not 1...not 2...but 3 MINSUNG COW AUS (im addicted to cow sung what can I say)

Sunshine and Sweet Milk

Minho stepped off the dusty bus with a suitcase in one hand and his city worries already loosening in his chest, because the countryside in summer smelled like cut grass, warm hay, and something impossibly sweet drifting from his grandma's direction. Grandma hugged him hard at the gate, then laughed and told him the farm had never looked better—crops fat and green, hens laying like clockwork, the sun itself seeming to shine just for them. What she didn't mention was the reason, and Minho didn't find out until he rounded the barn and nearly dropped his bag: a boy lounging on the fence like he owned the whole valley, brown hair fluffy as a cloud, two small horns poking through it, soft fluffy ears twitching, a little cow tag swinging from one, and a long tail with a tuft at the end flicking lazily behind him.

Jisung was, without question, the prettiest thing Minho had ever seen—and the sassiest, a fact he made sure to establish within thirty seconds of meeting him. "You're the grandson," he said, eyeing Minho up and down like he was grading him. "Grandma said you'd be scrawny. She was right." Jisung had regular human anatomy—no udders, nothing weird—just the horns, the ears, the tail, thighs that melted down into glossy hooves, and hands that were perfectly ordinary and perfectly capable of shoving Minho off the fence when he laughed too hard. Grandma just smiled and said that ever since Jisung wandered onto the farm, the weather had turned kind, the sun had shined brighter, the crops had grown faster, and the hens laid more eggs than she knew what to do with. "He's good luck," she said. Jisung called her a liar and flicked his tail.

He could produce milk, too—that was the thing—but Jisung refused to let just anyone touch him. Grandma had tried. The neighbors had tried. Jisung declared them all unworthy, retreating to a small private cabin tucked in the woods at the edge of the property, a cozy little house that smelled of hay and honeysuckle. And then one evening, after Minho had spent a week earning nothing but insults and the occasional shared apple, Jisung looked him over and said flatly, "You. Come with me." Minho followed him down the shaded path to the cabin, heart pounding, and understood without being told that he was the only person in the world Jisung would allow to do this.

Inside the cabin, Jisung settled onto the soft bed of blankets, pulled off his shirt, and Minho nearly forgot how to breathe. Jisung's chest was soft and round, full and heavy with milk, and the moment Minho's fingers found those plush little nipples, Jisung let out a quiet, satisfied sigh like a cat finally getting what it wanted. Minho wanted so badly to just grab those soft round pecs and squeeze—and he did—murmuring "boobs" under his breath, which earned him a sharp glare and a blush. He leaned down and sucked, and shit, the milk came sweet and perfect, warm as the afternoon sun, so good he had to take another sip just to believe it. Jisung shivered, tail curling tight around Minho's wrist, sass melting into something softer.

It became their ritual, every evening in that little cabin, and it slowly became more than that. Jisung was a power bottom through and through—bossy even when breathless, telling Minho exactly where to put his hands, exactly how fast, exactly how hard—while Minho, a sub top who liked being told what to do almost as much as he liked doing it, discovered he fit against Jisung like a puzzle piece. Summer stretched long and golden, the farm thriving under Jisung's strange luck, the sun shining brighter every day, and Minho milking his cow hybrid in the quiet of the woods and calling him beautiful while Jisung pretended not to love it. By August, Minho had stopped counting the days until he had to leave, because somewhere between the sweet milk and the sharper tongue, he'd started thinking of the countryside as home.

Three Summers in Minho's Head

## Scenario One: The First Milking

I still remember the exact second Jisung grabbed my wrist and pulled me off the fence. No warning, no explanation—just that sharp little tug and his tail swishing behind him as he marched me down the shaded path like he was doing me a favor. I followed like an idiot. The cabin smelled like hay and honeysuckle, and when he yanked off his shirt and settled back onto the blankets, I think my brain short-circuited.

Soft. That's the only word my head could produce. His chest was round and full, heavy with milk, and the second my fingers brushed those little nipples he made a sound—low, satisfied, almost smug. I wanted to grab the whole thing, both hands, just squeeze, and I did, and I whispered "boobs" because that's what they looked like and that's what my mouth said before my brain caught up. He shot me a glare that could've killed a lesser man. Then I leaned down and sucked, and shit, it was sweet. Warm. Perfect. Better than anything I'd ever tasted, and I had to take another pull just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. His tail wrapped my wrist so tight I felt his pulse through it. "Don't stop," he muttered, all that sass dissolving into something quiet. I didn't.

## Scenario Two: The Henhouse Argument

Grandma had me collecting eggs at dawn, and Jisung—being Jisung—decided that was the perfect time to be insufferable. He leaned against the henhouse door with his arms crossed, hooves planted, tail flicking, telling me I was holding the basket wrong. Wrong. As if there's a wrong way to hold a basket. I told him so. He told me I was "scrawny and unobservant." I told him his ears twitched when he lied. His ears twitched.

That's how it always went with us—me losing my temper, him winning it back, both of us standing too close in a cramped little henhouse while the hens clucked around us like bored spectators. Then I caught him smiling, just a flash of it, before he buried it. "The sun's brighter when you're here," I said, because it was true and because I wanted to watch him get embarrassed. He turned pink to the tips of his ears and shoved me into the grain sack. Then he sat on my lap and stayed there, tail draped over my shoulder, and suddenly the eggs didn't matter at all.

## Scenario Three: The Last Night

August came faster than I wanted it to. The night before my bus left, I walked down the path to the cabin without being called, and Jisung was already waiting—blankets spread, shirt already gone, like he'd known. He always knew.

"I'm not sad," he announced the second I walked in, which meant he was extremely sad. "You're just a city boy. You'll forget the farm by October." I told him I wouldn't. He called me a liar. His voice cracked on the word.

So I did what we always did, what I'd come to need more than I admitted—settling behind him, hands on that soft, full chest, mouth at his nipple, drinking slow while his tail curled around my thigh and his breath went shaky. Sweet. Warm. Perfect, every single time. But this time when he finished, he didn't push me away or insult me. He twisted around, pressed his forehead to mine, and said, quietly, "Come back next summer." Power bottom to the very end—*come back* wasn't a question.

I came back every summer after that. And every single time, the sun shone a little brighter the day I arrived.