes on the sketchpad resting on his knee. “But I miss when they had energy. You know? I miss talking.”

 

“I miss being annoying,” Easter said dramatically.

 

“You still are,” North muttered.

 

“I mean, annoying with Hill.”

 

They all nodded.

 

They were quiet. Unbothered.

 

Until—

 

“Well, well. Look what we have here.”

 

The voice came from behind them, all amusement laced in arrogance.

 

North’s smile dropped. Easter didn’t even turn around.

 

Four guys approached, cutting sharp figures in dark jeans and creaseless button-downs. Law students, all of them known on campus for their polished looks, expensive watches, and chip-on-shoulder energy when it came to the med school boys.

 

The leader, tall with sharp cheekbones and a smirk he clearly thought charming, nodded at Daotok’s sketchpad. “Your lines are clean. You study architecture?”

 

“Maybe.” Daotok replied simply, not looking up.

 

“Mmm. Shame. With a face like yours, you could’ve modeled. Could still, maybe. I know some people.”

 

Typhoon looked up at that, blinking slow.

 

Another of the law boys stepped toward him and leaned against the bench. “You’re Typhoon, right? You helped with the photography at the university’s exhibition.”

 

“I did,” Typhoon said flatly.

 

“I watched the video. Cute stuff. You ever think of doing something bigger? A city piece? I know a gallery owner, he’d love your face.”

 

“Weird way to compliment someone’s art,” Easter muttered, finally looking up.

 

North crossed one leg over the other and pulled his earbuds out.

 

“So what is this?” he asked, calm but cold. “You just… wander around, waiting for your inferiority complex to line up with someone else’s free afternoon?”

 

The guy talking to Daotok scowled. “No need to be hostile.”

 

“You’re flirting with people you know are taken,” Easter said. “That’s hostile.”

 

“Taken by them?” the tallest scoffed. “Come on. You four could do so much better. Those med boys aren’t even around to protect you.”

 

“They don’t need to be,” Daotok said softly, finally raising his head. “We’re not helpless.”

 

Typhoon stood up, his tone light but his stare sharp. “You know, for someone in law, you sure talk like a rejected dating app bio.”

There was a beat of silence.

 

The law boys bristled, but they weren’t used to pushback. Especially not from people who, by all appearances, looked soft. Creative. Unthreatening.

 

The leader recovered first, brushing a hand through his hair like it could smooth over the tension. “We just thought you might want a break. You know, from being second place to boyfriends who barely have time for you.”

 

That’s when North stood up.

 

Slowly. Precisely.

 

He didn’t say anything at first, just adjusted his shirt collar and stepped forward.

 

“I’m North,” he said. “Johan’s partner. Top med student. Top businessman. Likes black coffee and books about war strategy. Even when he’s tired, he texts me between surgeries just to say he misses me.”

 

He tilted his head, smile razor-thin.

 

“You want to try beating that? Be my guest.”

 

The leader flinched. Just slightly.

 

Typhoon leaned forward from behind North’s shoulder, resting his chin on his hand with a sarcastic smile. “We’re not accessories to someone else’s worth, boys. We choose them. And you? You’re not even on the waitlist.”

 

One of the other law boys, red-faced, muttered, “You think you’re untouchable because they’re doctors—”

 

“No,” Easter cut in, standing now too. “We know we’re untouchable because we’re us.”

 

“And,” Daotok added, “you wouldn’t survive dating any of them. You’d cry after the first night shift.”

 

The rivals stood there for a second longer, then turned with tight jaws and puffed egos, walking off with forced laughter and muttered insults under their breath.

 

As soon as they were out of earshot, Easter flopped back onto the bench with a dramatic sigh.

 

“God, I wanted to throw a smoothie at someone.”

 

“They weren’t worth the smoothie,” North said.

 

Typhoon bumped shoulders with Daotok, who gave a shy smile and went back to his sketching.

 

There was a pause. Then:

 

“We should tell the guys about this, right?” Easter asked.

 

“No need,” Typhoon said with a sly grin. “Let’s wait till they’re back. Johan would probably track their student IDs.”

 

North snorted. “He already does.”

 

They all laughed.

 

The flirting had already crossed the line.

 

 

 

It happened at the front steps of the main student union building. Late afternoon. Campus still buzzing with post-class energy, students lounging on benches, coffee in hand, laughter carried in the wind.

 

Daotok, North, Typhoon, and Easter had just finished their classes, laughing, bags slung across their backs, unaware they were being watched.

 

Until the rivals showed up again.

 

Tan, the ringleader, leaned casually against the stair rail like he hadn’t practiced the pose in a mirror. The three others, Rit, Joss, and Beam, flanked him, all smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

 

“Looks like fate keeps putting us in the same place,” Tan said smoothly, cutting them off just as they reached the steps. “You four always together. It’s kind of cute.”

 

“Yeah,” Rit added, eyes dragging over Typhoon in a way that made Easter’s hand twitch, “We were just talking about how unfair it is. The hottest guys on campus all tied up with the doctors.”

 

“Bet it gets lonely,” Beam said, grinning at North. “They’re at the hospital for two weeks, right? Can’t blame you if you want some… better company.”

 

Daotok’s jaw tightened. “We’re fine.”

 

Easter folded his arms, already over it. “If this is your version of flirting, you should sue your department for lack of communication skills.”

 

“Come on,” Joss said, tone overly familiar now, stepping just a little too close to Easter. “We’re just saying, you don’t have to be loyal to someone who’s barely around.”

 

That was when Tiger, across the quad and sipping an iced coffee, caught the interaction from where he was perched on a bench. 

They weren’t just being suggestive now, they were being invasive.

 

Beam leaned a little too close to North, and his hand hovered near North’s elbow like he thought about brushing it. Joss had been circling Easter with thinly veiled comments about how “some people settle too quickly.” Rit was practically blocking Typhoon’s way, smirking down at him like he expected Typhoon to blush and stammer. Tan was going on about how he would be a better subject for Daotok’s art compared to other people.

 

But none of them had seen Tiger approach.

 

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t interrupt at first. He just stepped in slowly from the side path, iced Americano in hand, dark sunglasses perched low on his nose, and an expression that looked… bored.

 

Bored and dangerous.

 

“Wow,” he said blandly, voice cutting through the tension. “You guys flirt like it’s your first time talking to actual humans.”

 

The law boys froze.

 

North looked up. “Tiger—?”

 

He gave North a little nod before stepping directly between Beam and the group, cutting off the encroaching body language with no effort at all. His voice didn’t raise. It didn’t need to.

 

“You know what’s funny?” Tiger said, turning lazily to Beam. “Where I’m from, guys who try to touch someone else’s partner usually wake up to find their scholarship mysteriously revoked.”

 

Beam bristled. “Who the hell are you?”

 

Tiger tilted his head. “Nobody. Just a family friend.”

 

He took off his sunglasses slowly, gaze icy now.

 

“But the guys you’re harassing? Their boyfriends are doctors. Tired, smart, territorial doctors. And you’re making a very poor life choice.”

 

Tan scoffed, trying to play it cool. “This is a public space.”

 

“Yeah,” Tiger replied. “And I’m publicly telling you to get lost before someone publicly loses a tooth.”

 

Rit opened his mouth. Tiger stepped closer.

 

They left.

 

No further warning. No comments.

 

Just quick, tense footsteps fading down the path.

 

Tiger watched them go, then pulled out his phone and opened the chat.

 

Tiger: uh. minor situation.

your boys were being approached by the usual four try-hards

they got touchy. I stepped in.

handled.

but maybe show up?

before they try something again

 

[attached image: Tan backing away mid-eyeroll while Tiger stares him down]

 

A few seconds later:

 

Johan:

 

On our way.

Thanks, Tiger. I owe you

 

 

 

 

 

When Johan slammed his locker shut, the other three already knew something was about to go down.

 

“I’m putting in for leave,” he said flatly.

 

Hill blinked. “Now?”

 

Johan silently passes his phone over to Hill so the three can read the texts. 

 

Arthit cracked his knuckles. “I’ll email the department head.”

 

Tonfah didn’t even wait, he was already halfway to the coordinator’s office with a forged sick note in hand. “I’ve got us covered.”

 

The four of them got their leave approved in record time.

 

And by 4:04 p.m., the doctor squad was back on campus, black scrubs traded for clean-cut casuals and their collective presence like a front of thunderclouds descending on enemy soil.

 

They didn’t need to search long.

 

Near the cafe patio, the law boys were loud, and not just about their shitty opinions on ethics class.

 

“Seriously, the art club boyfriends? All bark,” Joss was saying. “They probably just date those med guys for clout.”

 

Rit snorted. “North acts all quiet but I bet he’s clingy as hell. Too easy.”

 

“And the loud one?” Beam added, grinning. “I bet Easter’s a screamer. In more ways than one.”

 

They all laughed.

 

Until the laughter died.

 

Because standing not ten feet away now, arms crossed and eyes glinting, were the very doctors they were mocking.

 

Johan. Tonfah. Arthit. Hill.

 

Johan’s voice was calm. Too calm.

 

“Say that again.”

 

Beam turned slowly. “Oh. Look who ran home early.”

 

Joss smirked. “What, couldn’t handle a few extra hospital hours?”

 

Tonfah smiled, all teeth.

 

“No, we just decided to make time for pests.”

 

“Careful,” Rit sneered. “You wanna hit someone on university property? We’ll file a complaint so fast—”

 

Hill’s tone dropped. “You think admin would take your side? Against us?”

 

Arthit stepped forward, lazy but lethal. “We got seven published research papers between us. Tonfah saved the dean’s niece from a misdiagnosis last semester. Johan’s and Hill’s family funds half the damn med school. I’m captain of 2 championship winning team. You think they’re gonna side with you because you whined about getting called out?”

 

Johan added, “Also… I’m not above using my family name if it means you don’t ever say my boyfriend’s name again.”

 

The law boys faltered.

 

Then Tan muttered, “Whatever. They’re not worth it.”

 

And they turned tail.

 

Cowards, finally silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daotok’s living room was a soft mess of pillows and tangled blankets. The projector glowed against the wall, casting flickers of light across popcorn bowls, soda cans, and four very different flavors of tired.

 

Typhoon was halfway through braiding Easter’s hair, badly.

 

North was curled up under a throw blanket with his feet in Daotok’s lap, eyes fluttering as he fought off sleep.

 

Easter tossed a gummy into his mouth without aiming. “This movie is so cute.”

 

Daotok, sketchbook resting against one knee, didn’t look up. “It’s a cult classic.”

 

“It’s bad but good at the same time,” Typhoon muttered, staring at the screen. 

 

“We gave you three movie options and you all picked this one.”

 

“That was a pity vote,” North said, yawning.

 

The sound of numbers being punched into the keypad, echoed through the condo.

 

All four of them blinked.

 

“Did someone order food?” Daotok asked.

 

“No?” Typhoon tilted his head. “Wait, are we being robbed in the middle of The SleepOver?”

 

Daotok got up, confused, as the door unlocked.

 

And then four shadows stepped in, familiar, tall, and not supposed to be back yet.

 

“Surprise,” Johan said, dropping his bag next to the shoe rack like he lived there. 

 

Arthit tugged off his hoodie and blinked at the screen. “Seriously? You’re watching this?”

 

“HEY,” Daotok said, smacking his arm. “You’re back early!”

 

“I’m gonna cry,” North whispered dramatically, launching himself into Johan’s arms.

 

Hill barely got a word out before Easter flung his arms around his waist like a koala. “You missed me,” Easter accused, as if Hill had personally invented the concept of absence.

 

Typhoon was silent.

 

Tonfah just walked up to him and held out his hand.

 

Typhoon took it, eyes wide. “I… didn’t expect—”

 

“I know,” Tonfah said softly. “That’s kind of the point.”

 

Once everyone had unceremoniously claimed their boyfriends like territorial cats, the questions began.

 

“Wait,” Daotok said, frowning. “Why are you all here?”

 

“Did something happen at the hospital?”

 

“Did the schedule change?”

 

Arthit sat on the edge of the coffee table and grinned. “We heard some law department idiots were getting pushy.”

 

Typhoon froze.

 

Daotok’s eyes narrowed. “Tiger.”

 

Johan just hummed innocently, running fingers through North’s hair.

 

“You FAKED being sick, didn’t you,” Easter accused, looking at Tonfah.

 

Tonfah just shrugged. “I said my blood pressure spiked. Which it did. Emotionally.”

 

Hill added, “We were going to wait till the end of your movie night to say anything but, well—”

 

“They were talking about you like you were… objects,” Johan finished. “We don’t tolerate that.”

 

Easter blinked. “So you… came back early?”

 

“Asked for leave,” Hill confirmed.

 

“Just to shut down four petty guys with no taste?” Typhoon asked softly.

 

Tonfah smiled. “No. We came back because you’re ours.”

 

Silence.

 

Then—

 

“Okay that’s hot,” Easter muttered. “But also kinda scary.”

 

“I love you all,” North said dreamily, nuzzling Johan’s shoulder.

 

“You guys are unhinged,” Daotok said.

 

“And you like it,” Arthit replied, pulling him into his lap. “Don’t lie.”

 

 

The movie played on, forgotten in the background. Gummy bears were crushed under cuddling weight. Soda cans knocked over. At least one couple disappeared into the kitchen for “tea” and didn’t return for twenty minutes.

 

It was soft chaos, wrapped in comfort and claimed with quiet pride.

 

And later that night, when the projector dimmed and the rain started tapping the windows, the doctor squad and their beautiful, infuriating, beloved boyfriends all fell asleep in the same space.

Chapter 15: Dangerously Hot 🤍 Part 1 (All Couples)

Notes:

Request from @escapingtodreams 🤍

 

Hmmm if this gets 15 comments (from different accounts 😜) I will post part two first thing in the morning, if not part two on Thursday 😂😝😘. I’m being very ambitious but I really like this prompt so far and think you guys will to.

 

Prompt : Four soft-hearted best friends start university, and accidentally capture the attention of the most dangerous, untouchable men on campus.
They try to avoid them. The Med students do not return the favor.
Obsession sparks. Chaos brews. Love sneaks in.

 

Hot and dangerous
If you're one of us, then roll with us
'Cause we make the hipsters fall in love
When we've got our hot pants on and up
And yes, of course we does
We running this town just like a club
And no, you don't wanna mess with us
Got Jesus on my necklace-ace-ace
Got that glitter on my eyes
Stockings ripped all up the side
Looking sick and sexified
So let's go-o-o (let's go)
- We R Who We R, Kesha

That sound popped up in my mind when I was thinking of a name for this story.😂

7:04 AM First day of university

 

The apartment was alive before the sun was fully up.

 

Music pulsed softly from someone’s speaker—something moody and dramatic (Typhoon’s playlist), mixed with the scent of toasted bread and someone’s floral hairspray (Easter’s contribution to chaos).

 

The place wasn’t huge, just two bedrooms split between four people, a tight little kitchen, and a living room that currently looked like a tornado had hit a makeup counter. Clothes, half-packed backpacks, hair tools, and accessories littered every surface.

 

 

 

 

 

North stood stiffly in the kitchen, staring down at his regulation engineering uniform like it had personally offended him. White button-down, black trousers, black shoes. Functional. Stiff. Oppressively plain.

 

His bag was military-grade. His lunch was labeled. His expression was already tired.

 

“I look like a haunted high schooler,” he muttered.

 

“You are a haunted high schooler,” Typhoon called from the bathroom. “Now lift your arms, we’re fixing the sleeves.”

 

North blinked as Easter and Typhoon came at him with cuffed silver bangles and a delicate layered chain that peeked just beneath his collar.

 

“I’m going to an engineering building, not a Vogue shoot.”

 

“That’s no excuse to be ugly,” Easter deadpanned.

 

Typhoon nodded solemnly. “Function can still be hot.”

 

 

 

 

 

Easter’s uniform was regulation in theory. But the shirt had been tailored tighter at the waist, the shirt had pearl buttons instead of plastic, and his trousers were pin-tucked to look like they belonged on a runway.

 

His school ID was clipped with a charm shaped like a tiny silver fox. His nails were glossed. He had winged liner on. Subtle. But deadly.

 

He grabbed a bagel with a flourish and winked at North. “You’re going to get asked out before lunch. I can feel it in my lashes.”

 

North scoffed but his ears turned red.

 

 

 

 

 

Typhoon emerged from the bathroom last, sliding a ring onto his pinky. His uniform was technically untouched but his rolled sleeves, custom belt, and black boots gave him an edge that looked intentionally disheveled.

 

He’d twisted his earring back into place and was now smudging eyeliner on his waterline while sipping iced tea.

 

“I swear, if one more med student wears crocs on day one, I’m leaving.”

 

“You’re studying kids,” Easter said with a snort. “You’ll be covered in glitter and cough syrup in a week.”

 

“I’ll still look good,” Typhoon said, fluffing his hair. “Even if I’m holding a screaming toddler.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daotok was the calmest of them all. Not quiet exactly, just hard to rattle. He sat perched on the arm of the couch with a sketchpad balanced on one knee and a black coffee going cold beside him. His collar was open, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, exposing slender wrists streaked with faint graphite.

 

His architectural notebook sat under a pile of loose sheets. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be bringing watercolors into an architecture lecture. Technically, he didn’t care.

 

When North groaned for the fifth time trying to tuck his shirt into pants he swore were too fitted, Daotok looked up and blinked once. Calm. Appraising.

 

“You’re not in trouble, North. You just look like a campus prince who lost his valet.”

 

Typhoon snorted. “Be honest. Do we all look like that?”

 

Daotok finally smiled, just the corners of his mouth turning up. “Easter looks like he charges a cover fee. You look like you stabbed someone last night. I look—”

 

“Like a movie poster,” Easter finished, walking by and flicking his collar affectionately. “Daotok’s face isn’t fair. God made him for indie film lighting.”

 

Daotok raised his coffee cup in mock toast but didn’t disagree.

 

 

 

 

They all ended up in front of the apartment mirror, checking their bags, reapplying gloss, making sure their ID lanyards weren’t twisted.

 

Typhoon looped his arm through Daotok’s. Easter fixed North’s collar again. North, quietly, slipped energy drinks into everyone’s bags like a worried mom.

 

“You think today’s going to be weird?” North asked.

 

Easter grinned. “Oh, it’s going to be insane. We’re us.”

 

Typhoon winked. “And the campus isn’t ready.”

 

They left together shoulder to shoulder, laughter echoing, matching uniforms glinting with a thousand differences. The best friends were here.

 

 

 

 

The car ride was filled with nervous energy, the kind only four best friends fresh out of high school and dressed in modified university uniforms could create.

 

Typhoon was behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the other sipping iced coffee through a metal straw like this wasn’t one of the biggest days of their lives.

 

“You know,” he said lazily, glancing in the rearview mirror, “this might be the last time we all get to pull up together without groupies banging on the windows.”

 

“In your dreams,” Easter muttered from the front seat, adjusting the tiny chain he’d clipped to his uniform shirt’s pocket like it belonged on a runway. “If anyone’s getting groupies, it’s me.”

 

Daotok, seated behind him, looked up from his sketchpad. “We all agreed no biting each other’s fans.”

 

“We didn’t agree,” North said, wide-eyed, from the far side of the backseat. “I was blackmailed into nodding.”

 

Typhoon smirked. “Same thing.”

 

The car eased into the campus parking lot, tires crunching gently against the gravel. Other students milled about in various stages of panic and heat exhaustion. The friends, however, looked like they’d walked off a drama series promo poster.

 

North, fidgeting slightly with his sleeves, looked toward the looming university buildings. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

 

“You’re always ready,” Easter said immediately, turning to face him fully. “And you look like an engineering major who owns every professor’s heart already. So. Shut up.”

 

Typhoon killed the engine and twisted in his seat to face them all. “Okay, everyone. Last-second pep talk.”

 

They all turned.

 

He pointed at Easter. “You’re hot, terrifying, and too smart for anyone to handle. Don’t stab anyone unless they deserve it.”

 

Easter gave him a sharp little salute.

 

“Daotok. You’re literally made of cheekbones and talent. The minute someone tries to question you, just blink slowly until they combust.”

 

Daotok raised a brow. “Works every time.”

 

“North.” Typhoon softened. “You’re going to be fine. You’ve got the best GPA, the softest eyes, and we’ll all come back here and walk you to lunch if anyone so much as breathes wrong near you.”

 

North nodded, pink creeping into his cheeks. “Same goes for all of you.”

 

They opened the doors almost in sync, stepping out into the already-warm morning like a coordinated debut.

 

Even in regulation uniforms, they stood out.

 

Typhoon’s shirt was tucked but left teasingly loose, gold pin glinting on his collar. Daotok’s sleeves were rolled precisely, his silver ring glinting as he slung a messenger bag over one shoulder. Easter’s entire uniform was a calculated rebellion—tie barely knotted, pearl buttons glistening, earrings catching the sun. And North, in his pressed pants and carefully ironed shirt, had that too-good-for-this-world softness that made people turn twice.

 

And people did turn.

 

Whispers followed them as they walked across the quad. Heads turned. Students elbowed each other. Some tried to pretend they weren’t staring. Some didn’t even bother.

 

Typhoon stretched like he’d just woken up from a nap. “They’re looking.”

 

“They’re always looking,” Easter muttered, but his grin was sharp.

 

Daotok sighed, calm as ever. “Ignore it.”

 

“Exactly,” North said, quiet but firm. “They’ll talk. Let them.”

 

They reached the edge of the central courtyard, where the buildings split off into their respective departments. Time to separate.

 

“Love you guys,” Typhoon said, holding out his arms.

 

They stepped into a four-way hug—tight and fast, like armor.

 

“Text if you need backup,” Daotok said into someone’s shoulder.

 

Easter was the first to break away. “Kiss me goodbye or I’ll cry.”

 

He got three cheek kisses in a row.

 

Then Daotok.

 

Then North.

 

And finally Typhoon, who winked and said, “No crying on day one, ducklings.”

 

They scattered toward their buildings, shoulders squared, spines straight, as the campus kept watching, without knowing they’d just seen the start of a storm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

North’s first engineering class let out early, so he decided to explore, just a little. Unfortunately, campus maps were a lie, and now he was somewhere between the medical wing and oblivion.

 

“Okay…” he murmured, checking his phone. “Definitely not where I’m supposed to be.”

 

He turned a corner and slammed straight into a wall of a man.

 

North stumbled back, sputtering apologies until he looked up.

 

Oh.

 

The guy was tall. Stupid tall. With the kind of frame that looked like it was forged in a gym and smelted in a fight club. Dark brows. Sharply cut features. A permanent scowl like smiling was beneath him.

 

And the eyes: hard, dark, assessing.

 

North froze.

 

The guy looked down slowly. “You lost?”

 

His voice was deep. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.

 

“I—yes. I mean. Not, like, forever,” North said too quickly. “Just momentarily misplaced.”

 

The man blinked once, slowly. “Engineering?”

 

North nodded, too fast.

 

He sighed. “You’re in med territory. Come on, I’ll walk you.”

 

North hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

 

“Didn’t ask,” he said, already turning.

 

North scrambled to follow.

 

They walked in silence. North swore he could hear his heart over his footsteps.

 

At the entrance to Engineering, the guy paused. “Don’t wander here again. You’ll get swallowed alive.”

 

North blinked. “By what?”

 

He turned. “Med students.”

 

Then he was gone.

 

North stared after him, dazed.

 

Later, he’d learn his name—Johan. Third-year med. Top of the program. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t date.

 

But apparently, walks lost boys back to their buildings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Easter was killing time between classes by sitting under a tree with a small crowd of students who’d gathered for a “Therapy Puppy Meet & Greet.” Obviously, he’d gone for the dogs.

 

He was crouched next to a golden retriever, scratching behind its ears and baby-talking, when a voice behind him said:

 

“She’s allergic to perfume.”

 

Easter turned, brows already halfway to his hairline.

 

The speaker was broad-shouldered, with cropped black hair, thick brows, and a deadpan glare that could’ve curdled milk. His uniform shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing solid arms. He looked like he ate nails for breakfast.

 

Easter blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

“She’s allergic,” he said again, nodding to the dog. “You’re wearing something citrus-based.”

 

Easter sniffed his wrist. “It’s grapefruit and cedar. You’re either very rude or very observant.”

 

“Both.”

 

The man crouched beside him suddenly, surprisingly gentle with the dog. She perked up, tail wagging.

 

He looked at Easter sideways. “She likes you anyway. Must be the voice.”

 

Easter stared. “Are you—flirting?”

 

He stood. “No.”

 

“Are you lying?”

 

A pause.

 

“Yes.”

 

Before Easter could say another word, the guy said, “I’m Hill,” and walked off without giving him a chance to respond.

 

He disappeared into the med building, leaving Easter blinking and a little breathless.

 

“Holy hell,” Easter muttered. “That was terrifying. I loved it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Typhoon had been on his way to the cafeteria when the sun made him pause for a breather. He ducked under a shaded awning beside the hospital wing, fanning himself with a notebook.

 

“Hot day.”

 

Typhoon jumped.

 

The guy next to him leaned against the railing like he’d always belonged there. Broad-shouldered. Shirt pristine. Sharp cheekbones. Black wristwatch. Black eyes. Black soul, probably.

 

Typhoon blinked. “I—yeah. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk.”

 

The guy tilted his head. “You look like you haven’t had water in a year.”

 

“That’s… not inaccurate.”

 

He reached into his bag and handed Typhoon a sealed bottle of water, wordlessly.

 

Typhoon blinked again. “You just carry these around?”

 

“Emergency use.”

 

“For dying students?”

 

“For hot ones who don’t hydrate.”

 

Typhoon choked.

 

The guy smiled, barely. “Tonfah.”

 

Typhoon blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“My name.”

 

“…Oh.”

 

Tonfah nodded once and walked off, like that wasn’t the most flustering moment of Typhoon’s life.

 

He stood there, staring at the bottle in his hands.

 

“Oh no,” he whispered. “I’ve imprinted.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daotok was sketching a building detail by the architecture quad. Loose lines. Crisp shadows. Just enough detail to hold the mood.

 

Someone stopped near him, the air shifting.

 

Daotok didn’t look up.

 

“You draw everyone that intently?”

 

The voice was low. Smoky. Bored-sounding.

 

Daotok turned.

 

The guy was perched beside him on the low wall. Tan, unreadable. Sleeves rolled. Hair too perfect for someone who clearly didn’t try. Cold ring on his middle finger. Sharp eyes.

 

Daotok blinked. “You think I was sketching you?”

 

“I hope so.”

 

Daotok looked down. His page was loosely shaped like the stranger. The way he’d been leaning. The curve of his neck. Damn.

 

“Well,” Daotok said dryly. “Guess it’s too late to deny.”

 

“Arthit,” he said.

 

“I didn’t ask.”

 

“I’m offering.”

 

Daotok smirked. “And what do I do with it?”

 

Arthit stood. “Keep sketching. I’ll be around.”

 

Daotok stared after him.

 

He hated that he already wanted to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That Morning. Before Classes.

 

It started like any other boring morning.

 

The four of them, Johan, Hill, Tonfah, and Arthit, were leaning against the low stone wall that lined the medical courtyard. The trees above them were tall and leafy, casting shade over their silhouettes like they were born for it.

 

Hill flicked a lighter open with one hand and passed it to Johan without asking. Johan lit the cigarette in his mouth, exhaled slowly, then handed it off to Arthit, who was too lazy to pull his own from his pocket.

 

They didn’t speak much in the mornings. They didn’t have to.

 

Hill was scrolling on his phone. Tonfah was nursing his black coffee like it had personally offended him. Johan had his sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable. Arthit sat on the ledge with his back to the courtyard, one foot propped up, listening to a playlist no one else could hear through one earbud.

 

Students passed them. Some stared. Some whispered.

 

They didn’t care.

 

“Freshman day,” Hill muttered, not looking up. “The chaos begins.”

 

“They always show up in clusters,” Tonfah said dryly. “Wide-eyed. Loud. Smelling like shampoo and ambition.”

 

“I give it a week before half of them drop out crying,” Arthit said, eyes still closed.

 

Then—

 

Johan’s head turned.

 

Subtly. Sharply.

 

The others followed his gaze without needing to ask.

 

And that’s when they saw them.

 

Four students walking in sync across the main quad.

 

Uniforms, standard issue,  but styled to within an inch of their lives.

 

One of them curls bouncing as he walked, a bright laugh slipping from his mouth like he didn’t know what tension was. (North.)

 

The one with the white-blonde streaks, hair shining in the sun, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses as he twirled keys like a villain’s prop. (Easter.)

 

The boy in glossy black loafers, walking with a hand on his hip and a slight pout on his glossed lips, who paused to adjust his friend’s collar with the kind of care usually reserved for romantic partners. (Typhoon.)

 

And then… the last one.

 

Sketchbook tucked into his arm like it was a weapon. He laughed at something one of them said, but there was something quieter about him. Less showy. But no less striking. (Daotok.)

 

They were hugging each other at the entrance of the quad, all kisses to cheeks, whispering encouragements.

 

“Are they a cult?” Hill asked flatly.

 

“No,” Tonfah murmured. “They’re dangerous.”

 

Arthit’s eyes were still on Daotok, head slightly tilted. “Architecture, I bet.”

 

“Medicine,” Johan muttered under his breath, still watching North. “That one should be. He’s got the hands for it.”

 

Hill scoffed. “Don’t start.”

 

But they all kept watching.

 

Some guy from the business faculty walked too close to the blond one, Easter, and said something.

 

Easter smiled. Tight. Dismissive.

 

Typhoon stepped in. Said something back. The guy backed off.

 

“They’ve got bite,” Tonfah observed.

 

“I like that one,” Arthit said, like he was making a note on a chart. “The soft one. The smiley one. The one who looks like he gives good hugs.”

 

“That’s all of them,” Johan replied, eyes tracking North. “That’s the problem.”

 

They watched as the friends finally broke apart, heading to different faculties.

 

And even as the crowd thinned—

 

None of the group looked away.

 

Not for a long time.

 

Hill finally broke the silence. “We’re all screwed, aren’t we?”

 

Arthit smirked, sliding his cigarette between his lips. “Only if they notice us first.”

 

Tonfah blew out smoke.

 

“They won’t.”

 

He didn’t sound confident.

 

 

 

The sun was dipping low, casting golden streaks across the pavement and glittering off the windows of the ducklings’ little hatchback parked in the university lot. The four of them piled in one by one, bags tossed into the trunk, ties loosened, collars rumpled.

 

Typhoon slid into the back seat with a dramatic sigh and immediately kicked his shoes off. “Okay, give me everything, who cried, who hated it, who fell in love with a professor.”

 

Daotok turned from the passenger seat, sketchbook resting in his lap, lip-gloss smudged at one corner. “I got three compliments, one unsolicited playlist, and someone tried to borrow a pencil just to ask for my number.”

 

“You gave it to them?” Easter gasped.

 

“Obviously not.” Daotok rolled his eyes. “It was mechanical. That thing cost 120 baht.”

 

Laughter bounced around the car.

 

North sat behind the wheel, smiling into the mirror as he reversed slowly. “I actually… kinda liked today. I didn’t think I would.”

 

Typhoon narrowed his eyes. “Liked the day or liked someone in the day?”

 

North’s ears turned pink. “No comment.”

 

Easter leaned forward between the seats. “Okay but did anyone else notice how many cute people there are on this campus? Like, rich, brooding, possibly dangerous-looking—”

 

He trailed off.

 

Because Daotok, casually looking out the window while sipping his water, suddenly froze.

 

“…Guys.”

 

Typhoon blinked. “What?”

 

“Don’t move your heads yet,” Daotok said, voice low. “Just… glance left.”

 

They followed his line of sight, slowly.

 

Across the parking lot, against the backdrop of glossy black cars, real ones, imported ones, the kind you don’t see on campus  stood four men.

 

Doctor squad.

 

Johan leaned against a matte G-Wagon, arms folded. Hill stood beside him, tossing his keys up and down like he was trying not to punch something out of boredom. Arthit was checking his phone, but his eyes kept flicking up. And Tonfah — Tonfah had a cigarette in his mouth and a bag slung over one shoulder, wearing his white coat like a cape.

 

All four of them were looking at the hatchback.

 

But more specifically,  at the boys inside.

 

Typhoon’s gaze locked with Tonfah’s.

 

Tonfah tilted his head slightly.

 

And nodded.

 

Typhoon made a noise. A high, confused, internal screaming kind of noise.

 

His voice died in his throat.

 

Daotok blinked once. “Oh. It’s him.”

 

North was already turning the key in the ignition.

 

Across the lot, they hadn’t moved, still watching. Still silent. Like they didn’t just own the lot, but the whole damn university.

 

“We’re being stared at like we’re lunch,” Daotok muttered.

 

“Why are they all so—serious,” Easter hissed, ducking slightly as if that would help.

 

Typhoon adjusted his collar. “Do they always look like they just walked off the set of a mafia drama?”

 

“They’re coming closer,” Daotok said flatly.

 

North didn’t wait for confirmation  the car peeled out a second later, tires squealing just a little too loud.

 

In the rearview mirror, the last thing they saw was Johan adjusting his watch with a lazy flick of his wrist and a faint smirk on his face.

 

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

 

The apartment was a glow of warm lamplight and delicious smells. Soy sauce packets were scattered like confetti. Four pairs of slippers were kicked haphazardly by the door. Chopsticks clicked against takeout boxes as the ducklings sat around the coffee table, decompressing from what had clearly been… a day.

 

Typhoon, in pink satin pajama shorts and a glittery headband, dropped onto the couch like he’d been shot. “Okay. I need everyone to explain why I was left to die of thirst and flirtation in the hospital courtyard.”

 

“He handed me the water,” Typhoon said, pointing at the bottle now reverently sitting on the side table. “He said it was for hot students who don’t hydrate. You don’t just come back from that.”

 

“He said that?” North asked, wide-eyed.

 

Typhoon nodded solemnly. “Dead serious. Like he’d said it a thousand times. His name’s Tonfah. He looks like he keeps secrets and knife collections.”

 

Daotok curled his legs up on the couch, sketchpad still in his lap. “Okay, that’s nothing. I was drawing near the archi quad. This guy, Arthit, apparently shows up out of nowhere and accuses me of sketching him.”

 

“…were you?” Typhoon asked.

 

Daotok flushed. “Maybe. Accidentally. But still. He smirked. Like he knew. Said he hoped it was him. Then walked off like he was in a cologne ad.”

 

Easter wheezed. “Not you getting art-boy seduced.”

 

“I didn’t ask to be flirted with by a walking personality disorder,” Daotok said. “He just offered his name. Like a trap.”

 

Typhoon turned to North. “Okay, your turn. You went radio silent in the car after Mr. Mafia Eyes looked at you.”

 

North stirred his noodles slowly. “He didn’t just look at me. He walked me across campus.”

 

Four mouths fell open.

 

“You’re joking,” Easter said flatly.

 

“He caught me lost near the med building,” North mumbled. “Said I’d get swallowed alive by med students if I lingered too long. Then just walked me to Engineering. Didn’t even say his name. Just… nodded. Like I’d already signed a contract.”

 

Typhoon was gripping his water bottle like a relic. “That’s Johan,” he whispered. “The cold war one.”

 

North nodded, cheeks slightly pink. “I think I like him.”

 

“You think?” Easter shrieked. “I almost got vaporized by mine and I know I liked it.”

 

They turned to Easter.

 

He raised a hand like he was taking the stand. “Therapy dog lawn. I was petting a golden retriever, minding my business, when this guy shows up and tells me my perfume is going to give the dog hives.”

 

Typhoon gasped. “Rude.”

 

“I know! But he was right. He sniffed out grapefruit notes like a crime scene analyst. Then he crouched next to me and the dog liked him more. He said it was my voice she liked, and when I asked if he was flirting—he lied. Badly.”

 

“And his name?” Daotok asked.

 

“Hill,” Easter said, showing them his Insta. “Also known as: tattooed forearms, killer jawline, probably stabbed someone once.”

 

Typhoon leaned back and groaned. “Okay. So we all had near-death and near-romantic encounters.”

 

“And we’re all trying to avoid them, right?” Daotok asked, eyes narrowed.

 

“Obviously,” Easter said. “They’re intimidating and rich and have the emotional availability of wet knives.”

 

North nodded. “Avoid. Hide. Stay alive.”

 

“Never speak again,” Typhoon added.

 

A long pause.

 

They all reached for their phones.

 

Easter opened the university gossip page again. “Okay but—Tonfah in this picture? He’s smiling. Like an actual smile. Should I post a thirst comment or is that how people die?”

 

Typhoon grabbed his tablet. “Someone teach me how to look hot and unbothered tomorrow. If I run into him again I want to win.”

 

Daotok was already sketching again. “Too late. He’s in my sketchbook now. That’s practically a marriage license.”

 

North just sighed dreamily. “He knew I was lost and didn’t laugh. That’s love.”

 

And as their phones lit up with tagged posts and blurry hallway photos, it was clear: they were not doing a great job avoiding anyone.

 

They were already doomed.

Notes:

REMEMBER 15 comments (from different accounts 😜) I will post part two first thing in the morning, if not part two on Thursday

Chapter 16: Dangerously Hot 🤍 Part 2 (All Couples)

Notes:

A promise is a promise, i just woke up to see you guys did 15 comments 🎉

There is one more part to this story, I am about half way finished since I started right after I posted the first part.

New challenge: let’s double the target amount since it’s double the time. The request included that the couples have a night out at the end. So I want you to comment outfit ideas for our ducklings. I will be reading throughout the day.

30 COMMENTS BY TOMORROW MORNING AND YOU GET THE CHAPTER. If not some time on Saturday maybe 🤍

The car had barely pulled out of the lot when Johan lit a cigarette and leaned against his hood, uniform shirt half-unbuttoned and sleeves rolled with sharp precision. His tie hung loose, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t.

 

“They all left together,” Hill muttered, arms crossed over his crisp med uniform, black watch catching the light. “Same car. Same apartment, probably.”

 

“They’re a unit,” Tonfah said, nodding once. His lab coat now was folded over his arm, collar pressed, belt buckle gleaming. “Like a runway gang with a group chat and shared glitter.”

 

Hill crossed his arms. “You see the way people were staring at them all day?”

 

“I saw the way you were staring,” Arthit muttered.

 

No one denied it.

 

“They’re close,” Hill said. “Matching energy. All different, but tight.”

 

“Too tight,” Tonfah agreed. “Like they’ve been through things together. Pack animals.”

 

Arthit kicked at the gravel near his tires. “They know how to dress in uniform. That’s dangerous.”

 

Tonfah smirked. “So is that mouth on the one in pediatrics.”

 

Johan exhaled slow. “They’re not scared of us. But they should be.”

 

Hill met his eyes. “You want them scared?”

 

Johan flicked ash to the pavement, his voice low. “I want him looking at me like that again.”

 

A pause.

 

Then, Arthit: “We shouldn’t get involved.”

 

They all nodded.

 

None of them meant it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the second morning of classes, Operation Evade the Menace Meds was in full effect.

 

The ducklings huddled around a bench near the fountain, iced coffees in hand, sunglasses on despite the clouds, whispering like spies.

 

“I mapped out the med building’s blind spots,” Easter whispered, holding up his tablet. “If you cut through the east library and avoid the garden path, you can dodge all major intersections.”

 

Typhoon adjusted his cufflinks. “I’m not scared, I just believe in limiting unnecessary cardiac episodes.”

 

“I changed my elective,” Daotok said flatly. “I didn’t even check what to.”

 

North sipped his drink with both hands like it might protect him. “He was waiting by the vending machine again. Just…standing there. Looking.”

 

“He probably just needed water,” Easter offered.

 

“He had a full bottle. Unopened,” North whispered.

 

They stared at each other in shared horror.

 

 

 

 

“Third day,” Tonfah muttered, leaning on a railing as he watched from the upper floor. “They’re avoiding us.”

 

“No,” Hill corrected. “They’re trying to. Poorly.”

 

Johan didn’t speak, just stood by the window, watching the soft blur of curls and North’s laugh as he and Daotok ducked behind a vending machine like they were dodging lasers.

 

“…Do we look threatening?” Tonfah asked suddenly.

 

“Yes,” Arthit said immediately.

 

“Good,” Johan added.

 

But none of them moved. Not closer, not away. Just watched like predators with too much time and nowhere else they’d rather be.

 

 

 

 

 

North was humming as he walked toward the car park. It had been exactly thirteen days since they’d all decided to “lay low,” which, for the Ducklings, translated to: taking alternate hallways, dodging certain elevators, and once, Easter ducking behind a bush when Hill passed by.

 

But so far… no direct contact.

 

Which is why he didn’t expect the quiet footsteps behind him. Or the voice.

 

Low. Smooth. Dangerous in the kind of way that made your bones fizz.

 

“You keep avoiding me.”

 

North froze.

 

Turned.

 

Johan stood there like a problem set you couldn’t solve but desperately wanted to fail on purpose for.

 

Pressed collar. Cold eyes. That unreadable, shadowed look like he was three seconds from causing a scandal  and somehow, still a perfect student.

 

North swallowed. “I—I’ve just been—uh—busy. Engineering. It’s a lot of math.”

 

Johan stepped closer. Just one step.

 

It felt like five.

 

“Your number.”

Not a question.

 

North blinked. “You’re very intense, has anyone ever told you—”

 

Johan held out his phone, screen already on the contact page.

 

North, flustered to the point of dizzy, took it with trembling hands and typed in his number. Missed a digit. Re-typed. Couldn’t breathe.

 

When he handed it back, Johan didn’t even look at it. Just slipped it into his pocket like North had signed a contract with his soul.

 

Then—

 

Johan leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Light. Precise. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

 

It was.

 

He turned and walked away without another word.

 

North stood there for a full minute. Static.

 

 

 

 

When he finally made it to the car, his friends were already inside.

 

“North,” Typhoon said slowly. “Why do you look like you saw God and he was hot?”

 

North opened the door in a daze. “I think I got seduced.”

 

Daotok blinked. “By who?”

 

“Johan. He—he asked for my number.”

 

“Asked or took?” Easter asked, halfway through opening his front camera.

 

“He… demanded it. And then he kissed my cheek and left.”

 

Silence.

 

Typhoon shrieked. “HE KISSED YOU?!”

 

Easter dropped his lip gloss. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘LEFT’?”

 

Daotok, whispering like a ghost: “Did he use tongue?”

 

“NO. IT WAS A CHEEK KISS.”

 

They screamed anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment smelled like mango-scented sheet masks, freshly microwaved popcorn, and desperation.

 

Daotok was perched on the floor, clipping under-eye gels to Typhoon’s face while “Twlight” played in the background. Easter was scrolling through skincare reels and humming along to the soundtrack. North had a heating pad wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and cucumber slices on his eyes.

 

It was peaceful. Safe. No terrifying med students. Just moisturized silence.

 

Until North’s phone buzzed.

 

He peeled off the cucumbers and blinked at the screen.

 

One message.

 

From an unsaved number.

 

Johan:

 

We’re going to lunch tomorrow.

Tell your friends. They’re coming too.

We’ll pick up at 12PM. I’ll send you restaurant later. 

 

North sat up so fast his heating pad slid off.

 

“…I’m being threatened attractively again,” he whispered.

 

Typhoon gasped. “What do you mean again?!”

 

North turned the screen. “He sent this.”

 

The room exploded.

 

“I FORGET HE HAS YOUR NUMBER!” Easter shouted, already standing, already panicking. “OH MY GOD. THIS IS A DATE. THIS IS A GROUP DATE.”

 

Daotok, wide-eyed: “I just opened my pores. I’m not emotionally prepared for this.”

 

“Do we know where?” Typhoon asked, already speed-scrolling through outfit inspo. “What’s the vibe? Casual? Murder-chic? We need options.”

 

“He said he’d send the location later,” North mumbled, still dazed.

 

Daotok buried his face in a pillow. “I need to mentally prepare for Arthit to speak again.”

 

Easter flopped onto the couch. “We spent two weeks avoiding them. Two weeks of rerouting our entire lives. And now we’re having LUNCH?!”

 

Typhoon pointed dramatically. “This is your fault, North. You gave him your number.”

 

“I blacked out! His voice did something to my spine!”

 

“Okay,” Easter snapped, “focus up. Everyone, hydrate. Face masks off. We have less than twenty-four hours to plan outfits, emotionally stabilize, and convince ourselves we’re not going to die of embarrassment.”

 

A beat.

 

“I’m wearing a sheer shirt,” Typhoon declared.

 

“Absolutely not,” Daotok said instantly. “You’ll combust.”

 

“I want him to suffer.”

 

“You’ll suffer when you fall down the stairs from nervous shaking!”

 

North sighed, picking up a fluffy pillow and squeezing it like a stress ball.

 

“…I liked being scared of them more. This is worse.”

 

Typhoon pointed at him without looking up from Pinterest. “You were kissed. You don’t get to talk for twenty minutes.”

 

They all groaned at once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the next morning, inside their apartment, the friends were in crisis.

 

Not messy, not even close. Clothes were folded, accessories were lined up like weapons on the counter, and lip glosses were being tested like they were scientific samples. But emotionally? Utter, screaming chaos.

 

“Why is my heartbeat in my ears?” Easter asked, staring into the mirror like it owed him answers.

 

Typhoon, curling his lashes with disturbing calm, replied, “Because Hill’s going to see your legs.”

 

“I’m wearing linen shorts,” Easter said, exasperated. “It’s not a crime.”

 

“You look like the rich heir of a sunscreen empire,” North added, walking past shirt half-buttoned, hair bouncing in soft curls. “It’s disgusting. I’m obsessed.”

 

“I hate all of you,” Daotok said from the sofa, calmly threading a silver cuff onto his wrist. He looked unbothered. He was not. His crochet top was too sheer, his linen pants too flattering, and the way his sandal straps wrapped around his ankle felt suspiciously vulnerable.

 

“Typhoon, I will genuinely scream if you don’t stop being so chill,” Easter said suddenly, turning on him.

 

Typhoon raised an eyebrow. “I’m the only one not sobbing into their outfits. You’re welcome.”

 

He was right. In sage green, loose but tailored, tank top tucked under a relaxed button-up,  he looked like he’d been styled by a whisper. Hair up. Earrings glinting. The pearl drops were evil.

 

North adjusted his deep teal shirt, checking the cropped hem in the mirror. It didn’t show until he lifted his arms. It was chaos fuel. “If Johan breathes near me, I might pass out.”

 

“Do we think they’re picking us up in two car?” Daotok asked.

 

Silence.

 

Then, four phones buzzed in unison.

 

Text from Johan: “We’ll be there in five. Come down.”

 

Easter looked up from his phone. “We’re being collected.”

 

“We’re not going to a lunch,” Typhoon muttered, grabbing his bag. “We’re being claimed.”

 

They took the elevator in silence, all four vibrating at a frequency only small prey animals and freshly dumped people could understand.

 

And then outside.

 

Four cars.

 

Sleek. Black. All glinting under the sun like a threat and a promise.

 

Hill leaned against a BMW, black polo and aviators like a magazine ad for danger.

 

Tonfah got out of a Porsche, walking like someone who didn’t have to try to be sexy.

 

Arthit leaned against the hood of an Audi with one hand in his pocket, gaze unreadable and devastating.

 

And Johan? Johan was standing beside a matte-black G Wagon, watching North like he’d already undressed him with his eyes twice and was about to make it a third.

 

North made a noise. “I think I need a medic.”

 

“You’re literally going to lunch with four of them,” Typhoon whispered. “That’s like summoning the entire emergency response team.”

 

They walked over, pretending to be fine.

 

Typhoon slid into Tonfah’s passenger seat like he wasn’t dying inside.

 

Daotok gave Arthit a half-smile that almost didn’t tremble.

 

Easter accepted Hill’s hand like it wasn’t sending sparks up his spine.

 

And North—North got in the SUV after Johan opened the door for him and said, low and warm, “Did you wear that for me?”

 

North didn’t answer.

 

Because he had, and his brain had stopped working somewhere around the third button.

 

They pulled away from the curb in a quiet parade of silent flexing and existential panic.

 

The four had never been more stylishly doomed.

 

 

 

 

 

North sat very still in the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap like he was being chauffeured to a final exam.

 

The SUV was quiet. Cool. Smelled like cedar and something expensive he couldn’t name.

 

Johan drove with one hand on the wheel, rings catching the light, eyes forward like he wasn’t doing psychological warfare just by existing.

 

“You look good,” Johan said suddenly, voice low.

 

North’s brain blue-screened. “…Thank you.”

 

“You always look good,” Johan added.

 

That broke something.

 

“I swear to god,” North muttered, trying to breathe. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to combust in your car and ruin the seats.”

 

Johan chuckled. “Worth it.”

 

North looked out the window. “Why are you like this?”

 

Johan didn’t answer just reached over at the next red light and adjusted North’s seatbelt so it sat more comfortably across his chest.

 

North didn’t exhale again until they pulled into the restaurant driveway.

 

 

 

Easter was already reclining like he was chill. He was not chill.

 

Hill tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with the song playing something smooth and bass-heavy. His sunglasses stayed on. His vibe stayed impenetrable.

 

“You know,” Easter said casually, “I could’ve driven myself.”

 

Hill glanced at him. “You would’ve looked too good walking in alone.”

 

Easter blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Hill smirked — a rare, unfair expression. “Means I’d rather walk in with you on my arm.”

 

Easter short-circuited and said nothing for exactly forty seconds.

 

Hill handed him a bottle of iced water. “Drink. You’re overheating.”

 

“I hate you,” Easter said, cracking it open.

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

“…I know. That’s the problem.”

 

 

 

 

Typhoon was fidgeting with his bag strap when Tonfah started the car and looked over.

 

“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

 

Typhoon made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a cry. “I’m not nervous.”

 

“You’re always cute. But especially when you’re nervous.”

 

Typhoon turned to the window. “Please let the earth open up and take me.”

 

Tonfah chuckled. “If it helps, I’ve been thinking about you in that outfit since I saw you.”

 

Typhoon turned slowly. “You mean ten minutes ago?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

There was a beat of silence before Typhoon asked, very seriously, “Are you planning to flirt the entire ride?”

 

“Unless you beg me not to.”

 

Typhoon covered his face. “I’m not going to survive lunch.”

 

 

 

 

The wind was gentle, the music low, and Arthit’s driving was absurdly smooth. Like the world moved around him.

 

Daotok had one hand on his lap, one on the car door. His eyes were on the road but his soul had left the building.

 

“Nice top,” Arthit said.

 

Daotok raised an eyebrow. “You mean the one that’s half see-through?”

 

Arthit nodded. “Yeah. Brave move.”

 

“I didn’t do it for you.”

 

“You didn’t not do it for me.”

 

Daotok laughed. Just once, sharp and surprised.

 

“You always this cocky?” he asked.

 

“No. Just when I really like what I see.”

 

Daotok stared at him for a moment, then looked away before he smiled too obviously. “Shut up and drive.”

 

Arthit’s smirk deepened. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

 

The hostess smiled brightly as they entered. “Welcome! Table for—?”

 

Johan barely glanced at her. “We have a reservation.”

 

His voice was calm. Flat. Dangerous in its stillness.

 

The hostess faltered. “O-of course, right this way—”

 

Tonfah cut in, tone like silk over a blade. “Window table. Like I asked.”

 

The woman nodded so fast she nearly tripped on her own feet.

 

The walk through the restaurant was an event. Every head turned,  some in awe, some in panic. A couple of tables even went quiet, like they weren’t sure if the new arrivals were students or mafia princes.

 

Hill’s expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses. He didn’t look at anyone except Easter.

 

Arthit stepped around a server too slowly clearing a dish and didn’t break stride. Just gave him a single cold glance. The man blanched and apologized before Arthit even spoke.

 

At the table, Johan pulled out North’s chair with calm precision. Tonfah did the same for Typhoon gently, but without a word. Hill slid Easter’s water glass toward him before he even asked. Arthit leaned over Daotok’s chair and murmured, “You good?” before sitting down beside him.

 

None of them were smiling.

 

None of them needed to.

 

The waiter came over young, eager, already sweating. “Hi, uh, can I start you with any—”

 

“No alcohol,” Johan said immediately, without looking up. “They’re not drinking.”

 

The waiter blinked. “O-okay. And for—”

 

Hill tilted his head, and the guy stopped mid-word.

 

“I’ll take it from here,” Hill said, voice even but low enough to scrape the nerves. “We’ll order when we’re ready.”

 

The waiter practically bowed and retreated.

 

Once they were alone, the shift was instant. Subtle.

 

Tonfah leaned close to Typhoon, voice soft. “You okay? Want me to order for you?”

 

Typhoon nodded, flushed.

 

Arthit was already gathering a napkin and dropping it into Daotok’s lap like he wanted to be immortalized in ink. “Draw me like one of your panicked French boys.”

 

Daotok rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

 

Johan pushed North’s menu closer. “Anything you want. Pick it. Or don’t. I’ll just get everything that looks good.”

 

North stared at him, then whispered, “You’re terrifying.”

 

Johan smirked. “So I’ve been told.”

 

Meanwhile, Hill leaned closer to Easter. “They keep looking.”

 

“Who?” Easter asked, nerves sparking again.

 

“Everyone,” Hill said. “They’re trying to figure out how we ended up with you four.”

 

Easter paused. “…And how did you?”

 

Hill looked at him, completely serious. “Because we don’t lose what we want.”

 

Easter dropped his fork.

 

Typhoon whispered across the table, “I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

 

“Same,” North murmured.

 

Daotok sipped water and sighed. “We’re all going to die beautiful and in love.”

 

The waiter returned later pale, trembling, hyper-polite.

 

No one at the table spoke to him except the younger boys.

 

But the whole restaurant knew:

 

Don’t approach. Don’t stare. And absolutely don’t touch.

 

 

 

 

Typhoon took a sip of his iced tea and whispered, “So… do we just talk? Like… normally?”

 

“You’re already talking,” Tonfah said mildly, cutting into his grilled fish. “And it’s cute. Keep going.”

 

Typhoon flushed. “Why are you like this?”

 

“Because it’s fun watching you squirm,” Tonfah replied with a soft grin. “But I’ll stop if you want.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

“You’re right.”

 

 

 

Easter tried to focus on his chicken salad but Hill had not stopped watching him. Not in a creepy way just… steadily. Casually. Like he was studying a painting he already knew he was going to steal.

 

“…You’re staring,” Easter said finally.

 

Hill sipped his water. “Can’t help it.”

 

Easter arched a brow. “You look like you’re about to commit a crime.”

 

Hill shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

 

Across the table, North choked on his drink.

 

 

 

“Are you okay?” Johan asked immediately, hand reaching across to steady North’s glass.

 

“I’m fine,” North croaked. “Totally fine. Not dying or anything.”

 

Johan’s eyes narrowed. “You need to eat more. You didn’t finish your soup.”

 

“It was gazpacho,” North muttered. “It was already cold. I didn’t trust it.”

 

Johan leaned forward. “You don’t trust soup but you trusted me with your number?”

 

North blinked. “Oh my god.”

 

Johan smirked and went back to slicing his steak, like he hadn’t just short-circuited North’s nervous system.

 

 

 

Meanwhile, Daotok was… hiding behind his menu.

 

“You know I can still see you,” Arthit said, chin resting on his hand, one brow raised.

 

Daotok peeked out. “I’m just… regrouping.”

 

“From what?”

 

“From existing next to you in daylight,” Daotok muttered.

 

Arthit chuckled. “You’re dramatic.”

 

“And you’re terrifying. It’s called balance.”

 

Arthit leaned closer. “You think I’m terrifying?”

 

“I think you could be,” Daotok corrected. “If I wasn’t weirdly into it.”

 

There was a pause.

 

Then Arthit sat back and smiled sharp and pleased. “Good.”

 

 

 

The table fell into a natural rhythm after that laughter, teasing, soft clinks of cutlery and the occasional flustered yelp from Typhoon or Easter when one of the med students leaned in too close.

 

It didn’t feel like four couples yet. Not officially.

 

But there were under-the-table brushes of knees. Side glances that lingered. Low-spoken jokes meant only for two.

 

And when the bill came, Hill already had his card on the tray. Johan didn’t even pretend to argue. Tonfah was texting Typhoon something stupid that made him laugh out loud. Arthit had drawn a tiny, perfect sketch of Daotok on a napkin and handed it over without a word.

 

 

 

The older boys dropped them off like princes delivering royalty. Four luxury cars pulling up outside their apartment like it was a red carpet event.

 

“Thanks for lunch,” North managed, trying not to die when Johan leaned in and said, “Next time, you can come over to mine.”

 

“Why do you say things like that,” North whispered.

 

“Because they’re true.”

 

The moment the cars pulled away, the ducklings exploded.

 

Typhoon slapped his hands to his face. “I was flirting! I think I flirted! Did I flirt?!”

 

“You let him touch your knee under the table,” Easter screeched. “That counts as flirting and a full-body crime!”

 

“Arthit gave me art. On a napkin,” Daotok said quietly, staring at the sketch in his hand like it had just whispered secrets. “What does that mean?!”

 

North flopped dramatically onto the couch. “I think I’m in love and also I never want to see him again and also I want to kiss him forever. Help.”

 

They didn’t sleep until 3 a.m. Too much adrenaline. Too much squealing. Too many rewatches of the security camera footage of them being picked up like some sort of mafia boyfriend starter pack.

 

 

 

 

 

They thought that was a one-time thing.

 

They were wrong.

 

Because at 9:30 sharp on Monday, four very familiar cars pulled up outside their building.

 

Easter froze at the window. “Oh my god. They’re here.”

 

Typhoon tripped over his own bag. “What do you mean they’re here?!”

 

“They’re picking us up,” North said faintly. “They’re going to drive us to class. On purpose.”

 

Daotok peeked out. “Arthit is leaning against his car like he’s in a cologne ad. I’m going to pass away.”

 

They were kissed on cheeks. Had their bags taken from them. Buckled in. Smirked at.

 

By the time they arrived at campus,  arriving in pairs, looking like gods had dropped them off personally, the  student gossip channels were already on fire.

 

 

 

✦ [U Gossip Forum] — “Spotted: The Rich Boys of Hell driving four pastel-coded angels to class like it’s a K-drama shoot.”

✦ “Why did Johan open the door for that engineering student and then tuck his hair behind his ear? Am I hallucinating???”

✦ “The med psycho had his hand on Typhoon’s back the entire walk from the parking lot. Someone check if they’re dating or if I’m just dying of jealousy.”

✦ “Arthit smiled. I repeat: SMILED. Who is this art boy and how did he melt the ice king??”

✦ “I’ve never seen Hill walk slower. That boy in pearls is clearly magic.”

✦ “No one’s allowed to flirt with those boys anymore. The doctor squad stares people down if they even glance too long.”

 

 

They didn’t need to say anything.

They didn’t need to declare it.

 

But the message was loud and clear:

Don’t look. Don’t try. Don’t even think about it.

 

Johan, usually all sharp lines and unreadable silence, had somehow turned into North’s personal shadow. If someone stared too long in Engineering’s courtyard, Johan would simply appear, hand ghosting low on North’s back, thumb brushing the hem of his shirt like a dare. He didn’t glare. He didn’t speak.

But the way he stood there, chin tilted, gaze flat?

People stopped trying to make eye contact real fast.

 

Hill, stoic, unreadable Hill, had become Easter’s quiet bodyguard. He’d walk him to lectures, fingers grazing his elbow. Hand resting low on his hip when the halls were too crowded. If someone leaned a little too close to Easter, Hill didn’t even blink, he just tilted his head, gave one of those perfectly sculpted half-smiles, and said, “Is there something you need?”

No one ever had an answer.

 

Tonfah? Tonfah didn’t even pretend to be polite. He showed up early to Pediatrics just to walk Typhoon to class and lean against walls like he lived there.

One guy tried handing Typhoon a coffee one morning.

Tonfah took it, sipped it, and handed it back with a blank face and a “He only drinks oat milk.”

That guy never showed up again.

 

And Arthit. Oh, Arthit.

He was subtle in the same way a wolf was subtle in a flock of deer.

He’d stroll beside Daotok like he wasn’t terrifying, lean in to murmur something only Daotok could hear, and then go stone cold the second someone else came close.

More than once, someone had tried to chat Daotok up near the Architecture studios only to be intercepted by Arthit leaning against the doorway with a cigarette he didn’t light, eyes unreadable, lips pressed tight.

One boy turned around before he even got his sentence out.

 

 

 

And yet  for our ducklings?

 

The rules changed.

 

Johan’s voice went soft when he asked if North had eaten.

Hill carried Easter’s tote without being asked.

Tonfah let Typhoon do that ridiculous thing where he drew stars on his wrist in pen after long lectures.

Arthit picked flowers off the bushes outside and tucked them in Daotok’s bag when he wasn’t looking.

 

The dangerous boys.

The ones no one dared approach.

All four of them had gone absolutely stupid over a group of beautiful, chaotic, over-accessorized boys who wore clear gloss and matching ankle bracelets and treated their friendships like religion.

 

They tried, really tried, to tone it down.

To act cool. Normal. Chill.

 

It lasted two days.

 

 

Then Johan almost decked a guy for getting too friendly with North after lab hours.

It was fast, one second North was smiling awkwardly, trying to back away from some second-year who clearly didn’t understand personal space.

The next, Johan was behind him, calm voice cutting through the air:

“Touch him again and I’ll break your hand.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move.

But the guy flinched like he’d been slapped, and North had to physically pull Johan back by the wrist before it escalated.

It didn’t help that Johan kept smiling.

 

Hill, cool, unreadable, above-it-all Hill,  was seconds away from grabbing someone by the collar when they blocked Easter’s path and tried to flirt like they had a chance.

He “accidentally” knocked over a chair in their direction, then stood there,  unmoving, jaw locked, sunglasses still on,  while they tripped trying to dodge it.

“Watch your step,” Hill said flatly, eyes not leaving their face.

Easter didn’t even get a chance to react before Hill guided him around the mess by the small of his back and muttered something only he could hear.

It made Easter blush and break into a cold sweat.

 

Tonfah had a boy against the wall.

Not touching,  but close.

It started when the guy joked that Typhoon was “a little too pretty to be taken seriously in medicine.”

Tonfah didn’t laugh. Didn’t blink.

He stepped in, close enough that their noses almost brushed, and said, too calm,  “Say something like that again and you’ll be the one needing surgery.”

The guy sputtered, backed off, nearly dropped his bag.

Typhoon, red-faced and scandalized, hissed his name 

But Tonfah just turned, plucked Typhoon’s hair clip off the floor, and gently clipped it back into place like the threat hadn’t happened.

 

And Arthit?

Arthit let a boy finish his full, stumbling compliment to Daotok  then stood up from where he was seated on the ground by his desk, chair scraping slowly behind him.

“Got anything else to say?” he asked, deadpan.

He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t posturing.

But the stillness of him,  the coiled violence in his voice,  made the boy immediately backpedal and stammer out an apology.

Arthit sat back down, crossed his legs, and opened Daotok’s sketchbook like nothing happened.

“I like this one,” he said, tapping a half-finished flower study.

Daotok, who had not stopped blushing, just nodded and kept sketching with shaking hands.

 

 

 

These boys didn’t play games.

They didn’t share.

And they didn’t care if the entire university thought they’d lost their minds 

Because, in a way, they had.

 

The ducklings had turned the monsters into possessive gods,

and nothing was ever going to be the same.

Notes:

REMEMBER: 30 comments for the next part tomorrow. Comment outfit ideas for our ducklings on a night out. Shorts for who? Crop top for who? Backless for who? Tell me your ideas

Chapter 17: Dangerously Hot 🤍 Part 3 (All Couples)

Notes:

We didn’t reach 30 comments but this is the last part, hope you guys enjoy✨🤍

The freshman boys were nestled on one side of the long outdoor table, doctors to be on the other. It should’ve been unbalanced , four intense upper-years and four still-somewhat-flustered freshmen. But lately, it felt like some strange gravitational pull had leveled everything.

 

Plates of food picked through. Four water bottles, four iced coffees. Johan kept pushing North’s cup toward him every time he forgot to drink it. Typhoon was absently drawing little hearts on Tonfah’s napkin. Daotok was quietly explaining the meaning of a niche indie film to Arthit, who was pretending not to care but was listening very closely.

 

“Wait, have you guys seen the trailer for LILO & STITCH?” Easter asked, excited, fingers tapping his phone screen. “It drops tonight.”

 

North perked up immediately. “The one that’s supposed to be emotional and weirdly beautiful?”

 

“Yes!” Easter nearly smacked the table. “Like, heartfelt chaos with aliens and family trauma.”

 

Typhoon tilted his head. “Isn’t it the one where the little girl punches a guy in the face?”

 

Daotok nodded solemnly. “An icon.”

 

Then Hill spoke, voice low and calm. “I’ve been waiting for it.”

 

Everyone turned to stare at him.

 

“You?” Easter blinked.

 

Hill shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s about found family and loyalty and destruction. Obviously.”

 

Easter looked personally attacked by how much that made sense. “…Okay, yeah. Valid.”

 

North laughed. “I’m obsessed with how you’re all secretly soft under the terrifying exteriors.”

 

Arthit raised an eyebrow. “Secretly?”

 

Typhoon shivered. “This is how horror movies start.”

 

“We should go,” Easter said quickly, brushing his hair back and trying to hide how pleased he was. “It premieres tomorrow night.”

 

Johan leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking around the table. “We could go to a public theater and deal with sticky floors, broken chairs, and people talking over the best lines…”

 

“Or,” Tonfah cut in smoothly, “we could just watch it at my family’s house.”

 

Typhoon blinked. “You have a—?”

 

“Home theatre,” Tonfah said casually, like it wasn’t ridiculously extravagant. “Good sound. Better popcorn.”

 

“Are you serious?” North asked, eyes widening.

 

“Deadly,” Johan replied, nudging him under the table.

 

Arthit added, “No one else will be there. Just us.”

 

Daotok looked up slowly. “That sounds… intense.”

 

“Isn’t everything with us?” Arthit murmured.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They had seen big houses before.

 

They hadn’t seen this.

 

The kind of house with a gate that opened automatically when the car approached. The kind where the driveway curved dramatically through a manicured garden with sculptures and mood lighting. The kind of house that whispered old money and power with every stone tile.

 

North leaned forward in the backseat, eyes wide as Johan drove through. “Is this a hotel?”

 

“No,” Johan said, smirking. “That’s the guest house.”

 

Typhoon pressed a hand over his heart. “I’m not mentally prepared.”

 

Easter, in Hill’s car, stared up at the chandelier visible from the front door. “I should’ve worn a crown.”

 

Daotok, stepping out with Arthit behind him, took one look at the ivy-covered arches and whispered, “I don’t belong here.”

 

Arthit leaned close. “You belong with me here.”

 

Inside, the foyer was all polished stone and warm light. A staff member in a pressed uniform greeted them with a bow and asked, “Would you like us to make pizzas for the movie? Or would you prefer the tapas selection from the pool bar?”

 

The ducklings stood frozen.

 

“Pizza, please,” Typhoon managed. “And maybe… a soda?”

 

The staff member smiled politely. “Of course. Housemade cola or imported?”

 

Typhoon turned around and mouthed, Housemade??

 

It was more like a private cinema than a “room.”

 

Plush carpet. Mood lighting in soft gold and midnight blue. A massive projector screen lowered automatically with a gentle hum. The chairs weren’t just chairs,  they were oversized recliners in pairs, set in staggered rows. Each pair had their own little table, blanket, and privacy divider. This was not a room built for watching in groups. This was a room built for being alone together.

 

Tonfah walked ahead, casual like he hadn’t grown up in this exact decadence.

 

As the younger stood frozen in awe, the rest… moved.

 

Like they’d planned it.

 

Johan touched North’s back and subtly steered him toward a seat at the far corner, dimmer light, more privacy. North followed like he was hypnotized, barely noticing when Johan pulled the plush blanket over both their laps.

 

Hill grabbed Easter’s hand without comment, pulled him to the second row, and tossed his jacket over the back of the seat like he owned the world. “Sit,” he said, gesturing. “I want to see your reaction to the opening shot.”

 

Easter blinked. “You want to see—?”

 

“Your face. Lights down in ten.”

 

Typhoon had just barely stepped over the threshold before Tonfah had an arm around his waist, steering him to the middle section, directly under the ceiling stars. “Best acoustics here,” Tonfah murmured. “Also the best place to kiss someone and pretend it was the movie’s fault.”

 

Typhoon looked scandalized. “We haven’t even started the opening credits—”

 

“Never too early to plan ahead,” Tonfah said, already reclining his seat and patting the one next to it.

 

Daotok was about to sit in the front row nervously, like he was staying out of the way when Arthit caught his wrist and pulled him back gently. “Back here.”

 

“There?”

 

“Next to me. Always next to me.”

 

Daotok raised an eyebrow. “Is this a dominance thing?”

 

“It’s a ‘my eyes don’t work unless you’re in them’ thing.”

 

Daotok flushed and sat. Arthit didn’t even smirk. He just leaned back like the world had aligned.

 

 

 

 

By the time the movie started, the younger boys were still adjusting to the chairs, the entire situation. But they were warm, settled, and despite themselves,  impossibly close to the people they’d spent two weeks trying to avoid.

 

About forty minutes into the film, Typhoon wasn’t following the plot anymore.

 

Not really.

 

He was hyperaware of how close Tonfah was sitting beside him. Of the fact that their legs had somehow aligned. That Tonfah’s fingers had been idly playing with the edge of the shared blanket  brushing Typhoon’s wrist, then his knuckles, then just… staying there.

 

Typhoon had stopped breathing somewhere around minute thirty-two.

 

And then—

 

“I’m not watching the movie,” Tonfah whispered, low enough that only Typhoon could hear. “I’m watching you.”

 

Typhoon turned his head, slowly.

 

“Why?” he whispered back, because his mouth was ahead of his common sense.

 

“You’re more interesting.”

 

Typhoon tried to scoff, but it came out too breathless. “You don’t even know me.”

 

Tonfah leaned closer, his voice all silk and steady. “I’m trying to.”

 

And then,  without a single ounce of hesitation,  he reached up and gently cupped Typhoon’s cheek.

 

Typhoon froze.

 

The screen flickered in front of them, cool light, rising tension in the movie, muffled soundtrack of footsteps and violins.

 

But Tonfah was still. Intent.

 

And Typhoon didn’t pull away.

 

Didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t even blink.

 

He whispered, “Are you seriously about to—?”

 

And that was it.

 

Tonfah leaned in and kissed him.

 

Soft. Like a secret.

 

Not rushed, not greedy. Just a quiet press of mouths, gentle and slow, like he was giving Typhoon time to change his mind.

 

Typhoon did not change his mind.

 

In fact, he leaned into it.

 

Eyes fluttered shut. One hand caught Tonfah’s wrist. Just lightly. Like grounding. Like proof.

 

Somewhere behind them, Johan nudged North and tilted his chin toward the scene unfolding two rows down.

 

North blinked.

 

Then blinked again.

 

He covered his mouth with both hands, turning toward Johan in wide-eyed, silent oh my god-shaped panic.

 

Johan, of course, just looked smug. “Finally,” he murmured.

 

Typhoon and Tonfah pulled apart, breath warm between them.

 

Typhoon looked dazed. Tonfah looked dangerously satisfied.

 

“…So,” Typhoon whispered, trying to smile. “Do we rewind the movie or just give up pretending?”

 

Tonfah’s answer was another kiss. This one longer. A little deeper. A little more like a promise.

 

From the back row, North buried his face in Johan’s shoulder. “We are never letting them live this down.”

 

Johan kissed the top of his curls. “Agreed.”

 

And the movie kept playing.

 

 

 

 

 

It got late.

 

Two movies later,  the credits rolled. The lights stayed dim. The best friends were still coming down from their adrenaline highs, soft with sleepiness, hyper with emotion, all tangled up in each other’s stolen glances.

 

They were walked to the cars like precious cargo. Three cars pulled away into the quiet night.

 

Hill’s didn’t.

Hill didn’t speak. He just sat there in the quiet hum of the idling car, eyes fixed forward. Then, slowly, he turned to Easter — gaze low, unreadable.

 

Easter had only just turned to ask something when Hill leaned in.

 

No warning. No hesitation.

 

Just a firm hand at the back of Easter’s neck and the kind of kiss that made a point,  slow but unshakable, heat wrapped in control. The kind that said you’ve been driving me crazy and now I’m doing something about it.

 

Easter froze for a second, lips parted in surprise, heart in free fall.

 

Then his hand rose, not to stop him, not to push him away, but to fist quietly in the seatbelt stretched across his chest. His eyes fluttered closed as he kissed Hill back, slower, deeper, like he’d forgotten how to breathe any other way.

 

Outside the car, the night was quiet. Inside, the only sound was the low click of Hill’s thumb grazing along Easter’s jaw.

 

When they finally pulled apart, both of them still leaning in, Hill’s voice was low and warm.

 

“Now we can go.”

 

Easter stared at him, lips still parted, breath caught halfway to spoken thought.

 

“…Right,” he managed finally, like his brain had just rebooted. “Right.”

 

He turned back toward the road, face flushed and hands completely useless in his lap.

 

Hill shifted into gear, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

 

They didn’t say another word the whole drive back but the silence felt nothing like before.

 

It felt like something had started.

 

And neither of them were planning to stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back at the apartment.

 

Shoes off. Lights on. Daotok immediately went to the fridge for sparkling water like nothing happened. North collapsed across the couch in dramatic silence. Typhoon was still vibrating. Easter looked like he’d witnessed a divine being.

 

Then North sat up slowly, gaze narrowing.

 

“…You,” he said, pointing at Typhoon.

 

Typhoon blinked. “What.”

 

“You kissed him.” North grinned. “Don’t even deny it. I saw the way Tonfah looked at you like you were dessert and then—boom! Movie rated R!”

 

“North!” Typhoon groaned, throwing a cushion at his face. “That was supposed to be private!”

 

“Oh, no no no. We were in the same room, babe. That’s public domain.”

 

Daotok gasped and clutched his drink. “Wait, what?! He kissed you?! In the chair?! During the movie?!”

 

“Yes,” Typhoon muttered, blushing furiously. “And I would like to die now, thanks.”

 

North wagged his brows. “Honestly, it was kind of romantic.”

 

Then Easter wandered in, still in a daze, still touching his lips like they’d been stamped.

 

North narrowed his eyes. “Easter.”

 

“…Yeah?”

 

North pointed. “You look like you just got kissed under a meteor shower.”

 

Typhoon gasped. “Did you kiss Hill?!”

 

Easter blinked at them. Then slowly… nodded.

 

Daotok screamed.

 

“THIS IS A CONSPIRACY,” he declared. “WHY IS EVERYONE KISSING THESE MEN WHO LOOK LIKE MOB BOSSES AND DRIVE CARS THAT COST MORE THAN OUR ENTIRE FLOOR?”

 

North looked smug. “Manifestation, darling.”

 

Typhoon threw himself onto the couch. “I’m deleting all our dating apps. What’s the point.”

 

Daotok was still pacing. “You’re all going to be matching in leather jackets next week. I just know it.”

 

Easter collapsed into the armchair with a sigh. “He said ‘Now we can go’ like it was a damn action movie line. What was I supposed to do?”

 

North raised his glass like a toast. “Fall in love. Obviously.”

 

They all groaned.

 

But none of them stopped smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The older boys were at Johan’s place, sprawled across the sunken leather couches, dim lights casting gold over whiskey glasses and half-buttoned shirts.

 

Johan sipped his drink and dropped it casually, “North almost kissed me when I fixed his seatbelt. It was close. He blinked too slow.”

 

Tonfah raised an eyebrow. “Did he lean in?”

 

“He swayed,” Johan said, unbothered. “And then bit his lip like a damn cliffhanger.”

 

Arthit let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

 

Hill, still wearing his usual blank expression, tapped his glass on the table once. “I kissed Easter.”

 

Three heads turned at once.

 

Johan blinked. “And you’re just saying that now?”

 

Hill shrugged, like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “Seemed relevant.”

 

Tonfah laughed. “You dark horse.”

 

Arthit tilted his head, grinning faintly. “I was gonna make a move tonight too. But Dao leaned against my arm halfway through the movie and I blacked out.”

 

“I’m surprised you didn’t kiss him right there,” Tonfah said.

 

“I was frozen. Like a ghost touched me. He smelled like oranges.”

 

Tonfah snorted, then added smugly, “Well, Typhoon and I  kissed too.”

 

Now all heads turned again.

 

 

Tonfah sipped slowly. “Mm-hm. Twice. I’m undefeated.”

 

Hill muttered, “Show-off.”

 

Johan leaned back, lips quirking. “We’re all in trouble.”

 

Arthit chuckled. “Good.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The group chat had agreed: café run before sunset, something sweet to reward the chaos of the week. The café just off campus,  a place with cold brew, pastel pastries, and enough space to pretend they weren’t a very intimidating group of eight.

 

 

 

The sun was starting to set low and gold, streaking light across the wide walkways and old trees that framed the engineering building. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves. Campus had thinned out, but not completely.

 

North sat on a stone bench just off the path, one leg crossed over the other, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand, sunglasses pushed into his curls. He was laughing at something Johan said,  half-annoyed, half-charmed, like always.

 

Johan sat beside him, one arm stretched across the back of the bench, completely relaxed. Or pretending to be.

 

“You’re staring again,” North muttered, not looking at him.

 

“I know.”

 

North gave him a side glance. “What now?”

 

Johan tilted his head, eyes fixed on him. “Just thinking.”

 

“That’s dangerous.”

 

Johan didn’t respond  just kept looking, gaze low and steady and far too intense for a university courtyard.

 

North shifted. “You’re being weird.”

 

And that’s when Johan leaned in and kissed him.

 

No warning. No smirk. No tension-building silence. Just a kiss,  full and sure and devastatingly easy.

 

For a second, North forgot how to breathe.

 

He pulled back half a breath later, blinking. “You just—! On campus?” he hissed, eyes darting around. “There are people, you maniac—”

 

Johan was still close. Still calm. “I know.”

 

“You can’t just do that.”

 

“You kissed me back.”

 

“I panicked!”

 

Johan’s smirk curled slow. “You taste like mango.”

 

North made a strangled noise. “I will push you off this bench.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

“Try me.”

 

They didn’t notice the passing glances, or the way two architecture students across the walkway elbowed each other. Johan’s gaze never left North.

 

“Do it again,” North muttered finally.

 

And Johan did.

 

Right there in the open, like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

 

 

 

 

The studio was almost empty.

 

Golden light spilled in through the high windows, catching on the edges of scattered papers and art supplies. The silence was peaceful, soft,  the kind that settled into your bones.

 

Arthit sat on the edge of a drafting table, legs crossed, jacket folded over his knee. He wasn’t speaking, just watching Daotok from beneath lowered lashes. Still. Patient.

 

Daotok was zipping up his sketchbook pouch, movements neat and practiced, pretending not to feel Arthit’s eyes on him. His fingers moved slower than usual. His breath caught more often.

 

“You done?” Arthit asked, voice low and calm.

 

Daotok nodded. “Almost.”

 

But he didn’t move.

 

Arthit slid off the table, boots quiet against the floor. He stepped forward slowly, until they were just a breath apart, close enough for Daotok to feel the warmth off his chest, the scent of his cologne.

 

Daotok glanced up. “You’re staring.”

 

“I know.”

 

“That’s not subtle.”

 

“I’m not trying to be.”

 

Daotok licked his bottom lip without thinking  and Arthit’s gaze dropped to follow it.

 

The air went still.

 

And then, Arthit leaned in,  not with the reckless confidence of someone who wanted a reaction, but the quiet steadiness of someone who meant it.

 

The kiss was soft at first. Careful.

 

His hand hovered near Daotok’s jaw, not touching, not yet  like he was giving him space to pull away. But Daotok didn’t. He leaned in instinctively, one hand gripping the edge of the table behind him.

 

The second kiss came slower. Firmer. Less question, more answer.

 

Daotok’s lips parted on a breath, fingers twitching slightly against Arthit’s shirt like he didn’t know what to hold on to. The kiss deepened  a gentle pressure, a pause, a quiet exhale shared between them.

 

And then Arthit’s hand rose  just enough to cradle the side of Daotok’s neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

 

Daotok shivered.

 

When they finally broke apart, Arthit didn’t move far. His forehead hovered near Daotok’s. His thumb traced one soft curve of cheekbone. And his voice was even softer than before.

 

“I’ve been waiting to do that for days.”

 

Daotok blinked at him, dazed. “You’re lucky I let you.”

 

“You didn’t exactly fight me.”

 

“Only because I wanted to.”

 

Arthit smirked. “Good.”

 

A beat.

 

Daotok’s gaze dropped to his lips again. “Do it again.”

 

This time, it was Daotok who leaned in and Arthit who let himself fall.

 

The studio faded around them. The half-zipped pouch, the golden hour light, the ticking clock all forgotten.

 

By the time they left to meet the others, Daotok’s hair was mussed slightly, and Arthit looked just a little too smug.

 

No one said anything.

 

But North gave Daotok a look.

 

And Daotok, for once, didn’t deny anything at all.

 

 

 

 

 

The café was one of those pretty, curated places tucked into the corner of an upscale side street  all warm wood, sunlight, and pastries behind glass. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and new beginnings.

 

The ducklings crowded the front display like kids in a bakery, eyes wide, fingers nearly smudging the glass.

 

“Should we get the almond tarts or the strawberry ones?” Easter asked, practically vibrating.

 

“All of them,” North said decisively.

 

“We’ll order,” Johan cut in smoothly from behind them. “You four go upstairs. Find a table.”

 

Hill nodded once, already pulling out his card. “We’ll bring everything up.”

 

“Wait—” Typhoon started.

 

Tonfah gently steered him toward the stairs. “Let us. You’ve done enough just showing up.”

 

Typhoon flushed.

 

The ducklings went glancing back once, sheepishly, as they climbed the narrow staircase to the mezzanine.

 

Upstairs was quiet. Cozy. Warm light spilled through the tall windows, catching the soft curve of mugs and the glint of a nearby chandelier. They settled into a corner booth surrounded by pillows and low chatter from other patrons.

 

Daotok was the first to break the silence.

 

“So… I kissed Arthit.”

 

Three heads whipped toward him.

 

“You what?” Easter gasped.

 

Daotok shrugged like it wasn’t still making his pulse race. “Just… in the studio. Before we left.”

 

“I knew something happened,” North said, grinning.

 

Easter threw a pillow at Daotok. “You liar. You said nothing the whole walk here!”

 

Daotok raised a brow. “I was processing.”

 

Typhoon laughed and leaned on his elbow. “Well, in that case—North?”

 

North sipped from a glass of water he’d snagged from the self-serve bar. “What?”

 

“You have a story too.”

 

North smirked, just a little. “Fine. Johan kissed me. On campus. No warning. In broad daylight.”

 

Screaming. Real and metaphorical.

 

Easter looked scandalized. “You two just let that happen?!”

 

Typhoon clutched his chest. “I swear we were all so set on avoiding them and now—”

 

“Now we’re comparing kiss stories like we’re in a coming-of-age indie film,” North said, laughing.

 

“It’s giving enemies to lovers,” Easter said.

 

They all laughed,  warm and easy and more comfortable than they’d felt in weeks.

 

But then—

 

“Hey, you four,” a voice said from nearby.

 

They turned.

 

Two guys- older, unfamiliar, the too-sure type, had sauntered up to their booth like they belonged there. Both had that frat-boy-on-a-gap-year confidence and matching smirks.

 

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” one said, “but sounds like we missed our chance.”

 

The other leaned in, resting a hand casually on the booth’s edge. “You all here alone?”

 

Typhoon blinked. “Does that work on people?”

 

Daotok didn’t even look at them. “Is this the part where you try to be charming or just persistent?”

 

“Hey, no need to get defensive,” the taller one said. “We just figured four cute guys like you might want company.”

 

North slowly raised an eyebrow. “That’s bold, considering we’re literally sitting here waiting for someone.”

 

“Didn’t see anyone with you,” the second guy said, grinning.

 

Easter leaned forward, voice light and sweet. “Right, because clearly the only possible explanation is that we’re tragically single and desperate for attention.”

 

Typhoon crossed his arms. “We’re not interested.”

 

North followed with a smooth, dry: “We have boyfriends.”

 

All four of them nodded at once, a perfect, sassy chorus.

 

“Serious ones,” Easter added. “Like, not hypothetical.”

 

“Sure you do,” one of the guys muttered, clearly not convinced.

 

And that’s when four shadows appeared at the top of the staircase.

 

Johan. Hill. Tonfah. Arthit.

 

Each with a tray. Each looking like they’d walked out of a luxury magazine and straight into the end of someone’s bad decision.

 

The two guys looked up. And stopped smiling.

 

Johan’s eyes were already on North, his jaw set. Hill didn’t even blink as he caught Easter’s gaze and then looked at the strangers like he was choosing between annoyed and lethal. Tonfah tilted his head just slightly,  no expression, just enough to chill the air. Arthit didn’t even try to hide the slow, evaluative sweep of his eyes over both men.

 

It was suddenly very quiet.

 

The guys muttered something, not quite an apology, but definitely a retreat, and backed away.

 

The boys didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just sat like saints.

 

Until the older boys reached the table.

 

Johan set North’s coffee down and slid into the seat beside him, calm as a resting lion.

Hill handed Easter his drink without looking at anyone else.

Tonfah took a slow sip of his own drink before placing Typhoon’s plate in front of him.

Arthit didn’t even say anything, he just gave Daotok a pastry and brushed their knees together under the table.

 

Still no one said anything about the “boyfriends” comment.

 

But the best friends were blushing like it’d been projected onto the café walls.

 

Fifteen minutes later, when conversation resumed and everyone had found their breath again, Easter turned toward Hill.

 

“Okay but… why didn’t any of you say anything about the boyfriend part?”

 

Johan barely looked up from buttering his scone.

 

“Why deny something that’s true?”

 

North made a noise like a dying animal.

 

“You’re the worst.”

 

Johan smirked. “But yours.”

 

And that was that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It had been a few months since the first café kisses, the movie nights, the awkward flirtation that no one could now imagine. Things had… settled.

 

Or, rather, intensified, quietly, comfortably, and undeniably.

 

The freshman boys were no longer flustered shadows trying to outrun the doctors to be. They were their partners now,  taken, spoiled, regularly picked up in luxury cars, and whispered about in every hallway.

 

People had stopped asking if they were dating. The hand-holding, matching water bottles, and the way the older boys hovered just close enough made it obvious. If Hill was seen waiting by the library steps, everyone knew Easter was inside. If someone caught Johan leaning against a tree, they knew North would appear in seconds.

 

Lunch periods were spent together. Study sessions somehow ended with someone pressed against someone else’s neck. There had been group dates, solo dates, and even a weekend trip to a beach house where, allegedly, nothing scandalous happened,  though the tan lines and smug smiles said otherwise.

 

They were official.

 

They were happy.

 

And then, just before the bell rang for afternoon lab, it happened. 

 

“Hey,” a voice purred.

 

They all looked up.

 

Sopha, fourth-year law, the social queen of the faculty,  sauntered toward them in her modified uniform (skirt shorter, heels higher, lip gloss lethal). She twirled a glossy black envelope between her fingers.

The younger boys smiled in sync.

 

“Hi, Sopha,” Easter said, sitting up straighter.

 

She grinned. “Hey, babes. Sorry to crash your dreamy lunch date vibe, but I come bearing an actual invitation.”

 

“You guys free Saturday?” she continued.

 

Easter narrowed his eyes playfully. “Why?”

 

“My birthday,” she said. “Theme is After Dark: Lace, Leather, and Lipstick.”

 

North choked on his water.

 

Typhoon went bright pink and immediately looked at Tonfah, who looked far too pleased.

 

“I’m renting out Eden’s rooftop lounge,” Sopha continued. “Live DJ, fire dancers, open bar, fog machines, the works. Midnight countdown and a dancefloor that’s gonna kill someone.”

 

Daotok blinked. “That’s… not casual.”

 

“It’s hot,” she corrected. “And I want you four there. Front and center. People will pass out.”

 

“We wear uniforms every day,” Easter mumbled. “How do you expect us to emotionally shift into lace and leather?”

 

“You’ll manage, I’ve see your instagram accounts.” She turned her gaze to the older boys, lounging beside them like personal security. “You’re all invited too, obviously. Bring the heat. Bring the drama. Just don’t start actual fights.”

 

Arthit tilted his head. “Can’t promise.”

 

Sopha winked. “Didn’t think you could.”

 

She handed the envelope to Easter and strutted off like she owned the building.

 

Silence.

 

Then:

 

North cleared his throat. “So… are we going?”

 

“I’m already mentally compiling outfits,” Easter said. “We’re going.”

 

Hill sipped his drink like he hadn’t just sent Easter spiraling with a single glance.

 

Johan simply looked at North. “You’d look good in black leather.”

 

North gave him a look. “You want me to combust again?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Daotok exhaled. “I don’t even dance.”

 

Arthit didn’t blink. “I’ll teach you.”

 

The envelope sat between them like a dare.

 

And just like that — the countdown to After Dark had officially begun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, the energy on their apartment was unhinged.

 

North had three pairs of boots lined up in the living room,  all black, all combat-grade. “I’m going to snap my ankle,” he said, adjusting his backless halter in the mirror for the sixth time. “But I’ll look hot doing it.”

 

“Good,” Easter called from the floor, where he was gently dusting his collarbones with highlighter. “Because we are not walking into that party like the cute underclassmen with hot boyfriends.”

 

“We’re walking in like we own the venue,” Typhoon declared, standing by the window in white lace and tailored white pants. His shirt was sheer and floral, open at the chest, and unfairly pretty. He turned. “Tell me I don’t look like a sexy angel who might commit arson.”

 

“You look incredible,” Daotok said, emerging from his room in a full dark navy set: sheer lace long-sleeve shirt, navy silk shorts, and sapphire earrings that shimmered under the light. His fingers were trembling slightly as he adjusted the rings on his hand.

 

Easter blinked. “You cannot be this fine and this mysterious. That’s illegal.”

 

Daotok smiled, almost shy. “…Thanks.”

 

North was still fixing the gloss on his mouth, his red leather pants practically painted on, boots tall and stompy. “Johan is going to crash his car when he sees me.”

 

Easter stood and finally shrugged into the jewel-beaded top, glittering black, sleeveless, cropped, and low in the back paired with those leather shorts and mid-calf boots that made him at least 10% more dangerous.

 

He glanced around. “Are we all clear on the plan?”

 

“We told them the color, not the outfit,” North replied. “Let them suffer.”

 

Daotok nodded. “Elegant. Cruel. I like it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their boyfriends, as always, arrived early to pick them up. Each one looked like a different brand of sin.

 

Johan wore a black tee and deep red jeans, rings still on, jacket slung over his shoulder like an afterthought. Hill had on a black button-down, mostly undone, silver chain catching the light. Tonfah showed up in white jeans and a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. Arthit kept it dark, navy tee, black jeans, denim jacket thrown on without trying.

They weren’t standing together, exactly. More like they were stalking different corners of the apartment entrance, leaning on their cars waiting on their boys.

 

“North’s late,” Johan said, glancing at his watch with no real irritation.

 

“He’s glossing,” Hill said, sipping his water.

 

“Are they going to be subtle, you think?” Arthit muttered, more hopeful than convinced.

 

Tonfah didn’t answer. He just blinked slowly like he was preparing for war.

 

And then—

Footsteps.

 

Confident. Measured. A beat, then another. Four silhouettes descending the stairs like the climax of a movie.

 

North came first, black halter top dipping low in the back, red leather pants hugging every sharp angle, and glossy black boots that somehow made him even taller. He didn’t walk,  he prowled.

 

Easter followed in his glittering black top, beaded and cropped and glowing under the chandelier. Paired with tight leather shorts and lips that shimmered gold, he looked like a pop star on the edge of violence.

 

Daotok was elegance incarnate, deep blue lace flowing over his shoulders, navy silk shorts revealing long legs, matching rings catching the light. His expression? Unreadable. Devastating.

 

Typhoon brought up the rear like a statement. White lace crop top, leading to ivory pants, hair pinned back, single earring flashing as he moved. He looked like someone you’d meet in a dream and never forget.

 

Their boyfriends? Wrecked.

 

Johan’s smirk turned slow and feral.

Tonfah actually swore under his breath.

Hill’s jaw tightened.

Arthit muttered “holy shit” like a prayer.

 

Johan pushed off the wall and met North halfway. “You’re trying to ruin me.”

 

North tilted his chin up. “Is it working?”

 

Johan leaned close. “You have no idea.”

 

Tonfah had not moved in thirty seconds. Typhoon leaned in. “You okay?”

 

“I’m in love,” Tonfah said, very seriously.

 

Hill looked Easter up and down like he was trying to memorize every bead. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“And yet,” Easter said, spinning slowly, “you’re obsessed.”

 

Hill didn’t deny it.

 

Arthit stared at Daotok for a long, breathless second before saying, “You wore that on purpose.”

 

Daotok raised a brow. “I told you blue.”

 

Arthit swallowed. “We’re leaving together.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

 

 

 

 

They loaded into their boyfriends’ cars, one pair per vehicle, music low, windows down just enough to catch the warm night air. No one said much on the ride. Not because there wasn’t anything to say  but because every glance, every subtle touch said enough.

 

When they arrived, the line outside the party was long, loud, already half-drunk and overstimulated. But the moment the eight of them stepped out, everything slowed.

 

Heads turned. Conversations paused. The kind of pause that crackled.

 

The Ducklings were fire and glitter and skin and silk. The Doctor Squad was gravity,  sharp edges, watchful eyes, unapproachable cool.

 

Someone whistled low. Someone else elbowed their friend. But before anyone could say a word, the older boys moved.

 

Johan’s arm wrapped around North’s waist like muscle memory. Hill placed a casual hand on Easter’s lower back. Tonfah pulled Typhoon close enough to speak in his ear. Arthit tucked two fingers into the waistband of Daotok’s shorts, holding on like he had no intention of letting go.

 

Together, they walked past the line.

 

Straight to VIP.

 

No questions. No resistance.

 

Inside, the music was pulsing  bass heavy, lights low, the kind of party that made people forget the outside world existed. The VIP section was slightly raised, sectioned off with soft lighting and bottle service. A perfect vantage point for people-watching or being watched.

 

Drinks arrived. The boys settled in.

 

North kicked his boots up on the seat. “They’re still staring.”

 

“Let them,” Johan murmured, handing him a drink.

 

Easter leaned into Hill’s side, smiling. “I feel powerful.”

 

“You are,” Hill said simply.

 

Daotok sipped something citrusy, perched beside Arthit. Typhoon had already pulled Tonfah onto the couch, fingers curled in his shirt, laughing into his shoulder.

 

The music got louder.

 

The lights dimmed.

 

And for the first time in a long time, none of them were thinking about school, or whispers, or how hard they’d tried to avoid this.

 

They were just there.

 

Together. Bold. Claimed.

 

And very much the center of the room.

They’d had a couple drinks by then. Not enough to forget their names,  just enough to forget to be shy.

 

Typhoon was the first to move.

 

“I want to dance,” he said suddenly, breathless, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard at something Daotok had mumbled.

 

North perked up. “God, yes. I’m not wearing red leather to sit.”

 

Easter slid off the couch, already moving to the beat. “Come on, before I start dancing on this table.”

 

Daotok drained the rest of his drink. “Let’s go.”

 

And with that, the four of them slipped past the velvet rope and into the heat of the crowd.

 

From the VIP lounge, their boyfriends watched, drinks in hand, expressions unreadable except for the way their eyes never left the dance floor.

 

Typhoon started it.  Mischievous, lace sleeves pushed up, one hand in Daotok’s and the other holding the hem of his mesh top as he moved his hips, laughing.

 

Easter twirled once, then dropped low in front of North, who grinned and mirrored him, the red leather pants clinging tight as he moved in rhythm. North pulled Easter up again and spun him straight into Daotok, who caught him with a small smile and swayed with him, slow and teasing.

 

Typhoon leaned back against North, hands in the air, hips rolling with the beat. North caught his waist instinctively, keeping him steady  only for Daotok to come up behind them both and grind a little, just to be a menace.

 

Easter watched it all, lips parted in amused awe, then decided he wanted in and grabbed Daotok’s hand, pulling him back into a messy, laughing group tangle like all four of them forgot who they were dating, just for fun.

 

Johan was holding his drink like it had personally offended him. “What the hell is North doing?”

 

Hill didn’t answer just took a slow sip of his whiskey while glaring at Easter like he could drag him back across the room with just his mind.

 

Arthit had sat forward, elbows on knees, mouth parted slightly in disbelief. “Is Daotok grinding on two of them at once?”

 

Tonfah stood frozen, hands on the railing. “I think I’m going to commit a crime.”

 

Down on the floor, the Ducklings were thriving.

 

They moved like they owned the place  like they were there to burn the night down, just the four of them. Heat rolled off their skin, cheeks flushed from dancing, from the rush, from being watched.

 

They knew.

 

They absolutely knew.

 

At one point, North turned to face the VIP section, smirked, and slid his hand down Typhoon’s back purely to be evil.

 

Easter followed his gaze and blew a kiss directly at Hill, who didn’t react just set his glass down and stood like a man going to war.

 

“I’ve had enough,” Johan muttered.

 

“Same,” Tonfah said, already heading for the stairs.

 

Easter caught sight of them moving and elbowed Daotok. “Oh no.”

 

“Oh yes,” Daotok replied, still smiling.

 

“You think they’re mad?” Typhoon asked, breathless.

 

“No,” North said, lips curling. “Just possessive.”

 

And they were right.

 

The moment their boyfriends joined the floor, the energy shifted. No hesitation. No waiting for an invite.

 

Tonfah’s hands landed on Typhoon’s waist and pulled him close, slow and steady.

 

Arthit stepped behind Daotok, one hand grazing the lace on his shoulder, breath brushing his ear. Daotok leaned back without a word.

 

Hill found Easter mid-spin and caught his wrist, pulling him in with one hand around his lower back like they’d rehearsed it.

 

And Johan … Johan didn’t even blink. He found North, caught his hand, and spun him into his chest. The red leather creaked. The backless top shimmered. Johan’s mouth was right there.

 

The Ducklings didn’t stop smiling, they just smiled differently now.

 

Less teasing.

 

More caught.

 

They danced like the world was shrinking. Just the eight of them, orbiting each other in time with the beat.

 

And maybe they’d wanted to prove a point.

 

Maybe they had.

 

But by the time the chorus hit again and four pairs were pressed impossibly close, no one cared about the stares anymore.

 

It was clear — from the way they moved, touched, looked —

 

They’d already chosen each other.

 

And they weren’t sharing.

Chapter 18: Rain then Sunshine ✨ (Arthit x Daotok)

Notes:

Hey hey hey 👋

I’m popping in because I realized it’s been a week since my last update. Things has been hectic with moving and me feeling demotivated with life because of lack of success with this job search. I just have to tell myself things will work out. 😤 but this is my first ABO storyline and I hope you enjoy.

 

Request from @SyubChim27 🤍 enjoy

 

Prompt: Daotok is an omega who runs away from home after finding out his parents plans for him. On the streets be meets Easter who brings sunshine back into his days.

The rain had soaked through his only coat before midnight.

 

Daotok clutched the fraying hood tighter around his face, breath fogging the air in front of him, each step heavier than the last. His shoes were ruined, soles thin and soaked, and his fingers ached from cold and exhaustion. But he didn’t stop.

 

Because he knew what was waiting if he turned back.

 

An omega like him, young, unmated, scent unmarked, had value. In his parents’ eyes, only value. They didn’t say it outright, not at first. But the whispers came. The deals behind closed doors. The way they looked at his body, not like a person, but a means to escape poverty.

 

He heard the word broodmare once.

 

And that was when he ran.

 

 

 

One Week Earlier

 

Daotok wasn’t supposed to be home that afternoon.

 

The university trip had ended early, and he’d taken a shortcut from the train station, still in his uniform, hair wind-tousled, earbuds half in. The front gate was ajar. That should have been his first clue.

 

He stepped into the courtyard quietly, noticing an unfamiliar black car parked near the walkway. Tension prickled in the air something too still, too rehearsed.

 

He heard voices from the living room.

 

Male voices. Not his father’s.

 

He crept closer, back pressed to the hallway wall.

 

“…healthy and still unmated,” one of the strangers was saying, voice too calm. “That’s rare these days. Especially with a scent like his.”

 

A pause.

 

Daotok’s mother laughed, brittle and awkward. “He doesn’t know yet. But he’ll do what he’s told.”

 

Daotok froze.

 

“You’ll receive the rest after his first confirmed heat. He stays in our facility until then.”

 

Facility?

 

“We want to induce as soon as possible,” another man added. “Fertility protocol’s been prepped. Assuming he’s still untouched, there shouldn’t be complications.”

 

“That won’t be a problem,” his father said flatly.

 

Daotok couldn’t breathe.

 

“Just keep him out of sight until we transport him,” the first man continued. “It’s cleaner that way.”

 

His mother said nothing this time.

 

Just the sound of a bag being zipped.

 

Money.

 

Daotok didn’t wait.

 

He turned and ran, tearing out of the house like something was chasing him because something was. Not a person. Not a beast.

 

A future with no choices. No name. No self.

 

He didn’t pack. Didn’t say goodbye.

 

He just ran.

 

It had been a week since he ran.

 

Since the word broodmare slipped past his mother’s lips like it was nothing.

 

It rained nearly everyday those seven days, his coat was ruined, fingers numb, scent buried so deep it made his head throb. He hadn’t eaten in two days. Every alley he curled into, every corner he tried to rest in, someone came by too curious, too close. An unclaimed omega on the street didn’t stay safe for long.

 

He knew that. He also knew he had nowhere else to go.

 

That afternoon, hunger pushed him behind a bakery, where he dug through a cracked bin behind the fence. Half-eaten buns. A crushed plastic bag of rice. He was on his knees, one hand deep inside the trash, when someone spoke.

 

“You really don’t have to do that.”

 

Daotok jerked upright, filthy sleeve raised in defense.

 

The boy standing there took a step back,  hands empty, voice calm. He was young. Slightly shorter. Soft brown curls, a gentle scent in the cold air. Omega.

 

“I’m not stealing,” Daotok said hoarsely.

 

“I know. That’s why I brought food.”

 

The boy,  hoodie, worn sneakers, canvas bag over one shoulder, crouched slowly and pulled out a sandwich and a water bottle. He set them on a crate nearby.

 

“I’m Easter,” he said, then added, “Well, most people call me Ter. You can pick.”

 

Daotok said nothing.

 

“I saw you yesterday. Didn’t want to scare you off, but… it’s cold as hell, and you look like you might pass out.”

 

Daotok’s stomach growled before he could answer.

 

Still, he didn’t move.

 

“I’m an omega too,” Ter added gently. “No tricks. Just food. Do what you want.”

 

Then he stood and backed off, walking away without another word.

 

Daotok didn’t trust him. Not right away.

 

But he waited ten minutes, checked the alley three times, and when no one returned, he took the sandwich with both hands and ate like he was drowning.

 

 

That night, Ter came back.

 

“You stayed,” he said softly, holding out two paper cups. “Figured you might want tea.”

 

Daotok blinked at him, wary.

 

“You smell like citrus and gardenia,” Ter added with a small smile. “Pretty.”

 

“Stop smelling me,” Daotok snapped, panicked.

 

“Hey, hey,” Ter said quickly, setting the cups down. “I’m not trying to scare you. Just thought it might be nice not to be invisible.”

 

Daotok didn’t answer.

 

He just stared at the cup for a long time.

 

Eventually, he reached for it.

 

It burned his hands a little.

 

But for the first time in a week, he felt something close to warmth.

 

 

Over the next two days, Easter came back like clockwork.

 

Once in the morning with breakfast,  warm buns, sweet soy milk, sometimes boiled eggs tucked into paper. Then again around sunset, with something heavier: noodles, soup in a thermos, rice and stir-fry in a takeaway box with the plastic seal still on.

 

He never stayed long. Just left the food nearby, sat if Daotok let him, talked if Daotok didn’t stop him.

 

He didn’t ask questions, either. Not about Daotok’s name. Not why he was on the street. Not what he was running from.

 

Only, once, on the second night, when Daotok accepted a bowl of hot soup with shaking hands, did Easter say, softly, “You know, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you ever want to, I’ll listen.”

 

Daotok didn’t answer. But he didn’t push him away, either.

 

That was something.

 

 

 

The third night, the sky turned the color of bruises.

 

Thunder rolled low in the distance as Easter jogged into the alley, hoodie already damp, umbrella swinging at his side.

 

“Hey,” he said, crouching beside Daotok’s makeshift shelter under the broken awning. “The forecast’s bad tonight. Real bad. They’re saying flash floods in some districts.”

 

Daotok didn’t look up. His hands were wrapped in the sleeves of his coat, body curled tight against the wind.

 

“I brought soup again,” Easter tried, setting the thermos down. “But it’s going to pour in an hour. I don’t think this place will hold.”

 

Still no answer.

 

Easter exhaled slowly, kneeling to eye level. “Come with me.”

 

Daotok flinched. “No.”

 

“Just for tonight,” Easter said. “No pressure. No weirdness. I have an extra room. You’d be safe.”

 

“I don’t trust you,” Daotok muttered.

 

“I know.” Easter’s voice didn’t waver. “But I haven’t done anything to hurt you. And you’re not safe here. Not in that coat. Not in this weather.”

 

Daotok hesitated.

 

Lightning lit the sky behind him. The wind picked up, sharp and cold, slapping rain against the alley walls.

 

Easter stood and held out his umbrella. “At least walk with me to the car until you decide. You can turn around anytime.”

 

Daotok stared at the offered hand, then at the sky.

 

Another crack of thunder. This one closer.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

And stood up.

 

He didn’t take Easter’s hand. But he followed him out of the alley.

 

 

The rain had started by the time they reached the main road,  fat, cold drops that pattered against the umbrella and soaked through Daotok’s worn shoes.

 

Easter walked beside him in silence at first. Not too close, not too fast. Just steady steps and the soft sound of their feet on wet pavement.

 

It was a long silence before Easter spoke again.

 

“I should probably tell you,” he said gently, “I don’t live alone.”

 

Daotok stiffened.

 

“I share a house. Big one — modern, too many windows. It’s a pack house.”

 

Daotok’s eyes narrowed. “A real pack?”

 

“Yeah. Registered and everything. I’m the youngest. We’re a weird mix, not all alphas or anything. Just… people who take care of each other.”

 

Daotok didn’t say anything, but his footsteps slowed.

 

Easter glanced at him. “You don’t have to stay long. Just tonight, okay? I’ll keep you away from everyone else until you’re ready.”

 

A pause.

 

“You’ll like North,” Easter added after a beat, tone lighter. “He’s a beta. Kinda sarcastic, but he makes really good tea. And he’s nosy, but in a way that makes you feel safe.”

 

Daotok gave him a look. “You’re trying too hard.”

 

“I know,” Easter admitted with a faint laugh. “But I want you to know who’s on the other side of this walk.”

 

He kept going, voice quieter. “Typhoon’s another omega, like us. He’s sharp like, dangerously smart. And dramatic. You’ll hear him before you see him.”

 

That earned a blink from Daotok, but no comment.

 

“And then the alphas,” Easter went on. “Johan’s our pack leader and North’s mate. He’s… intense. But he’s steady. Safe. He doesn’t talk unless it matters.”

 

Daotok glanced sideways. “…And the others?”

 

“Arthit is the flirty one but has a big heart. Hill is my mate and Johan’s right hand. Tonfah is the polite one who could still kill you with a look.”

 

Daotok frowned. “You’re not really selling this.”

 

Easter smiled. “They’re better than they sound. You’ll see.”

 

Another pause. Then, more gently: “They’re good to omegas. They’re good to me.”

 

The rain picked up as they turned a corner. Ahead, a wide house sat under the trees, lights glowing through the windows like a promise.

 

Daotok’s throat tightened.

 

Easter noticed. “You okay?”

 

“…Don’t make me regret this,” Daotok said, voice barely above the wind.

 

“I won’t.”

 

They didn’t speak again as they crossed the street.

 

But for the first time in days, Daotok felt the smallest flicker of something warm in his chest.

 

Not trust. Not yet.

 

But maybe the beginning of it.

 

 

 

 

 

The drive wasn’t long, but it felt endless.

 

Daotok kept his back pressed to the passenger seat, damp coat bundled around him despite the heater humming gently. The car smelled faintly of lemon and daisies, Easter’s scent, calm and grounding,  but Daotok didn’t let himself relax.

 

Not yet.

 

“They won’t crowd you,” Easter said as they turned up the hill. “I made that clear.”

 

Daotok didn’t respond. Just stared out the window as the house came into view.

 

Easter parked beneath the overhang and turned off the engine.

 

“Ready?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s okay.”

 

They stepped out into the wet night. Daotok’s shoes squelched with every step. He kept his hood up. Kept his eyes low.

 

But he still felt them, the moment the front door opened.

 

One by one, they appeared in the doorway. Six figures, tall and shadowed against the hall light. None of them spoke.

 

Daotok froze on the steps.

 

“This is him,” Easter said simply, pulling off his coat and shaking it out.

 

The first to step forward was a tall beta with slightly chubby cheeks and unimpressed eyes — black sweats, oversized hoodie, mug in hand. “You brought home a stray.”

 

“North,” Easter warned.

 

North raised an eyebrow. “What? I’m being nice. He looks better than you did.”

 

That earned the faintest twitch of Daotok’s mouth.

 

The next voice was smooth and deep. “You should come in before you freeze.”

 

Johan. Alpha. The weight of his scent rolled across the porch like heat from a furnace  not demanding, just impossible to ignore.

 

Daotok flinched instinctively.

 

Johan’s face didn’t change, but he stepped back, giving him space.

 

Another figure followed  blazer, white shirt, no tie. Tonfah, clearly. He gave a small wave and an easy smile. “No one’s gonna bite. Unless you want them to.”

 

“Tone it down,” Hill muttered behind him.

 

Daotok looked up just enough to meet Hill’s eyes  cool, and locked on him like he was solving a puzzle.

 

Then came Typhoon, peeking from behind the others with dyed curls and sleep shorts. “Hi,” he said softly. “We made you soup.”

 

“And Arthit helped,” North added. “Which means it’s edible.”

 

“More than,” Arthit said dryly, stepping forward. He was dressed neatly despite the hour sleeves rolled, hair tucked back. His gaze was gentler than the rest. A quiet kind of sharp.

 

Daotok couldn’t move.

 

He stood dripping on the step, shoulders tight, heart hammering.

 

Johan finally spoke again. “You don’t have to stay.”

 

Easter opened his mouth to protest, but Johan cut him a glance  not unkind. Just steady.

 

“But if you do,” Johan continued, “this house is yours too. No one touches you. No one questions where you came from. You set the pace.”

 

The words landed like a blanket.

 

And something, not trust, not yet, but something settled in Daotok’s chest.

 

He stepped inside.

 

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It took time.

 

Daotok didn’t speak much the first week. He kept his distance, ate quietly at the kitchen island, slept in the guest room closest to the back door. He still flinched at sudden sounds. Still paused at every open door, like he expected someone to block the way out.

 

But no one pushed.

 

Typhoon left cups of hot tea outside his door in the morning. North offered him playlists with no lyrics. Tonfah joked like Daotok had always been around. Hill silently handed over a blanket on the first cold morning, no explanation needed. Johan only asked questions Daotok could say no to.

 

And Easter stayed close, always. A quiet anchor.

 

It wasn’t until the second week that Daotok started sitting in the living room during dinner.

 

Third week, he started cooking rice for everyone in the mornings.

 

By the fourth week, he laughed,  small, quick, surprised,  when Tonfah dropped a bat trying to scare the delivery guy and hit himself in the face.

 

The room went still when they heard it.

 

But no one mentioned it. They just let it be.

 

And Arthit… Arthit noticed everything.

 

He never hovered. Never inserted himself. But Daotok could feel his eyes sometimes, trailing him with a careful sort of patience  not watching to see what he’d do wrong, but waiting for something more delicate.

 

Like scent.

 

Because the moment Daotok relaxed, the first time his scent softened without fear, Arthit caught it, sweet and cool, like early morning rain in spring.

 

It hit him like a blow to the chest.

 

From that day on, Arthit brought Daotok flowers for the kitchen table. Not loud, store-bought ones. Wild ones. Strange little buds he picked on his walk back from campus. Sometimes with a note. Sometimes not.

 

The others noticed.

 

But no one teased.

 

Because the way Daotok started smiling,  just a little, just for Arthit, was reason enough to stay quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

It had been over a month since Daotok moved in.

The rainstorm had passed. Internally and physically. 

 

it was sunny outside and Daotok felt warm inside. 

A month of peace he didn’t quite trust. Of warmth he was still learning how to hold.

 

 

And Arthit had been there through all of it, never loud, never demanding, always steady.

 

He brought Daotok tea in the mornings and walked beside him on cool evenings. He left space when Daotok needed it and filled the silences with quiet comfort when Daotok didn’t. He didn’t push. He didn’t press.

 

But he looked at Daotok like he was something sacred.

 

And Daotok noticed.

 

He noticed every time.

 

 

 

That night, it was quiet again.

 

Most of the pack had gone to bed. Easter was curled up on the couch with a heating pad and a gossip show. Outside, the sky was a rich navy, streaked with the last traces of lavender.

 

Daotok sat on the back steps of the pack house, wrapped in one of Johan’s old blankets, sipping from a mug of lavender milk.

 

Arthit stepped outside a few minutes later. Not loud. Just there.

 

He didn’t sit right away  just looked at Daotok with that same calm intensity.

 

“…You’re staring,” Daotok murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.

 

“I know.”

 

A pause.

 

Then, softly: “Can I sit?”

 

Daotok nodded.

 

Arthit lowered himself beside him, close but not touching. “I didn’t want to say this until I was sure.”

 

Daotok’s hands tightened around the mug.

 

Arthit continued, voice low and even. “I’ve been thinking about you since the moment you walked in. About how you carry silence like armor. How you flinch at kindness but never back away from it. How you still say thank you like it’s something dangerous.”

 

Daotok said nothing, heart in his throat.

 

“I know you’ve been hurt,” Arthit said. “And I know what it means to offer yourself to someone when people have only ever taken.”

 

Daotok looked down. His fingers trembled slightly.

 

Arthit didn’t touch him. He just sat there, gaze steady. “So I want to be clear.”

 

Deep breath.

 

“I want to court you — properly. Not because you’re an omega. Not because I think I have a right. But because I admire you. I like you. And if you’ll let me, I want to make you feel wanted in all the right ways. For as long as it takes.”

 

The silence that followed was long.

 

Then Daotok turned, slowly.

 

His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, lip caught between his teeth. But his voice was steady when he spoke.

 

“…You already do.”

 

Arthit’s eyes softened  something fond and wrecked blooming behind them. “Then…?”

 

Daotok set his mug down and leaned forward just slightly, forehead brushing Arthit’s shoulder. “You can keep courting me,” he whispered.

 

A breath. “But you’re already mine.”

 

Arthit closed his eyes, just for a moment.

 

When he opened them again, he was smiling.

 

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Chapter 19: Maybe a night out? 🤍 (All Couples)

Notes:

Hi guys it been a while, I recently moved so I have been sorting that out. I have been in the new place for a little over a week but I had some issues with the WI-FI but that got fixed yesterday. I’ve been busy and still a little demotivated with everything because of the job search but I am going to try and post more of ten like before. Here a little treat for you guys ENJOY *kisses*

Thursday – Café, Lunch Break

 

The café down the street from campus had become the ducklings’ unofficial headquarters. Small, always buzzing, with just enough space in the corner booth for all four of them to squeeze in.

 

“I need a night out,” Typhoon announced dramatically, head dropping against the table. “If I go home after class one more time, I’ll dissolve.”

 

Easter sipped his iced coffee. “You’re already halfway there. Look at you.”

 

“Rude.”

 

Daotok, ever quieter, stirred his drink with his straw. “We could go Saturday?”

 

North perked up at that. “Yes. We deserve it. A proper club night.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Matching outfits, coordinated arrival, the works.”

 

Typhoon immediately raised a hand. “But not—like—slutty. Last time, Hill thought I was going to a mafia meeting.”

 

Easter grinned. “Let’s just keep it fun. Something casual-hot.”

 

Daotok looked thoughtful. “We’ll meet at Johan’s, right? It’s closest to the bar.”

 

“Exactly,” North said, tapping the table decisively. “We’ll pre-game at mine, hype each other up, then head out.”

 

Typhoon finally sat up, energized by the idea. “Okay, fine. But if we end up stuck at yours just watching movies again, I’m blaming all of you.”

 

“Deal,” Easter said, clinking his straw against Daotok’s glass.

 

They all laughed, a little too tired already but buzzing at the thought of Saturday.

 

 

 

Saturday Evening – Johan & North’s Condo

 

 

 

 

By the time Saturday rolled around, the ducklings were already dragging their feet.

 

Classes, assignments, and late nights had stacked up until all four of them were running on fumes. But when they met for a late dinner before heading to North and Johan’s place, the designated pre-club gathering spot, none of them wanted to be the one to cancel.

 

“Okay, hear me out,” North said, yawning as he unlocked Johan’s condo door. “We get ready here, we hype ourselves up, and then we go. Energy is contagious.”

 

Easter made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Your confidence is louder than my willpower right now.”

 

“Same,” Daotok admitted, slipping off his shoes as he stepped inside.

 

Typhoon set his bag down and immediately collapsed onto Johan’s wide couch. “We’ll wake up once the music’s blasting, promise.”

 

But instead of blasting music, North queued up a movie on low volume, more for background noise than anything. Easter curled on one end of the couch, Daotok took the other, and Typhoon stretched across the middle like a cat in lace. North busied himself in the kitchen grabbing drinks, but when he returned, he found all three in various states of dozing.

 

“…This doesn’t look like pre-gaming,” he muttered.

 

“Shhh,” Easter said sleepily, eyes barely open. “This is… tactical resting.”

 

Within half an hour, they’d rearranged themselves into a little sprawl: Easter on the couch, Typhoon curled against him, Daotok on a pile of blankets on the floor, North leaning back with his phone in hand but his head starting to dip. The movie played on, ignored.

 

They never made it to bathroom to wash up.

 

The Doctor Squad arrived later, coats slung over their shoulders, expecting to pick up their boyfriends and drop them off before circling back for a drink in peace. Johan was first through the door, already fishing for his keys.

 

What greeted them was not a group of hyped-up underclassmen in club-ready outfits.

 

It was four ducklings, tangled and half-asleep, breathing in sync with the quiet hum of the television.

 

Hill stopped in the doorway, eyebrows lifting. “This is… not what I expected.”

 

Tonfah’s lips twitched into a smile. “Look at them. Out cold.”

 

Arthit shook his head, though the corner of his mouth softened. “They didn’t even try.”

 

Johan just sighed, not annoyed, not even surprised, just resigned. “I knew this would happen.” He set his jacket down quietly. “No one’s going anywhere.”

 

The decision was made before anyone said it out loud. The club could wait. The boys couldn’t.

 

Tonfah leaned down, brushing a stray curl out of Typhoon’s face. “Guess it’s takeout tonight.”

 

“Pizza or noodles?” Hill asked, already pulling out his phone.

 

“Both,” Johan decided, lowering himself onto the couch beside North and tucking an arm around his shoulders. “They’ll wake up starving.”

 

And so, instead of neon lights and pounding bass, Saturday night became something softer: the smell of delivered food filling the condo, the boys sprawled in comfort, and four older men watching their so-called troublemakers sleep, looking far too content to be anywhere else.

 

 

The smell of food drifted through the condo,  noodles, pizza, fried chicken. It was what finally woke Typhoon, who sniffed the air before opening one eye. “…Wait. Are we dead? Is this heaven?”

 

Tonfah, perched nearby with a glass of water, smirked. “Close. You missed the club.”

 

Typhoon sat up groggily, hair a mess. “We didn’t even go?”

 

“Nope,” Tonfah said, handing him the glass. “You barely made it to the couch.”

 

On the floor, Daotok stirred next, blinking blearily up at Arthit crouched beside him. “…You’re here.”

 

“Mm,” Arthit said. “We didn’t want to leave you like this.” He offered his hand, pulling him up gently.

 

Easter woke to Hill draping a blanket over his shoulders. “You looked cold,” Hill murmured.

 

Easter blinked, still half-asleep, then gave a soft smile. “You’re too good to me.”

 

North, finally stirring last, opened his eyes to Johan’s arm around him, the older man scrolling his phone with casual patience. “You didn’t go?”

 

Johan kissed his temple. “Didn’t need to.”

 

The ducklings exchanged sheepish looks, but none of the doctors looked upset. If anything, they seemed content.

 

“Eat first,” Johan said, nodding toward the table. “Then you can crash again. No one’s dragging you out tonight.”

 

And just like that, the big Saturday plan turned into takeout, laughter, and quiet touches  softer than the neon lights they’d expected, but exactly what everyone needed.

 

 

 

The cartons of takeout were picked nearly clean. A few stray fries, a single slice of pizza, and an empty chicken noodles box sat on the coffee table, surrounded by soda cans and a couple of half-finished beers that only the doctors touched.

 

The ducklings were sprawled everywhere, food-coma hitting harder than any drink.

 

Typhoon had collapsed back onto the couch, his head in Tonfah’s lap, phone forgotten in his hand. “If I move, I’ll die,” he groaned dramatically.

 

“Then stay,” Tonfah said simply, brushing his hair back. “Not a problem for me.”

 

North was tangled against Johan, tucked under his arm, the kind of closeness that felt casual but anchored. “We really didn’t go out,” he murmured, eyelids heavy.

 

“Nope,” Johan said, amused. He tilted his head down, pressing a kiss into North’s curls. “But you look happier here than you would’ve been in a club.”

 

On the floor, Easter and Hill were a quiet picture. Hill had somehow ended up lying on his back with Easter curled against his side like a cat, phone balanced over both their heads.

 

“You keep dozing off,” Hill murmured.

 

“I’m not sleeping,” Easter argued, even as his eyes shut again.

 

Hill just hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, and tucked the blanket tighter around him.

 

Daotok was stretched on the other couch, legs draped lazily, while Arthit sat at the edge with one hand tracing absent circles over Daotok’s arm.

 

“You should get proper sleep,” Arthit said softly.

 

Daotok opened one eye. “I thought I was.”

 

“On this couch?”

 

Daotok’s lips curved into the tiniest smile. “With you here, it’s enough.”

 

Arthit blinked, caught off guard, and then tried to cover it by clearing his throat. “…Still. Bed’s better.”

 

But he didn’t move his hand.

 

 

 

 

The second movie was long forgotten. The room was quiet except for the occasional yawn, the hum of the city outside the windows, and the low conversations that came and went.

 

At some point, Typhoon mumbled something incoherent and Tonfah answered with a laugh, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. Typhoon stilled, then whispered, “…Don’t stop.”

 

North finally gave up pretending to stay awake, burrowing closer to Johan. “Carry me to bed,” he said drowsily.

 

“You’re not that light anymore,” Johan teased. But he still shifted like he was preparing to do it.

 

Easter had completely knocked out against Hill’s chest, and Hill didn’t even try to move him. He just looked comfortable enough to stay pinned forever.

 

Daotok, blinking slower and slower, whispered something too soft for anyone but Arthit to hear. Arthit leaned closer, heard the words, and smiled faintly before brushing a kiss against Daotok’s temple.

 

“You’re safe here,” Arthit said quietly.

 

Daotok sighed, content, and drifted off fully.

 

 

 

By the time the clock hit 2 a.m., the ducklings were a pile of blankets, tangled against their boyfriends, while the doctor squad had gone from “babysitters” to “equally caught in the gravity of their ridiculous little partners.”

 

They hadn’t gone out.

 

But no one in the condo would’ve traded that night for neon lights or loud music.

 

It was softer, quieter  but it was theirs.

Chapter 20: Hello✨ (Hill & Easter)

Notes:

Thanks @Ashyy24. This is actually the first story requested focused on Hill x Easter 😯

 

I spent my morning trying to build this three level shoe shelf from IKEA. Got nearly to the end for the pieces not to fit together, I just walked away and went and watched Netflix and edited this chapter.

Update: I stopped editing to have dinner and went back to the shoe shelf and I actually finished it 🥹

Hill had been buried in spreadsheets and negotiations for so long that he barely noticed when his driver dropped him off on the wrong street. The meeting had run late, his head pounded from boardroom chatter, and all he wanted was caffeine before he went home.

 

He glanced around nothing but quiet shops and shuttered windows. Except… a café. Warm light spilled out onto the wet pavement, soft music drifting through the slightly-open door.

 

He pushed it open.

 

The bell chimed.

 

And the world shifted.

 

“Hello,” came the voice behind the counter.

 

Hill froze.

 

The man in front of him wasn’t dressed like a barista from a chain,  no uniform, no fake smile. Just a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled, curls falling into his eyes. He looked up from the espresso machine, and when he smiled… it was like the air itself changed temperature.

 

“You look like you need something strong,” the man said gently. “Long day?”

 

Hill blinked, caught off guard. “You could say that.”

 

The stranger’s eyes sparkled, kind but sharp in a way that saw more than Hill wanted to admit. “I’m Easter,” he said, sliding a menu across. “But if you trust me, I already know what to make.”

 

Hill opened his mouth to argue — he didn’t trust anyone, especially not strangers. But something about the quiet confidence, the warmth behind that smile, the way Easter leaned in like they’d already known each other forever—

 

He heard himself say, softly, “…Alright.”

 

A few minutes later, Easter set down a mug in front of him. Not the sleek takeaway cup he was used to, but a heavy ceramic one, steam curling upward.

 

Hill took a sip. Stopped.

 

It was perfect.

 

Easter tilted his head, watching. “Better?”

 

Hill swallowed, throat tight. For the first time in months, the noise in his head quieted. He didn’t know how to explain it, but sitting in that little café, staring at the man who had greeted him with one word.

 

He felt something uncoil.

 

“You had me at hello,” Hill murmured under his breath.

 

Easter blinked. “What was that?”

 

Hill shook his head quickly, flustered, and looked down at his coffee. “…Nothing.”

 

But Easter was still smiling when he walked away.

 

 

 

It started with that first night, the wrong street, the rain, the smile, the perfect coffee.

 

But it didn’t end there.

 

Hill came back. Once the next week. Then twice. Then nearly every other day. Always in a pressed suit, always with that controlled, cool expression that should’ve made him look unapproachable. But every time he walked in, Easter’s bell chimed, and that wall seemed to crack just a little.

 

At first, Hill only ordered coffee.

Then he stayed long enough to try a pastry.

Then he started bringing his laptop, sitting near the window.

And once, after Easter teased him about “always working,” Hill muttered, “This is the only place I don’t mind it.”

 

Easter didn’t know what to do with the way that sentence made his chest warm.

 

 

 

Four Weeks Later – The Café, Late Afternoon

 

The café was quiet, sunlight streaming through the windows. Easter was wiping down tables when Daotok and Typhoon burst in, dropping their bags in a heap.

 

“Eas, you’ve been glowing lately,” Typhoon said, squinting at him. “What’s going on? Spill.”

 

Easter rolled his eyes. “I’m not glowing.”

 

North and Johan followed them inside, grabbing seats. North raised a brow. “He’s glowing. Look at him.”

 

Daotok leaned across the table, eyes curious. “Is this about the tall guy in suits who keeps coming in here?”

 

Easter froze, rag mid-swipe. “…What?”

 

“Don’t ‘what’ us,” North said flatly. “We’ve seen him. Expensive watch, shoulders like he could bench press a car, but the way he looks at you—”

 

“He does not look at me,” Easter said quickly.

 

Typhoon smirked. “He looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive after twelve-hour meetings.”

 

North gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, you like him.”

 

Easter’s ears turned red. “I never said that!”

 

“Didn’t need to,” Daotok said softly, smiling.

 

Easter sighed, dropping into the chair opposite them. “His name’s Hill. He’s… complicated. But he’s kind, even if he tries to hide it. And—” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “I think I like him. I didn’t mean to, it just… happened.”

 

The ducklings exchanged looks.

 

And then the café bell chimed.

 

All four of them turned their heads at once.

 

Hill walked in, tall in his navy suit, tie slightly loosened, his usual calm presence filling the room. His eyes swept the café, pausing, inevitably, on Easter. And for a moment, that subtle, guarded businessman’s mask cracked. His mouth softened.

 

Easter nearly dropped the rag he was still holding.

 

Typhoon elbowed him hard under the table. “Well, hello there, fate.”

 

Daotok muffled a laugh in his sleeve.

 

Hill, unaware of the conspiratorial chaos, simply said, “Hello.” His voice was low, steady, but his gaze lingered on Easter like it always did.

 

And Easter, for all his earlier denial, felt his chest skip a beat.

 

Hill stepped further into the café, shoulders loose but presence commanding, like he couldn’t turn it off even in a cozy corner shop. He was halfway to the counter when Johan finally looked up from his seat.

 

The recognition hit instantly.

 

“Wait,” Johan said, sitting straighter. “Hill?”

 

Hill’s gaze shifted. His expression softened a fraction, something almost like surprise passing through his eyes. “…Johan.”

 

North blinked, glancing between them. “You two know each other?”

 

Johan stood, clasping Hill’s hand in a firm shake. “We’ve crossed paths. Boardrooms, conferences, the occasional business dinner.” He smirked faintly. “Though I don’t remember you ever looking this relaxed.”

 

Hill’s mouth quirked, just barely. “I don’t remember you ever being in a café relaxing either.”

 

Easter was frozen behind the counter, watching like this was some kind of surreal crossover event he hadn’t prepared for.

 

“You here on business?” Johan asked, slipping easily into the practiced rhythm of two men used to sizing each other up in suits and schedules.

 

Hill’s eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Easter before he replied. “Something like that.”

 

And the ducklings, of course, noticed.

 

Typhoon mouthed oh my god.

Daotok leaned into Easter and whispered, “Your crush has history with Johan. We’re doomed.”

North just folded his arms, muttering, “This is about to be very interesting.”

 

Later, when Hill had left the café (after ordering a black coffee, paying in exact change, and sending Easter a look that could melt steel), the ducklings collapsed into one corner booth.

 

North stirred his iced tea lazily. “So. That was your mystery man.”

 

Easter buried his face in his hands. “Don’t. Please.”

 

Daotok grinned. “He looked at you like you hung the moon.”

 

Typhoon kicked his leg under the table. “Correction, like he wanted to buy the moon, gift-wrap it, and deliver it to you personally.”

 

Easter groaned louder. “I hate all of you.”

 

And then Johan came back from taking a call outside. He slid into the booth with the kind of casual dominance only he could pull off, sipping his water before raising a brow at Easter.

 

“So,” Johan said. “You’re seeing Hill.”

 

Easter froze. “…Not seeing.”

 

“Talking to,” Daotok supplied helpfully.

 

“Flirting with,” North corrected.

 

“Moon-hanging, gift-wrap, delivery—” Typhoon started, only for Easter to throw a straw at him.

 

Johan chuckled, low and unbothered. “Hill’s a serious man. Business-first. Reputation, focus, ambition. I’ve never once seen him linger in a room that didn’t benefit him.”

 

Easter shifted uncomfortably. “Okay? So?”

 

“So,” Johan leaned back, smirking, “the fact he walked into this café on a busy day and looked at you like that? Interesting.”

 

Easter went bright red. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

 

“Immensely,” Johan admitted. “You have my blessing, by the way.”

 

“Blessing?!” Easter squeaked.

 

“You’ll need it,” Johan said smoothly, reaching for his glass again. “Hill doesn’t play games.”

 

Typhoon stage-whispered, “But Easter does.”

 

“HEY!”

 

The table dissolved into laughter, Johan’s low and knowing, the ducklings’ chaotic, Easter’s strangled in protest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hill hadn’t meant to come in.

He didn’t do cafés,  not the noisy kind where students crowded tables and laughter spilled over like steam. He lived on black coffee, quick meals, and efficiency. But when his usual route was blocked by construction, he found himself turning down a smaller street… and there it was.

 

The bell chimed above the door.

 

And there he was.

 

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, curls soft, smile easy for the customer in front of him… Easter. The boy he’d been… thinking about, if he was honest with himself. He’d been in here once, a week ago, by accident. Thought he’d forget. He hadn’t.

 

And now, standing here again, Hill realized the memory hadn’t exaggerated a single detail. If anything, it had understated it.

 

Easter glanced up. Their eyes met. For a second, Hill’s practiced composure slipped,  he let himself take in the curve of Easter’s mouth, the warmth of his expression, the way his scent sweetened the air without even trying.

 

Hill recognized Johan before he even fully turned his head. A familiar face from sharp business meetings and boardroom negotiations, the kind of man who didn’t miss much.

 

Their gazes locked across the café. Johan raised a brow, slow, amused.

 

 

Out on the street, he sipped the bitter coffee, already cooling. He hadn’t come here for this. He had deadlines, deals, entire projects waiting.

 

And yet, all he could taste was the brush of Easter’s fingers against his own.

 

It didn’t take long.

 

 

 

 

Later that week, Hill was gathering his coat from the back of the restaurant where he’d been meeting a client when Johan’s voice cut through the quiet.

 

“You,” Johan said, stepping into view. “So it was you that keeps going to the café.”

 

Hill didn’t look up right away, adjusting his cufflinks instead. “Sharp eyes as always.”

 

“I don’t need sharp eyes,” Johan replied, leaning against the doorframe with a half-smile. “Easter practically glowed when you walked in. And you—” Johan tilted his head, “—don’t strike me as the type to line up for lattes.”

 

Hill finally glanced over. Calm. Steady. “It wasn’t the coffee.”

 

Johan’s brows rose. “So I was right.”

 

Silence stretched for a moment,  heavy but not tense. Hill didn’t flinch, didn’t try to deny it. He only slipped his watch back on and buttoned his sleeve with precise movements.

 

“I’m interested,” Hill said at last, simple as stating the weather.

 

Johan let out a laugh, short and amused. “You know, you don’t get to just drop a line like that about one of my boys and expect me to stay quiet.”

 

Hill arched a brow. “One of your boys?”

 

“Ducklings,” Johan clarified, smirking. “North is my fiancé and Easter’s one of his best friends. I look out for all of them. So if you’re serious—” His gaze sharpened, the teasing edge softening just slightly. “—don’t play games with him.”

 

Hill’s jaw ticked, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t play games.”

 

Something in his tone made Johan’s smirk falter, just a little. The man sounded… resolute. Like he’d already made up his mind.

 

“Well,” Johan said, clapping Hill’s shoulder as he moved past, “guess I’ll let the others know. Easter’s got himself a very tall, very intimidating admirer.”

 

Hill didn’t respond, but there was the faintest curve to his lips as Johan left.

 

 

 

Back at the café the next day, Easter told the ducklings in a hushed whisper that he thought Hill had looked at him differently when he came in. The others leaned in, wide-eyed and grinning—only to look up mid-teasing and see Hill walking in again, casual as anything, coffee order ready on his lips.

 

And Easter nearly dropped the tray in his hands.

 

Easter had just set down a tray of mugs at a table when a familiar voice, low and even, stopped him.

 

“Can we talk?”

 

He froze. Turned. And there was Hill,  sharp lines softened by the café’s warm light, dark coat still buttoned from outside. His gaze didn’t waver.

 

Easter’s pulse jumped. “Uh—sure. Yeah.” He glanced at his friends, who were already watching like they’d bought front-row tickets. “Break time,” he muttered quickly, before slipping off his apron and following Hill out to the quiet patio.

 

The late afternoon air was cool, the hum of the city faint behind them. For a moment, neither spoke. Hill stood with his hands in his pockets, calm as always, while Easter tried very hard not to fidget.

 

Finally, Hill broke the silence. “I don’t usually… do this.”

 

Easter blinked. “Do what?”

 

“Say things outright.” Hill’s eyes fixed on him, steady enough to pin him in place. “But if I don’t, you might never know.”

 

Easter’s breath caught. “Know what?”

 

“That I’m interested,” Hill said simply. No hesitation. “In you.”

 

The words landed like a stone in still water , rippling out, shaking something loose in Easter’s chest. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “You—you can’t just say that like it’s nothing.”

 

“It’s not nothing.” Hill’s tone softened, but it didn’t waver. “I noticed you the first time I walked in here. And every time since, it’s been harder to ignore.”

 

Easter stared at him, heart hammering. He’d imagined this, fantasised, really, but hearing it out loud was something else entirely. “You’re serious?”

 

Hill stepped closer, slow enough that Easter could stop him if he wanted. He didn’t.

 

“I don’t waste words,” Hill said quietly. “If you tell me no, I’ll respect it. But if you don’t…” His gaze lingered, searching, steady. “Then I’d like the chance to prove it.”

 

Easter felt heat rising to his cheeks, equal parts shock and giddiness. He managed a shaky laugh. “God, you’re—direct.”

 

“Better than being unclear.”

 

For a second, they just looked at each other, Hill, unflinching, and Easter, fighting a smile he couldn’t contain.

 

“…You should probably know,” Easter said finally, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m terrible at hiding when I like someone.”

 

Hill’s lips curved, the smallest, rarest smile. “Good.”

 

The patio door swung open then, and North’s voice carried out,: “Easter there is a delivery guy here and you need to - OH MY GOD, ARE YOU CONFESSING RIGHT NOW?”

 

Easter nearly died on the spot.

 

“North—!”

 

But Hill just turned, calm as ever, and leveled him with one raised brow. It was the kind of look that could silence a boardroom.

 

North froze. “…I’ll go.” He ducked back inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

Easter groaned into his hands. “I am never hearing the end of this.”

 

“You will,” Hill said, voice even, “because I’m not finished.”

 

Easter dropped his hands, blinking up at him. “…You’re still going?”

 

“Yes.” Hill stepped closer, until the distance between them was deliberate, chosen. “I don’t want to just tell you I’m interested. I want to show you. By making space for you in my life. By giving you mine.”

 

Easter’s throat went dry. “You—”

 

“I can’t promise I’ll always say things prettily,” Hill continued, softer now, but still unwavering. “But I can promise that when it comes to you, I’ll mean every word.”

 

The honesty of it, steady, clear, unembellished, hit harder than any flowery speech could have.

 

Easter’s chest ached, full in a way that almost scared him. He swallowed, laughed weakly. “You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

 

Hill’s mouth curved again, small but certain. “That’s not my intention.”

 

“…What is your intention, then?” Easter asked, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Hill held his gaze, warm and steady. “To see where this can go. With you. If you’ll let me.”

 

Easter’s heart was loud enough he was sure Hill could hear it. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

 

 

Easter leaned back against the patio railing, arms folding as if to steady himself. His lips curved, half a smile, half a dare.

 

“So let me get this straight,” he said, tilting his head. “You walk into my café, steal my attention, make me think about you all the time—then come out here and confess like it’s some kind of business proposal?”

 

Hill’s brows lifted slightly. “If it is, would you accept?”

 

Easter snorted, covering his face with one hand for a moment before peeking at him through his fingers. “You’re impossible.”

 

“Persistent,” Hill corrected.

 

“And smug.”

 

“Confident,” Hill countered again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

 

Easter laughed, soft but exasperated, the sound slipping out before he could hold it back. He dropped his hand, meeting Hill’s gaze fully now. “…You know, for someone who claims they can’t always say things prettily, you’re doing a damn good job.”

 

Hill’s voice gentled. “So… is that a yes?”

 

Easter pretended to think, tapping his chin, eyes narrowing playfully. “Hmm. I don’t know. You did just traumatize me with North barging in at the most dramatic moment possible.”

 

Hill actually huffed a laugh at that, quiet and low.

 

Finally, Easter’s smile softened into something real, unguarded. “Yeah. It’s a yes.”

 

Hill didn’t move closer right away just let the words sit between them, solid and warm. Then, slowly, he inclined his head. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving up.”

 

Easter’s laugh came shaky this time, his cheeks hot. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

 

“Maybe,” Hill said calmly. “But I’ll take care of you while I do.”

 

And Easter had to look away for a second, because if he didn’t, he was going to let Hill kiss him right there on the patio with half his friends inside.

Notes:

Pick the next story !!!
Racer- Engineer -> TigerNao
2. Basketball player - Pro Gamer -> JohanNorth
3. Idol-Artist -> ThitDao
4. Photographer and his Doctor Muse -> FahPhoon

Chapter 21: Bonded 🤍 (Arthit x Daotok)

Notes:

Request from @MatchaLover_ (SyubChim27) 🤍✨ enjoy lovie

 

Was a bit mentally drained these past few days so I been writing a little each day and I finally finished. Hopefully the next one doesn’t take me that long to get out.

The Crown Prince of Vareen did not want to be bound.

 

Arthit had been raised on steel and discipline, his bloodline stamped into his very posture. An alpha, heir to the throne, every move of his watched. He was taught to command armies, bend politics, and protect his people. But not once had he been asked what he wanted.

 

So when his parents summoned him to the high council chamber and told him he was to wed an omega prince from a neighboring kingdom, he almost laughed.

 

“An arranged bond?” His voice was sharp, incredulous. “I’m not livestock to be traded for alliances.”

 

His father’s gaze hardened, his mother’s softened and still, neither wavered.

“This is about stability, Arthit. Vareen will be stronger with House Thanthip at our side. Their omega prince—”

 

“I don’t care what he is,” Arthit snapped. “I won’t be shackled to someone I’ve never even met.”

 

 

 

Meanwhile, across the sea in the kingdom of Thanthip, Daotok sat quietly as his father spoke of duty.

 

The young omega prince was a secret, hidden away since birth. Rumours whispered of his beauty like it was a curse,  eyes too soft, a smile too dangerous, a scent too intoxicating. No one outside the palace had seen him, save for his parents and the few closest companions allowed near his chambers.

 

And Daotok had learned long ago what was expected of him.

 

“If this is what secures peace,” he said softly, lowering his eyes, “then I accept.”

 

He smiled for his father’s sake. But when he was alone that night, he curled into the silks of his bedding and let the tears come.

 

Because he knew what it meant. He would be leaving the only home he’d ever known, to live beside an alpha who, if the rumors of Prince Arthit were true, despised the very idea of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The formal introduction took place in the grand garden of Vareen’s palace. Nobles gathered, courtiers whispered.

 

Arthit stood tall, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

 

And then Daotok stepped into the sunlight.

 

He was draped in pale silk, hair half-tied back, a sapphire pin glinting at his temple. His scent drifted across the breeze… clean, sweet, fragile in a way that made alphas straighten unconsciously.

 

The garden went silent.

 

Arthit’s breath caught before he could stop it. He had expected… he didn’t know what he expected. A simpering omega. A delicate pawn. But this boy, no, this prince, walked with grace, chin held high despite the weight of every eye on him.

 

Daotok bowed politely. His voice was soft but steady.

“Your Highness.”

 

Arthit clenched his fists behind his back.

“…You don’t look like someone who would accept this so easily.”

 

Daotok’s lips curved, faint and sad.

“And you don’t look like someone who wants to be here.”

 

For a flicker of a moment, their gazes locked. Neither said what they were thinking.

 

 

 

 

The wedding was swift. Faster than Daotok had imagined, colder than Arthit had feared.

 

Vows were spoken in the great hall before gods and witnesses. Gold circlets were pressed onto their fingers. The bond was marked on paper, not flesh. Arthit had refused the bite.

 

When the final bell rang, Daotok lowered his head, smiling gently for the crowd, while Arthit’s jaw was locked so tight it could’ve cracked stone.

 

 

 

Their shared chambers were enormous…gilded walls, velvet drapes, more space than Daotok could possibly fill. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

 

Because Arthit didn’t stay.

 

The first night, he disappeared before the last guest left the palace. The second, he returned long after midnight, the scent of steel and horses clinging to him. The third, he didn’t come back at all.

 

And Daotok?

 

He sat by the tall windows, staring at the gardens below, candlelight catching the shimmer of his robes. He ate little. Spoke less. When servants asked if he wanted company, he shook his head with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

It was easier this way.

 

If this was his cage, then he would endure it with grace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the training yard, Johan watched his prince throw himself into sparring match after sparring match, sweat pouring, knuckles raw.

 

“You’re trying to kill yourself,” Johan said finally, catching Arthit’s blade mid-strike.

 

“I’m trying to forget.”

 

“Forget what?”

 

The word came out like venom. “That I’ve been tied like a horse at auction.”

 

Johan’s brow arched. “It’s not the bond that bothers you. It’s him.”

 

Arthit stilled. The image flashed unbidden: Daotok standing in the sunlight of the garden, scent soft, gaze steady even beneath Arthit’s disdain. Fragile, but refusing to break.

 

He shoved the thought away. “He’s just… he’s nothing to me.”

 

But his grip on the sword tightened until Johan almost pitied the blade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At meals, Daotok sat silently at the end of the table while Arthit laughed and spoke with his advisors.

 

When they crossed paths in corridors, Arthit walked past without a word, without a glance, as if Daotok were another painted wall.

 

The courtiers whispered. Some pitied the omega prince. Others sneered.

“Too delicate.”

“Too quiet.”

“Perhaps he cannot even bear children, why else would the crown prince refuse to seal the bond?”

 

Daotok heard them. He always did. But he kept his chin up, kept walking.

 

And when he returned to his chambers, he pressed his hands over his face and swallowed the tears, because weakness was the one thing he couldn’t allow himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One evening, Arthit returned late to their chambers for once, mud streaked on his boots, exhaustion carved into his face. He expected Daotok to be asleep.

 

But the omega was awake, curled on the window seat with a book in his lap, lit only by candlelight.

 

He looked up startled, soft. “You’re back.”

 

Arthit froze. For some reason, that voice,  tentative but kind, like Daotok had hoped he’d come,  made his chest twist.

 

So he did what he always did when something frightened him.

 

He lashed out.

 

“You don’t have to wait up. I don’t need a shadow in my room.”

 

The words hung heavy. Daotok lowered his eyes, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly. He nodded once, gently closing the book.

 

“Of course, Your Highness.”

 

Arthit turned away, jaw tight. He didn’t see the way Daotok’s fingers trembled against the pages.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The night began with laughter.

 

The hall was alive with it,  golden chandeliers gleaming overhead, crystal goblets raised, music swelling. Foreign envoys had arrived, and the crown prince was expected to charm them, to prove his strength, to remind them that his kingdom was not one to be trifled with.

 

Daotok sat beside him at the long table, robes of silk and silver chosen by the queen herself. He looked every inch the omega consort: poised, graceful, serene.

 

But he was silent.

 

Too silent.

 

Whispers began at the lower tables first, then rose like a tide.

 

“He hasn’t said a word all evening.”

“Perhaps the rumors were true,  beauty, but nothing else.”

“An omega so delicate he cannot even speak for himself.”

 

Daotok kept his eyes on his plate. His hands folded neatly in his lap.

 

And then one envoy,  a smug-faced lord who had already drunk too much,  leaned across the table, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Tell us, Prince Daotok,” he said, voice loud enough to hush the nearby chatter, “is it true what they say? That you were hidden away in your palace for so long because your beauty would distract even your own guards?”

 

The table chuckled. Someone snorted into their wine.

 

Daotok’s ears burned. He opened his mouth, searching for the right words—

 

“Or was it,” the envoy pressed, tone oily, “because your parents feared no one would want such a… fragile creature?”

 

The laughter broke. Louder this time.

 

Daotok froze, nails biting into his palms beneath the table. His chest felt tight, like the air itself was mocking him. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his smile calm, to bow his head.

 

“I—”

 

“Enough.”

 

The word cracked like thunder.

 

The hall fell silent.

 

Arthit had risen from his chair, eyes like fire, jaw hard as steel. His goblet slammed against the table, wine spilling across the white cloth like blood.

 

The envoy paled.

 

“You dare speak of my consort with such disrespect?” Arthit’s voice shook the air, sharp and low, the kind of fury that could only come from an alpha’s chest. “In my hall? At my table?”

 

The lord stammered. “I—I only meant—”

 

“You meant insult,” Arthit snarled. “And I should have your tongue cut out for it.”

 

The threat hung there, lethal, before Johan touched his shoulder lightly, reminding him of diplomacy.

 

Arthit’s hands clenched into fists. His chest heaved once, twice—then he spat, “Remove him from my sight.”

 

Guards dragged the envoy from the hall as silence rippled in their wake.

 

Daotok stared down at his plate, shoulders tight, breath shaky. He hadn’t expected Arthit to defend him. Not after weeks of coldness. Not like that.

 

Arthit sat again, hands still trembling from rage. He didn’t look at Daotok. Couldn’t.

 

Because somewhere deep down, the sight of Daotok’s bowed head, his silence, his trembling fingers—

it had cut deeper than any sword.

 

 

 

 

The hall was still buzzing, but Daotok left early. He moved like a shadow through the corridors, guards trailing at a respectful distance. His steps were measured, back straight, but when he reached the safety of his chamber doors, the façade cracked.

 

He shut the door behind him and pressed his palms to his eyes. His chest hurt, tight and aching. He hated himself for letting their words seep under his skin, for letting the laughter echo in his bones.

 

He’d been raised for duty. To smile. To bear. To fold himself into silence when the world demanded it. And yet—

tonight had left him hollow.

 

A knock at the door.

 

He stiffened. “Yes?”

 

It opened without waiting for his permission. Only one person would do that.

 

Arthit stepped inside, still in his banquet attire, collar askew, a storm written across his face.

 

Daotok lowered his hands quickly, bowing his head. “Your Highness.” His voice was soft, too careful.

 

“Stop.” Arthit’s tone was rough, like gravel. “Don’t call me that. Not here.”

 

Daotok blinked at him, wary. “…What should I call you then?”

 

Arthit’s throat worked. He didn’t answer. He moved further into the room, restless energy sparking off him, before finally blurting—

“You didn’t deserve that.”

 

The words hung in the quiet chamber.

 

Daotok froze. “…It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not fine,” Arthit snapped, sharper than he meant to. He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself more than anything. “They humiliated you. And I—” He broke off, fists clenching. “I should’ve— I should’ve…”

 

“You defended me,” Daotok said quietly. His eyes dropped to his lap. “That was enough.”

 

Arthit stared at him. The way Daotok’s voice trembled just slightly, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for another blow, it gutted him.

 

For weeks, he had avoided this omega. Pretended indifference. Resented the bond forced upon them. But now, standing here, seeing the cracks, he felt something else entirely.

 

Regret.

Sharp and suffocating.

 

“Daotok.” His voice was lower now, softer. Almost hesitant. “Look at me.”

 

Slowly, reluctantly, Daotok lifted his gaze.

 

And Arthit, crown prince, trained for war and duty and rule, felt something in his chest give way.

 

“I was a fool,” he admitted, the words tasting like blood and truth. “Pushing you aside, pretending I didn’t care. You didn’t ask for this bond either. But you’ve borne it with more grace than I have. And tonight… when I saw you bow your head like that…” His voice cracked just slightly. “I wanted to burn the whole hall down.”

 

Daotok’s lips parted, eyes wide.

 

“I’m sorry,” Arthit said, raw and unpracticed. “For every cold word. For every time I made you feel unwanted. You don’t deserve that.”

 

Silence stretched.

 

Daotok swallowed hard, blinking fast. “Why are you telling me this now?”

 

Arthit exhaled, long and shaky, like he didn’t quite know the answer himself. Then he stepped closer, close enough that the scent of steel and cedar wrapped around Daotok, steady and grounding.

 

“Because the thought of you wilting in silence while I turn away—” He paused, jaw tight. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

 

For the first time, Arthit reached out, not commanding, not possessive. Just a hand, tentative, resting lightly over Daotok’s trembling fingers.

 

Daotok looked down at their hands. Then up at Arthit’s eyes. Searching.

 

And for the first time, he didn’t just see the crown prince.

He saw a man breaking past his own pride.

 

Daotok stared at their joined hands. Arthit’s fingers were warm, heavy, trembling with a kind of restraint he hadn’t expected.

 

But his heart, fragile as glass, couldn’t leap to forgiveness just because of a few soft words. Not after weeks of coldness. Not after tonight.

 

He slipped his hand back, slow, deliberate.

 

Arthit froze. The rejection landed sharper than any blade.

 

“I hear your apology,” Daotok said quietly, tone even but lined with something bitter. “But words…” His lashes fluttered, his throat tight. “…words can’t undo the way you’ve treated me since I came here.”

 

Arthit opened his mouth, but Daotok held up a hand, silencing him.

 

“You hated me before I ever spoke. You looked at me and saw nothing but a chain around your neck. I tried not to mind. I told myself I was prepared for duty, for an empty bond. But tonight—” His voice cracked, just once. He steadied it. “Tonight showed me exactly how small I am in your world. How easy it is for others to laugh while you burn holes in the floor with your silence.”

 

Arthit’s chest tightened. He wanted to protest, I wasn’t silent, I defended you, but the truth sat there between them: he hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough.

 

Daotok turned away, toward the window where moonlight bled across the floor. His shoulders curled in, fragile and tired.

 

“You don’t have to force yourself,” he murmured. “The bond is what it is. I’ll do my duty. But don’t—” His voice wavered. “…don’t speak soft words if you don’t mean to follow them. I can’t… I can’t bear false hope.”

 

The silence after that was heavy. A silence that demanded Arthit’s pride die here, now, if he meant to reach him.

 

For the first time in his life, Arthit bowed his head.

 

“Then I’ll prove it,” he said, voice low, steady with vow. “Not tonight. Not with promises. With actions. However long it takes.”

 

Daotok turned his face slightly, enough to glance at him over his shoulder. The moonlight softened him, but his eyes were cautious, wounded.

 

Arthit stepped back, as if to give him space instead of taking it. “Rest, Daotok. You won’t see me avoid you again. That much, I swear.”

 

And with that, he left closing the door gently behind him.

 

Daotok exhaled, knees weak. His heart wanted to believe.

But belief had teeth.

 

He curled onto the bed, clutching the sheets tight, and whispered into the darkness:

 

“Then prove it, Crown Prince. Prove me wrong.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The days that followed were… different.

 

Arthit didn’t transform overnight into the picture of a perfect mate. But the little things, subtle, almost hidden, began to stack up.

 

At breakfast, Daotok would notice his cup already filled with the tea he liked, placed to the right where his dominant hand could reach it. At the training yard, a guard who’d always been cold toward him suddenly stopped sneering. Later, Daotok saw Arthit have a low, dangerous word with him. And at night, when the palace halls were hushed, he sometimes caught the flicker of his alpha’s presence lingering at his door, as if Arthit couldn’t quite make himself leave entirely.

 

Arthit spoke little, but when he did, the edge had dulled. The words carried effort, sincerity.

 

Still, Daotok didn’t allow himself to melt. He thanked him politely. He held his head high. He didn’t lean.

 

Not yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The royal hall glittered with candles, courtiers draped in silks and jewels, the air thick with perfume and politics. It was the second major event where Daotok appeared at Arthit’s side since their marriage. The first one ending with him leaving early.

 

He wore pale silver and blue, the traditional colors of his birth kingdom, lace draped delicately at his wrists. Whispers followed him everywhere he walked, rumors of his beauty suddenly made flesh. Some voices held awe. Others envy, skepticism.

 

Arthit, in deep navy trimmed with gold, escorted him with a steady hand at the small of his back.

 

For most of the night, things remained smooth, banter with nobles, shared toasts, Daotok smiling gracefully even when the words directed at him dripped with curiosity.

 

Until one voice rose louder than the rest.

 

A foreign minister, older, sharp-eyed, too bold for his own good, who just returned from travels, leaned forward across the table and said, almost idly:

 

“It is a curious choice, Crown Prince, to present such a delicate omega at your side. Surely the throne demands strength, not… decoration.”

 

The words sliced through the laughter, dropping silence across the hall.

 

Daotok’s spine went rigid. His hand tightened around his goblet, knuckles pale. He willed himself not to flinch, not to fold.

 

Arthit’s reaction was instant.

 

The Crown Prince’s chair scraped sharply against the stone as he stood, towering over the table, his eyes hard as steel.

 

“Careful.” His voice was low, thunderous. “You speak of my bonded omega. My crown prince consort.”

 

The minister blinked, startled by the venom beneath the calm.

 

Arthit didn’t stop. He stepped forward, hand resting firmly on Daotok’s shoulder, grounding him, claiming him.

 

“His strength is not for you to measure. His presence here beside me is not a curiosity, it is a decree. He is mine. This kingdom’s future stands with him. And anyone who dares suggest otherwise will find themselves unwelcome in this court.”

 

The silence that followed was electric.

 

The minister stammered, fumbling an apology, but it hardly mattered. The message was clear, carved into every corner of the banquet hall.

 

Daotok’s heart thundered in his chest. For once, the weight at his side wasn’t a cold duty, it was protection, fierce and blazing.

 

He dared to glance up at Arthit. And for a split second, the alpha’s mask cracked revealing something raw, desperate.

 

Mine, that look said. Always mine.

 

 

 

 

 

The banquet carried on, the music striking up again, laughter forced and brittle as the tension bled into the corners of the room. The minister who had spoken out kept his head bowed, shrinking into his chair, but Arthit didn’t sit. Not immediately. His hand remained heavy and protective on Daotok’s shoulder, steady enough that Daotok felt it deep in his chest.

 

He should have stayed still. Should have kept the mask, the graceful smile, the unbothered façade he had trained himself to wear. That was safer never give them anything.

 

But his throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, he tilted his face slightly up toward Arthit.

 

“…Thank you,” he whispered, low enough for only Arthit to hear.

 

It wasn’t much. Just two words. But the look in Daotok’s eyes shining, uncertain, a crack in the cold dignity he’d been clinging to was more than any courtier’s applause.

 

Arthit froze. His jaw flexed, his hand tightening just slightly on Daotok’s shoulder. And when he finally sat again, he didn’t let go.

 

All through the rest of the banquet, through the polite chatter and endless toasts, Arthit’s thumb brushed against the lace at Daotok’s sleeve, grounding, protective. Claiming.

 

And Daotok didn’t pull away.

 

The banquet bled into the night, and by the time the last wine cup was drained and the final guests dismissed, Daotok’s head was heavy, his body aching from the strain of perfect posture and perfect silence. He rose when Arthit did, followed him through the echoing halls back toward their shared chambers, every step weighted by the memory of that moment the minister’s words, Arthit’s fury, the hand that hadn’t left his shoulder all night.

 

The doors closed behind them. For once, no attendants hovered. Just the quiet flicker of lantern light and the sharp beat of Daotok’s heart.

 

Arthit pulled off his ceremonial jacket with a rough motion, shoulders tense. He opened his mouth shut it again. Turned half away.

 

Daotok’s fingers twisted in his own sleeve. “You didn’t have to keep defend me like that.” His voice was small. Careful. “It only makes things harder for you.”

 

Arthit whipped back around. “Harder? Gods, Daotok, do you think I care about them more than—” He bit himself off, running a hand through his hair. His voice cracked lower. “I should have defended you sooner. From the start. Instead, I’ve treated you like…”

 

“Like duty,” Daotok supplied softly.

 

The word cut sharper than a blade. Arthit’s chest clenched. He crossed the space before Daotok could step back, hands braced against his arms. “Not duty. Never just duty. I was afraid. Of the bond. Of losing myself to it. I thought if I kept you at a distance, I could stay…free.”

 

Daotok lifted his gaze, eyes wide and shining in the low light. “And now?”

 

Arthit’s throat worked. His hands slid up, cupping Daotok’s face as though holding something fragile and priceless. “Now I’m terrified of losing you.”

 

The crack in Daotok’s composure shattered. His breath hitched, a sound closer to a sob than a laugh, and then he surged forward, closing the final distance. Their mouths met, hesitant at first, then desperate, the taste of apology and longing and the bond pulling tight between them.

 

The scent of them flooded the room, unmistakable: alpha and omega aligning, weaving together. Arthit kissed him like he had something to prove, like every ounce of resistance had finally burned away. Daotok trembled, fingers clutching at Arthit’s vest, not holding back for the first time.

 

And when they broke apart, breathless, their foreheads pressed together, Daotok whispered, “I’ll be yours.”

 

Arthit’s reply was ragged but certain: “And I’ll be yours. Always.”

 

The bond sealed in that instant heat blooming between them, invisible but unshakable. A crown prince and his hidden jewel, tied not by duty, but by choice.

 

And for the first time since the arrangement was announced, Daotok allowed himself to believe.

 

 

Dawn broke in pale gold across the palace windows, spilling warmth over tangled sheets and discarded finery.

 

Arthit stirred first. His arm was heavy around Daotok’s waist, his nose buried in the soft crook of his mate’s neck where Daotok’s scent still lingered sweetest. For a long moment he didn’t move, didn’t dare, just breathed. The bond sang low and steady between them, like a second heartbeat.

 

Daotok shifted against him, lashes fluttering open. For the first time in weeks, perhaps in his entire life, he didn’t wake bracing for coldness or silence. Instead, he woke to warmth and the quiet weight of being wanted.

 

Arthit’s voice was still rough with sleep. “Morning.”

 

Daotok smiled faintly, small and soft. “You stayed.”

 

“As if I’d let go now.” Arthit pressed a kiss to his temple, then another to the corner of his mouth, unable to stop himself. The touches were unpracticed, a little clumsy, but so very real.

 

Daotok’s cheeks flushed. “You’ll be late for council.”

 

“Let them wait.” Arthit buried his face in Daotok’s hair, inhaling deep. “For once, they can wait.”

 

They stayed there longer than either intended, Daotok curled against Arthit’s chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over the back of his hand. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full.

 

When they finally rose, the servants were careful not to look too directly at them, but the glances spoke volumes. Everyone could smell the bond now.

 

 

 

 

 

Word spread faster than fire.

 

By the time Arthit strode into council later that morning, Daotok at his side, every pair of eyes followed them. Whispers scurried between courtiers: The bond is sealed. The omega prince, truly bound now. The Crown Prince has chosen.

 

A minister cleared his throat. “Your Highness, may we… confirm the reports?”

 

Arthit’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t flinch. He pulled out Daotok’s chair himself before sitting beside him, hand brushing deliberately against Daotok’s under the table. “There’s nothing to confirm. He is my bonded. My consort. Speak against it, and you speak against me.”

 

The silence was heavy. No one dared.

 

Daotok’s fingers trembled slightly beneath the table, but Arthit’s touch was steady. He glanced sideways, caught Arthit’s gaze, steady and burning, and for the first time, Daotok didn’t feel like a pawn on the board. He felt like he was standing in the center of the crown prince’s choice.

Chapter 22: Leash ✨ (Arthit x Daotok)

Notes:

Request from @GIRLS4HANQUOKKA, I hope this what you were thinking of 🤍🤍

 

I might post again later, something I started from the options two chapters ago.

 

also does anyone know any good TayNew stories? Lately I have been obsessed with them and their mascot Polcasan.

The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers and polished marble, filled with Bangkok’s best and brightest. The networking gala for soon-to-be medical graduates was supposed to be formal, stiff, respectable. White coats and pressed suits, polite champagne chatter, endless handshakes.

 

Arthit fit the image perfectly, crisp tuxedo, calm face, posture straight as a ruler. He was the Arthit, after all: top of his program along with his friends, respected, untouchable. The kind of alpha who carried himself like nothing could shake him.

 

Until Daotok walked in.

 

The younger boyfriends were late… traffic, wardrobe drama, whatever excuse. But when they swept in, dressed in sharp, coordinated fits straight out of a fashion shoot, heads turned. And at the center of it all was Dao.

 

Silver silk shirt, open back, tailored trousers, jewelry catching the light—he wasn’t overdressed, but he glowed. The kind of glow that made people look twice. Rumors had always said Daotok was beautiful; no one expected this.

 

Dao didn’t pause at the entrance. He spotted Arthit across the room, already cornered by professors and ambitious students. The alpha who usually carried a room looked… rigid. Tense.

 

Dao just smiled, smooth as glass, and crossed the floor.

 

Conversations shifted. Heads turned. And then Dao slid his hand into Arthit’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Arthit went silent. Instantly. The set of his jaw softened. His shoulders dropped.

 

Dao’s smile sharpened, polite but lethal. He greeted Arthit’s colleagues with effortless charm, steering the conversation like he’d been born to do it. Arthit, the terrifying top of his class, stood quietly at his side, thumb stroking the back of Dao’s hand like a tether.

 

His friends froze at the sight.

 

“Wait,” Typhoon whispered, eyes wide. “Why does he look… domesticated?”

 

North bit his lip, fighting a grin. “Because he is.”

 

Easter smirked. “Oh my god. Happy omega, happy life.”

 

Dao, meanwhile, was untouchable. He introduced himself smoothly, complimented, deflected, steered. And every time someone got too curious, too pushy, too bold, he just tilted his head, the faintest curve of his mouth saying don’t. And they didn’t.

 

But the real crack came later, when Arthit slipped away to get drinks.

 

He was at the bar, waiting for the bartender, when some overeager grad from another university slid in next to him. Too close. Too eager.

 

“You’re Arthit, right? Top of the program? You must be exhausted from all the attention. You should let me buy you a drink.”

 

Arthit’s voice was curt. “no, thanks.”

 

The guy leaned in, ignoring him. “Just one drink. You’ll change your mind.”

 

Arthit’s shoulders tensed. He hated scenes. His patience thinned.

 

And then—

 

Dao arrived.

 

No hesitation, no warning. He stepped between them, fingers catching Arthit’s tie, tugging him down in one fluid motion.

 

Arthit bent instantly, no resistance. Dao kissed him. Slow. Deliberate. Owning.

 

When he pulled back, his gaze cut to the stranger. Sweet as sugar, sharp as venom.

 

“He’s already taken,” Dao said softly, voice carrying just enough. “And loyal.”

 

The guy paled, muttered something about misunderstanding, and disappeared fast.

 

Dao didn’t even watch him go. He adjusted Arthit’s tie, smoothing it back into place, then tapped his chest with two fingers. “Good boy.”

 

Arthit’s ears burned, but he didn’t argue. His hand came up automatically, resting at Dao’s waist like he’d been trained.

 

Across the room, the other omegas looked like they were watching a car crash in slow motion.

 

“Did he just—” Typhoon started.

 

“Pull him down by the tie,” Easter finished, hand over his mouth.

 

North groaned. “Arthit’s not the alpha here. Dao is.”

 

Johan, Hill, and Tonfah, who had joined them quietly, were openly smirking.

 

The rest of the gala went on, but their friends couldn’t stop staring. Arthit, who usually commanded every space, was glued to Dao’s side fetching drinks, carrying his jacket, leaning down when Dao tilted his head like it was a command.

 

And Dao? Dao didn’t even have to be sharp. He was gentle. Polite. Smiling. But everyone could see it now.

 

The most dangerous realization of the night wasn’t just that Dao owned him.

 

It was that Arthit liked it.

 

He liked everyone knowing.

 

And Dao knew it too.

 

Every time Arthit looked at him like that, soft, obedient, a little undone, Dao’s smile curved just enough to twist the knife.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was two nights after the gala when the ducklings, as their boyfriends liked to call them, finally cornered him.

 

They were sprawled across North’s living room, pizza boxes, soda cans, a half-played Mario Kart tournament abandoned on pause. But no one was focusing on the game. Not when the memory of the gala was still hanging over them like a storm cloud.

 

Typhoon cracked first, practically vibrating where he sat cross-legged on the floor.

 

“Okay. We need to talk about Saturday.”

 

Dao, stretched out on the couch with his phone balanced delicately in one hand, didn’t even look up. “About what?”

 

Easter groaned. “Don’t play dumb, Dao. You walked Arthit by his tie in front of an entire room of professors and future doctors.”

 

North pointed an accusatory finger. “And he liked it.”

 

Dao finally glanced up, unimpressed. “Of course he did.”

 

The room erupted.

 

Easter threw himself face-first into a pillow with a muffled scream. Typhoon was already pacing like he was on caffeine pills. North just sat there, jaw dropped, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

“You don’t understand!” Typhoon shouted, flailing his arms. “I thought Arthit was scary! He used to terrify us! And then you—” he mimed yanking a leash—“and he folded!”

 

Dao smirked, setting his phone down with deliberate calm. “He doesn’t fold. He listens.”

 

North narrowed his eyes. “That sounds worse.”

 

“Better,” Dao corrected smoothly. “Because it’s what he wants.”

 

The ducklings stared at him like he’d just spoken witchcraft.

 

Easter sat up suddenly, eyes wide and scandalous. “Wait. Wait. If he’s like that with you in public—” he leaned forward, whispering dramatically—“what’s he like in bed?”

 

The room went dead quiet.

 

Dao arched a brow, lips curving in the slowest, smuggest smile. “Curious, are we?”

 

Typhoon squeaked, “For science.”

 

North muttered, “For science, my ass,” but he was clearly listening too.

 

Dao stretched, catlike, then answered with infuriating calm. “He’s still dominant in bed. Always. But—” he paused, just long enough to watch them lean in—“he’s focused on me. Only me. Every touch, every move. It’s like he doesn’t know how to think about anything else.”

 

The ducklings collectively lost their minds.

 

Easter screamed into the pillow again. Typhoon collapsed flat on the floor, kicking his feet like he was dying. North just threw his hands over his face, groaning like the world had ended.

 

Dao sipped his soda, unbothered, eyes glittering. “What? You thought I’d have to beg for attention? No. Arthit gives it. Freely. Happily. I don’t have to ask.”

 

North peeked through his fingers, half horrified, half fascinated. “So what you’re saying is—”

 

Dao interrupted smoothly. “What I’m saying is that he loves me enough to make me his priority. Everywhere. Always. And if that means the rest of you are only now catching on?” His smirk sharpened. “That’s your problem.”

 

The ducklings screamed all over again.

 

And Dao? Dao leaned back on the couch, utterly satisfied. Because the truth wasn’t just that Arthit followed his lead.

 

The truth was that Arthit wanted to.

 

And Dao had no intention of hiding it anymore.

 

 

 

 

The doctor squad noticed it in pieces.

 

Arthit had always carried a certain reputation among them,  sharp, laid back, a little intimidating. Back in uni, he was the one people didn’t dare cross unless they had a death wish. Even now, as a soon-to-be doctor, he was the guy professors nodded to with respect and patients instinctively trusted.

 

But then came Daotok.

 

It was Hill who clocked it first.

 

They were at Johan’s bar, everyone gathered for a casual Friday night. The ducklings had claimed one end of the booth, the doctor squad on the other, Arthit and Dao squeezed somewhere in the middle.

 

Dao reached for his glass, fingers brushing Arthit’s arm, and Arthit — Arthit — immediately set down the conversation he was having mid-sentence just to push the drink closer. Didn’t even look annoyed. Just did it.

 

Hill arched a brow. “Since when do you let people interrupt you?”

 

Arthit blinked, confused. Dao just smirked into his drink.

 

“Since now, apparently,” Hill muttered.

 

 

 

Tonfah’s moment came a week later.

 

They were leaving the hospital after late rounds. The air was cold, and Arthit was tugging at his tie with that permanent scowl that came after twelve-hour shifts. Daotok was waiting outside, scrolling on his phone.

 

The second Arthit saw him, the scowl melted. Just… vanished. He walked right over, let Dao fix the tie he’d been fighting with, and stood there like a statue until Dao gave a little nod of approval.

 

Tonfah almost dropped his clipboard. “Are you kidding me?”

 

Dao looked up, smiling politely. Arthit didn’t even glance at Tonfah. Just muttered, “Let’s go,” in a voice so soft it barely sounded like him.

 

Tonfah nearly combusted on the spot.

 

 

 

Johan’s realization was the most brutal.

 

He’d always thought Arthit was one of the only ones in their group who couldn’t be rattled. Always calm, always composed, the one who could match him glare for glare.

 

And then, at another party, Johan watched Daotok stroll up, pluck Arthit’s half-finished drink from his hand, and say, “That’s enough.”

 

Arthit didn’t argue.

 

Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t do anything.

 

He just nodded.

 

Johan, mid-sip of his own whiskey, choked. “No way.”

 

Dao looked at him, all innocent smile and razor-sharp eyes. “Problem?”

 

Johan shook his head slowly, grinning like he’d just uncovered state secrets. “No problem at all.”

 

 

 

After that, the doctor squad started seeing it everywhere. The way Arthit always angled himself toward Dao, even in a group. The way his shoulders relaxed when Dao leaned on him. The way one word, one look, could pull him into silence faster than any professor or senior ever managed.

 

And the kicker?

 

Arthit wasn’t ashamed of it.

 

He liked it.

 

Hill muttered one night over drinks, “He’s whipped.”

 

Tonfah laughed so hard he spilled half his beer. “Whipped? He’s domesticated.”

 

Johan just smirked, watching as Daotok tugged Arthit toward the dance floor by the wrist, no resistance whatsoever.

 

“Domesticated?” Johan shook his head. “No. That’s a man on a leash. And he wears it proudly.”