Sidestory 2: "Tinkerbell’s Discipline"

The air inside the massive soundstage was incredibly thick, heavily perfumed with the sharp, chemical sweetness of industrial fog machines, clouds of aerosol hairspray, and the electric ozone scent radiating from a hundred blindingly hot studio spotlights. The set for TWICE’s “TT” music video was a masterclass in artificial wonder, a vibrant Halloween fantasy bathed in dark purples and vivid oranges. Yet, despite the playful atmosphere, the suffocating pressure of absolute perfection hung over everything like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

For Momo Hirai, the designated dancing machine of the group, that pressure was currently twisting her insides into frustrating knots.

She stood in her mark, the heavy heat of the overhead lights causing a thin, shimmering sheen of perspiration to gather along her collarbones. Her costume—a vibrant, bright green strapless dress constructed from layers of stiff, flowing tulle—felt restrictive. It was designed to mimic a fairy, specifically Tinkerbell. The sweetheart neckline gripped her chest tightly, adorned with small, delicate leafy decorations affixed to the bodice that scratched faintly against her heated skin every time she took a ragged breath. A high bun secured her light pinkish-brown hair, her signature full fringe perfectly styling her fair, porcelain face. Beneath the flowing green skirts, she wore tight safety pants, a standard protocol to hide what wasn't meant for the cameras.

But right now, the cameras weren't the problem. Her own body was betraying her.

The music pounded through the massive studio speakers. The catchy chorus hit, demanding the iconic choreography. Momo forced her hands up to her face, forming the crying “TT” gesture, and attempted to throw her hips into the sharp, rhythmic isolation the dance required. It was supposed to be effortless, snappy, and infinitely precise.

Instead, it was stiff. Uninspired. Heavy.

There was an intense, crushing internal pressure blocking her muscles from flowing. A relentless, pulsating distraction that had nothing to do with the steps, and everything to do with the incredibly vivid, wild memories looping continuously behind her dark, expressive eyes.

She let her gaze drift toward the backstage shadows. There, standing just outside the oppressive glare of the camera lights, was Jihyo, the formidable leader of their group. Jihyo was laughing, a bright, carefree sound that drifted over the heavy bass of the track. Her eyes were sparkling as she spoke animatedly to the towering, imposing figure beside her.

he was known intimately to those bold enough to cross the line, Y/N.

He stood at an intimidating 188 centimeters, a solid 90 kilograms of dense, ruthlessly honed European muscle encased in a black, sharply tailored Adidas tracksuit. His short, dark black hair was swept back, his piercing brown eyes locked onto Jihyo with an intense, predatory focus that made Momo’s breath catch painfully in her throat. As the group's dance trainer and primary bodyguard, his presence was a constant, heavy anchor in their chaotic lives. But lately, Momo had discovered his duties extended far beyond blocking crazed fans and correcting footwork.

The memory of the previous night hit Momo with the force of a physical blow, sending a rush of blistering heat straight to her core.

The TWICE dorm had been dead silent, cloaked in the heavy velvet of 3 AM. Momo had woken up thirsty, slipping quietly down the dark hallway toward the kitchen. As she passed the communal bathrooms, the sound of the shower running had caught her attention. It wasn't just the water, though. It was the wet, rhythmic, violent sound of flesh slapping relentlessly against flesh, underscored by heavy, guttural groans and the high-pitched, desperate begging of a familiar voice.

Momo hadn't been able to stop herself. The door had been cracked open just a sliver, the warm, damp steam leaking into the cool hallway. Through that narrow gap, she had witnessed absolute, unfiltered carnage. Jihyo had been pressed flat against the slick, wet tiles, her perfect, heavy breasts flattened against the cold ceramic while Y/N stood behind her, gripping her hips with massive, unforgiving hands. The dim emergency lighting had painted Y/N's rippling six-pack and heavily muscled thighs in sharp relief as he drove a spectacularly thick, ruthlessly massive cock into their leader.

Momo had stood there in the dark, paralyzed, her knees trembling so hard she had to brace herself against the wall. For almost half an hour, she had watched in transfixed, horrified awe as Y/N brutally reorganized Jihyo’s insides. She had heard Jihyo moan, cry, and shatter, begging for more, completely surrendering her massive responsibilities and her unending stress to the savage, primal pounding of his thick, European anatomy. He had practically owned Jihyo in that shower, using her with a raw, dominant entitlement that made Momo’s panties utterly soaked just watching.

It was clearly a profoundly intense form of 'stress relief.' How long had it been going on?(I mean, Momo doesn’t know, but ever since the first video shoot in 2015 for “Like Ooh-Aah,” Jihyo has been “using” Y/Ns stress-relief method [see Side Story 1, “The First Encounter”]). But ever since the realization hit her, she had felt an agonizingly heavy emptiness throbbing between her own thighs. She was stressed too. The choreography, the long hours, the endless diets. She desperately needed an outlet. She needed that weight to be crushed out of her.

A sharp clap echoed across the soundstage. The producer waved a rolled-up script in the air.

"Cut! Take ten, everyone! Jihyo, come here for a second, we need to discuss your blocking for the solo shot."

Momo exhaled a shaky breath as the heavy track abruptly cut out. Jihyo nodded obediently, offering Y/N a knowing, lingering smile before turning and jogging toward the camera crew.

Suddenly, Y/N was completely alone, leaning back against the cool, dark cinderblock wall in the shadows, his massive arms crossed over his broad chest. His brown eyes slowly panned across the brightly lit stage until they locked directly onto Momo. Even from twenty feet away, the intense weight of his stare sent a crackle of pure electricity straight down her spine.

I have to go over there, she thought, the sudden, intrusive impulse completely overriding her common sense. I want his stress relief. I want what she has.

Without a second thought, she stepped off the elevated stage. The rustle of her stiff green tulle skirt seemed deafening in her own ears as she crossed the studio floor. Her small, delicate heels clicked rhythmically against the concrete. The closer she got, the larger he seemed to grow, his 90kg frame completely dominating the dimly lit backstage corner. The air around him smelled incredibly intoxicating—a sharp, intensely masculine blend of fresh sweat, dark coffee, and clean laundry, undercut with an undeniable, raw, feral heat.

She stopped exactly one foot in front of him, tilting her head back to look up into his striking, sharply contoured face. She forced her expression into a pout, extending one perfectly manicured finger to poke the hard, unyielding muscle of his chest through the black nylon of his Adidas jacket.

"You’re staring," she accused, her voice dropping an octave, carrying the soft, musical lilt of her native Japanese accent blending smoothly with her Korean.

Y/N didn't move. He didn't even flinch at the physical contact. Instead, a slow, incredibly deep chuckle rumbled up from the vast expanse of his chest. It was a dark, vibrating sound that Momo felt tingling intensely in the very soles of her feet.

"I am your dance trainer, remember?" he replied, his deep voice heavily laced with the sharp, melodic cadence of his European accent. His Korean was solid, but occasionally, he paused, a momentary hesitation as his mind searched for the right vocabulary. It only made him sound more dominant, more deliberate. "It’s literally my job to judge your hip work. And right now, little fairy, your hips are as stiff as a frozen board. What’s the matter? Is the Tinkerbell dress too tight?"

His brown eyes flicked downward, taking in the way the vibrant green sweetheart neckline struggled to contain the full, soft swells of her C-cup breasts, heavily boosted by her invisible-strap bra. The heat in his gaze was palpable, scorching a path across her exposed collarbones and down her cinched waist.

Momo refused to back down. The slow burn of anticipation was a physical ache in her lower belly. She took a tiny half-step forward, closing the distance so completely that the stiff layers of her tulle skirt brushed intimately against the nylon of his track pants. She let her dark, heavily lined eyes drop intentionally, her gaze wandering hungrily down the massive breadth of his shoulders, tracing the muscular V-taper of his torso, before shamelessly lingering on the incredibly thick, prominent bulge straining the front of his sweatpants.

"Jihyo," Momo began, her voice dropping into a sultry, breathless whisper that barely carried over the ambient noise of the crew chatting feet away. "She handles the stress so well. The pressure. She has a way… a way to let it all go."

Y/N’s dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, but he remained completely silent, letting the heavy, suffocating silence stretch between them.

Momo’s hand moved slowly from his chest. Her trembling fingers brushed over the cool metal zipper of his Adidas jacket, tracing the teeth downward with excruciating slowness. "I saw her, Y/N. Last night. I saw how you… help her."

Instantly, the atmosphere between them fractured. The playful, detached demeanor Y/N had worn vanished, replaced in a split second by a slow, dangerously predatory smirk that spread across his handsome face. The muscles in his jaw ticked as his dark eyes darkened to the color of midnight. He knew exactly what she was playing at.

"Is that so?" Y/N murmured. The timbre of his voice had dropped into a terrifyingly low register. He leaned in slightly, his towering frame casting a massive, suffocating shadow over her petite body. "Jihyo is very… disciplined. She knows how to follow instructions."

Momo felt a hot rush of wetness instantly flood her tight safety pants at the veiled challenge in his words. Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened on the hem of his jacket.

"I can follow instructions," she countered instantly, her chin jutting out in defiance. "Probably better than she can. I’m the dancing machine, remember? My body does exactly what it’s told."

She looked up through her full pinkish-brown fringe, offering him a sweet, painfully innocent smile that starkly contradicted the filthy heat radiating from her core. "I am so incredibly stressed right now, Y/N. My hips are frozen because of the pressure. I just wish… I really wish it would go away. I need to be relaxed."

Y/N stared down at her upturned face. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip. The predatory gleam in his brown eyes flared into a raging, uncontrollable wildfire. A slow, knowing, and utterly filthy smile curved his lips.

"Well," he breathed heavily, the sound practically vibrating against the sensitive skin of her face. A perfectly wicked, challenging smile ghosted across his lips. "I cannot refuse a sweet fairy’s wish."

Before Momo could even take a breath to process his words, Y/N’s massive hands snapped out, gripping her jaw and the back of her neck with undeniable, absolute authority. He crashed his lips down onto hers. The kiss was an explosive collision, a blinding flash of electricity that pierced straight through Momo’s chest, sending a violent shockwave of pure, liquid heat plummeting straight into her damp core. It was an incredible feeling—raw, dominating, and utterly overwhelming.

She opened her mouth with a soft, needy gasp, and his thick tongue instantly invaded, dancing against hers in a wet, dominating rhythm that tasted sharply of dark espresso and mint. Momo moaned into his mouth, her hands frantically sliding up his solid chest, boldly pushing under the cold nylon of his Adidas jacket and his thin undershirt. Her small palms met the scorching hot, rock-hard ridges of his perfectly defined six-pack. His skin was lightly dusted with a fine layer of sweat, the muscular landscape trembling under her desperate, roaming fingertips.

Y/N pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged and heavy, his dark eyes entirely blown out with lust.

"Show me the 'TT'," he commanded, his deep voice thick with a rough, English-inflected snarl.

Momo’s mind was swimming, drunk on the taste of his mouth and the overwhelming scent of his arousal. Obediently, she brought her hands up to her cheeks, making the familiar crying 'TT' gesture, playfully wiggling her hips beneath the stiff green tulle.

Y/N let out a dark, filthy laugh, his heavy hands gripping the sides of her waist. "No, little fairy. I don't mean the dance. I want to see your 'TTs'."

Momo’s dark eyes widened, a thrilling flush of pure heat erupting across her fair face and spilling down her chest. The sheer brazenness of his demand, right here in the shadows just twenty feet away from the active, bustling film set, made her pussy clench violently, a hot slick of clear arousal spilling into her safety pants.

Her trembling hands moved from her face down to the vibrant green sweetheart neckline of her Tinkerbell dress. Without a second of hesitation, she hooked her fingers into the stiff tulle and her invisible-strap bra, pulling the restrictive fabric down. Her C-cup breasts sprang free, heavy, warm, and flushed with pale pink. They bobbed gently in the cool backstage air, her dark, tight nipples immediately peaking into hard, begging pearls.

Y/N’s dark brown eyes instantly devoured her bare chest. "They're not quite as massive as Jihyo’s," he observed, his voice dripping with blunt, unapologetic honesty. He reached out, his massive, calloused palms covering both of her exposed breasts completely. "But... they fit so perfectly in my hands."

Momo let out a sharp, breathless moan as Y/N gently but firmly began to knead her soft flesh. His rough palms rasped delightfully against her hypersensitive nipples, squeezing the plush, heavy mounds of her C-cups together before rolling the peaks between his thumbs and forefingers. The sensory overload was maddening—the sharp scratching of the tulle around her waist, the blinding heat of his hands, and the heavy, intoxicating throb between her legs.

Y/N leaned in, kissing her deeply again, his tongue tasting her desperate whimpers while he continuously played with her breasts. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, his hands dropped from her chest to the waistband of his Adidas sweatpants. In one quick pull, he shoved the black track pants and his dark boxers down his muscular thighs.

Momo literally gasped against his mouth, her eyes snapping downward. There, springing free with an angry, heavy slap against his lower abdomen, was his cock.

It was terrifyingly beautiful. A fully engorged, massive 18-centimeter European weapon of pure muscle and throbbing blue veins. The thick, bulbous glans was already weeping a heavy tear of slick pre-cum, glistening under the ambient studio lights. Up close, his cock looked even bigger than it had in the dark shower with Jihyo. It radiated a blinding heat, twitching upward as if demanding to be worshipped. For a fleeting second, her brain calculated the massive girth of it, wondering how it would ever fit inside her tight, petite frame.