Work Text:
Please show your support for ‘Peyz’ as he begins this new chapter with us.
This takes place in the evening.
The news announcement of his transfer had gone live barely an hour ago, and yet the reality still hadn’t settled in. Peyz stood outside the T1 residence, suitcase by his side, breath misting faintly in the cool night air. This would be his home for the next three years.
Was he nervous?
Of course he was.
Was he excited to return to the LCK?
Absolutely.
He shifted his weight, glancing at the dimly lit entrance. His hyung was supposed to pick him up—it was already late, and Peyz didn’t want to wander the building alone.
The door burst open a moment later.
“Su-Hwan-ah! Sorry, sorry! They wouldn’t FF at all.” Doran jogged toward him, slightly out of breath, still wearing his T1 shirt from scrims. He reached over and ruffled Peyz’s hair with a warm, familiar grin.
“How was the flight back from China?”
“It was okay,” Peyz said, the tension easing from his shoulders as Doran took one of his bags. They walked side by side into the residence, the quiet of the halls contrasting sharply with the loud, bustling memories Peyz held from past visits. It had been over a year—maybe two—since he’d last seen Doran, and the conversation flowed easily, filling the gaps time had carved between them.
Doran led him down the corridor, stopping at a door Peyz recognized from past player content videos.
“This is your room,” Doran said, pushing it open.
It was spacious—far bigger than his dorm room in JDG. Clean. Minimalistic. And unmistakably marked by its former occupant.
Gumayusi.
Just hearing the name sent a small shiver down Peyz’s spine. This had been the reigning world champion’s room. Finals MVP. One of the greatest ADCs Korea has ever produced. And now it was his job—his role—to fill that void. The weight of it settled heavily on his shoulders.
“Breakfast is at eight,” Doran added gently, noticing the way Peyz lingered by the door. “You’ll be properly introduced to the team and staff then.”
He stepped back, already halfway down the hallway. “Good night, Su-Hwan. I’m gonna go stream.”
“Good night, hyung.”
When the door finally closed, Peyz let out a slow breath. He took in the space again—the neatly made bed, the empty desk, the faint echo of the legacy left behind.
This wasn’t a dream.
He was here.
On the best team in the world—well, other than Gen.G, he joked to himself.
He was trying to unpack when a sound broke the silence.
It wasn't loud, not at first. It was a soft, rhythmic creak. A floorboard, maybe? But it was too regular. Too… intentional. Then came an unmistakable sound, even muffled through a wall. A muffled gasp, followed by a low, drawn-out moan.
Peyz froze, his hand hovering over a t-shirt. The sound came from the direction of Keria’s room. His mind, already a mess of anxiety and excitement, instantly went into overdrive. He knew, of course. Everyone knew about both of them. They weren't exactly subtle, their affection spilling out in playful touches and inside jokes on streams, a well-known open secret in the LCK community. This was Guma’s last night before officially moving to whatever team had scooped him up. A farewell tour.
Curiosity, sharp and insistent, clawed at him. It was a stupid idea. But he was nineteen, fueled by hormones and the reckless energy of someone who had just achieved a lifelong dream. He found himself moving, his bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, drawn toward the source of the noise like a moth to a flame.
He reached Keria’s door. It wasn't fully closed, left ajar by a sliver of careless haste. The moans were clearer now, breathy and raw, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of the bed. Another sound, deeper, grunted, joined in. Guma. He hesitated for a heartbeat, a war raging in his head between common sense and pure, unadulterated teenage horniness. Common sense is lost.
With a trembling hand, he pushed the door open just a fraction more, enough to peek inside.
The sight that met his eyes stole the air from his lungs. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Not just the tangled limbs and the sheen of sweat on pale skin. It was the position. Keria was on his back, legs spread wide, while Gumayusi was above him, but facing away, his head thrown back against Keria’s shoulder. A reverse cowgirl. From Peyz’s angle, he could see everything—the desperate clutch of Keria’s hands on Guma’s thighs, the arch of Guma’s back, the slick, pistoning motion of their bodies. It was raw, it was intimate, and it was the most pornographic, beautiful thing Peyz had ever seen.
Then Keria’s eyes, half-lidded and glazed with pleasure, slid open and met his.
Time stopped. The rhythmic creaking of the bed ceased abruptly. The moans died in Keria’s throat. For a horrifying, electric second, they just stared at each other. Peyz, the intruder. Keria, the caught.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded Peyz’s veins. He was about to slam the door shut and sprint back to his room, to pack his bags and request an immediate trade to any other team in the world when Keria did something unexpected. He didn't shout. He didn't look angry. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. He nudged Gumayusi, who craned his neck back, a confused grunt escaping him. He followed Keria’s gaze.
Gumayusi’s eyes widened when he saw Peyz, a flush creeping up his neck. But Keria just tilted his head towards the single armchair in the corner of the room. An invitation.
“Shut the door and sit, kid.” Keria’s voice was husky, raspy from exertion. “You can watch. But you can’t touch. You’re underage.”
The words were a jolt. A direct, blunt dismissal and invitation all at once. The logical part of Peyz’s brain screamed at him to run. But the primal, pulsing part that was currently straining against the fabric of his shorts won. He stepped inside, pulling the door quietly closed behind him, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the sudden silence. He moved to the armchair, his movements stiff and robotic, sinking into the worn leather.
As he sat, Keria and Guma resumed their motion. The creaking started again, slower this time, hesitant. But as Keria’s moans grew louder, as Guma’s grunts became more desperate, they found their rhythm again. Peyz watched, transfixed, the sight searing itself into his memory. He felt a flush of shame, but it was quickly drowned out by a wave of overwhelming arousal that made him dizzy. He pressed his palm against the hard bulge in his pants, trying to alleviate the ache, trying to be discreet. But he couldn't stop himself. His eyes were locked on the place where their bodies joined, on the expressions on their faces, on the sheer, unashamed pleasure.
He couldn't take it. The distance was too much. He needed to be closer. He stood, his movements jerky, and took a few steps towards the bed, sinking on the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned under his new weight. Neither of them seemed to mind. If anything, the pace quickened.
Keria turned his head, his lips brushing against the shell of Peyz’s ear, his hot breath sending a shiver down his spine.
“You like watching, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice a low purr. “You like watching us fall apart?”
The words were a lit match to gasoline. Peyz was done for. He couldn't hold back a groan as he finally freed himself, his own movements clumsy and desperate. He started to stroke, his eyes squeezed shut, the sounds of their sex filling his ears, the ghost of Keria’s breath on his skin.
“Look at me, Peyz,” Keria commanded, and Peyz’s eyes snapped open.
He saw Keria watching him, his gaze intense, dark, full of a predatory hunger that was both terrifying and intoxicating. He was no longer just an observer; he was part of it. a participant in this strange, electric tableau. Gumayusi, caught between them, shuddered, his body tensing as he came with a choked cry. Keria followed a moment later, his back arching, a long, drawn-out moan escaping his lips as he looked directly at Peyz.
The sight, the sound, the sheer intensity of it all sent Peyz over the edge. He bit down on his lip to stifle his own cry as he spilled over his own hand, waves of pleasure crashing over him, leaving him breathless and shaking.
For a moment, they just lay there, a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. Then, driven by a surge of pure, post-orgasmic impulsiveness, Peyz leaned in. He didn't think. He just acted. He pressed a quick, soft kiss to Gumayusi’s lips, then turned and did the same to Keria, tasting the salt of their sweat. It was a clumsy, desperate gesture of gratitude, of belonging, of pure, unadulterated horniness.
Before they could respond, before he could even process what he had done, he was on his feet, grabbing a discarded t-shirt to clean himself off. "I should... I should go to bed," he mumbled, not meeting their eyes. He practically fled the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the scent of sex and the ghost of a kiss hanging in the air.
THE NEXT DAY
The morning light was brutally bright, filtering through the wide dining-room windows and glinting off the chrome of the coffee machine. The air smelled of brewing coffee and toasted bread. Peyz, running on four hours of feverish, disjointed sleep, felt as though he were drifting through fog. He kept his head down, staring at the bowl of rice in front of him. Around him, the T1 members—Gumayusi included—ate in an unusual silence. It was his last breakfast with the team he used to call home.
It was Doran who broke the quiet. Not because he meant harm—he simply had the subtlety of a brick in a dryer.
“You know,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of kimchi, “I saw you leaving Keria’s room last night, Peyz-ah. Pretty late.”
Peyz’s chopsticks slipped from his fingers and clattered against the bowl. His face, already pale from lack of sleep, flushed an alarming shade of red. Heat rushed up his neck, roaring in his ears. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the words clawing at his throat. He had walked in on something he shouldn’t have—something private, intimate—and now he’d been caught. Worst of all, he was sure he’d be shipped home on the spot.
He inhaled shakily. “I… yes. I did,” he whispered, eyes locked on his rice as if it could swallow him whole.
A beat of silence.
Then Oner—eternal agent of chaos—released a dramatic sigh. He slung an arm around Doran’s shoulders, pulling him in close. “Hyung-ah, why are you watching other people so closely?” he crooned, batting his eyelashes. “Are you jealous? It’s okay. You’re the only one for me.”
Doran, usually carved from stone, turned bright red. He sputtered, shoving Oner away. “Yah! I was just making an observation!”
The table burst into laughter. Even Keria and Gumayusi were chuckling, exchanging one of those private looks that made Peyz’s stomach twist strangely. In an instant, the tension dissolved, replaced by the chaotic warmth of a team that had long grown used to each other’s disasters.
But through the fog of embarrassment, Peyz noticed one person who hadn’t reacted at all.
Faker.
He sat calmly sipping his coffee, expression unreadable—an ancient statue observing a scene he’d witnessed a thousand times.
Peyz swallowed, gathering what little courage he had left. “Hyung… you’re not… weirded out by this?”
Faker lowered his mug, his gaze settling on Peyz. There was no judgment in it—just a quiet, clinical calm.
“By what?” he asked evenly. “A rookie walking in on two teammates having farewell sex?”
Peyz choked on a mouthful of rice.
Faker offered the faintest hint of a smile—less a curve of lips, more a softening of intent. “Su-Hwan-ah, things like that have been happening in this dorm long before you debuted. It’s normal.” He took another sip. “Do whatever you want. Just make sure your solo queue rank doesn’t drop.”
Immediately, the table erupted again.
“Yah, hyung!” Oner shouted, still clinging to a mortified Doran. “Stop corrupting the youth!”
“He’s a minor!” Gumayusi scolded, wagging a finger, though he was clearly suppressing a smile. “That’s illegal.”
“It’s a joke, idiot,” Keria muttered, rolling his eyes. “But he’s right about the solo queue. We didn’t recruit you for your sexual prowess, Su-Hwan.”
Peyz let the teasing wash over him. Yes—he was a minor. Yes—this was wildly inappropriate. But somehow, the fact that Faker—the legend, the immovable Mid laner—was so unfazed made the whole situation feel surreal. This was T1. The team he had worshipped from afar. And also a place where two teammates could be caught in a compromising position one night and laugh about it over breakfast the next morning, while their captain casually gave the rookie “permission” as if discussing scrim schedules.
He looked around the table—at Doran, still trying to escape Oner’s grasp; at Oner, grinning like a mischievous cat; at Keria and Gumayusi, glowing with the ease of people who no longer hid their closeness; and at Faker, the calm eye in their hurricane.
A warm, unfamiliar feeling curled in his chest.
He wasn’t just a guest here, some intern passing through.
He was one of them.
He had crossed a threshold he hadn’t even known existed—and instead of being pushed away, he had been welcomed. In their own strange, chaotic, utterly T1 way.