#seoyeon x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mineganoe · 5 days ago

Text

Secret SSS Story

tripleS Seoyeon x male reader

part 1 (?)

tags: drama, handjob, creampie, intimacy, lap-sitting, woman on top, guilt, seduction, manager-member relationship

words: 7k+

=================

"Manager-nim, this is huge... how could you possibly hide this from me?" Seoyeon said in a soft, teasing tone. Her fingers glided slowly along the head of your cock, already slick with the precum that had started to leak out, stroking it with such skillful movements that your breath hitched in your throat.

"Seoyeon-ssi... ughh," a groan escaped your lips uncontrollably, your body tensing as it reveled in the unfamiliar yet intoxicating sensation. Waves of pleasure surged through you, igniting every nerve that had never been touched before.

You’re a 23-year-old junior manager, freshly recruited into the team behind tripleS, an ambitious South Korean idol girl group project developed by Modhaus.

tripleS aren’t your typical group—its concept is groundbreaking, with plans to gradually bring in up to 24 members, forming a massive collective set to shake up the K-pop industry.

But for now, in these early, mysterious stages, there’s only one member: Seoyeon. And somehow, despite all the senior staff around, you’ve been assigned to oversee her first steps.

Your experience is limited. Before this, you were just a low-level assistant at another agency, managing trainee schedules and fetching coffee for senior managers. When the offer to become a junior manager for tripleS came, you could hardly believe it—a huge opportunity, but also a heavy burden.

Seoyeon, though newly debuted, already carries a commanding presence. At 20, she has a soft, beautiful face paired with sharp, confident eyes. Her smile is sweet on camera, but off it, she has an unexpected side—one you just encountered in this Purple Room.

Today was supposed to be routine. Your task was simple: meet Seoyeon at the dorm to discuss her training schedule and early promotion strategies. tripleS is still laying its foundation, and Seoyeon is its first pillar.

But what happened now in her room was anything but "professional." How could you—a rookie manager meant to uphold boundaries—is on this situation with your very first member?

She looked at you, a small smile playing on her flushed lips. "Don’t tell me no one’s ever touched you like this, Manager-nim?" she asked, her hand now confidently stroking your cock, gripping it tightly as it moved up and down in a rhythm that made you lose all sense of control.

You shook your head quickly, eyes squeezed shut, your face flushed red as you struggled to hold back the overwhelming tide of pleasure crashing over you. Each motion of her hand felt like it was unlocking a world you’d never explored.

Seoyeon let out a soft laugh, her voice sweet but laced with a hint of mischief. "You’re so innocent, Manager-nim. Look at you, trembling like this..." she teased, speeding up her hand, her fingers deliberately pressing on your most sensitive spots, making you bite your lip.

She leaned closer, her warm breath brushing against your neck. "There’ll be 24 girls later, you know. Still think you can stay this innocent, Manager-nim?" she taunted again, her hand now moving with wild abandon, stroking you with bold confidence, pushing you to the edge while savoring every helpless reaction you couldn’t hide.

Her hand moved faster now, more assertive, stroking your cock, with a rhythm that left no room to breathe. The sensation flooded you—hot and electric—making your legs tremble uncontrollably. "Seoyeon-ssi... wait... this isn’t—" your voice broke off into a groan you couldn’t suppress, the words of protest dying in your throat.

"What’s that, Manager-nim? Trying to say, ‘this isn’t allowed’?" Seoyeon cut in, her sweet tone laced with mockery, her eyes piercing into you with total control. Her hand didn’t stop; instead, it gripped your throbbing, rock-hard cock even tighter, her fingers slick with the increasing flow of precum. "But your body’s telling a different story."

"I... I don’t want..." you mumbled weakly, your hand half-heartedly rising to push her arm away, but your heart betrayed you. Your body leaned into her touch, surrendering to the burning pleasure.

"So cute, Manager-nim," Seoyeon giggled, her voice low and seductive. She leaned in closer, her lips nearly brushing your ear, her warm breath tickling your skin. "You say you don’t want it, but this—" she sped up her hand, focusing on the increasingly sensitive head of your cock, "—can’t hold back, can it?"

You bit your lip hard, your head tilting back, your breathing ragged. "Seoyeon-ssi... enough..." your plea sounded more like a whimper, but she didn’t care. Instead, she pressed her thumb right at the tip, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made you jolt violently. Your body tensed, muscles contracting, and you knew the climax was right at the edge.

"Can’t resist, huh? A naive junior manager, toyed with by his own member," she whispered triumphantly, her hand now stroking you at full speed, pushing you to the brink. "Just let go, Manager-nim. I know you want to."

And with one final, powerful stroke, you couldn’t fight it anymore. Your body shuddered violently, a long groan spilling from your lips as the last of your control crumbled in Seoyeon’s hands. She kept smiling, satisfied, watching you fall apart in the overwhelming pleasure she’d orchestrated.

The Purple Room, Seoyeon’s private space that once looked tidy with its soft purple tones, was now a mess. The lavender satin sheets, previously smooth and pristine, were now stained and soaked with the forceful spurts of your cum, leaving sticky trails that marred the fabric.

A faint, distinct scent filled the air, mingling with the sweet perfume that usually defined her room. You lay sprawled on your back across the bed, your chest heaving rapidly, your breathing still uneven as it struggled to settle. Your arm rested over your eyes, as if trying to shield yourself from the reality of what had just happened.

Seoyeon stood beside the bed, gazing at you with a small, unreadable smile—a blend of satisfaction and an unexpected tenderness. "Manager-nim, this stays between us, okay?" she said softly, almost in a whisper, though there was an unmistakable firmness beneath her words.

"I won’t tell anyone, promise." She leaned down, bringing her face close to your still-sensitive, faintly throbbing your cock. Her lips brushed the tip with a light kiss—a gesture so intimate and startling that it made you flinch slightly, despite your exhausted state.

You didn’t respond, staying silent, your arm still covering your eyes. Your mind was a whirlwind, torn between guilt as a junior manager who was supposed to remain professional and the lingering echoes of pleasure that still pulsed through every inch of your body.

The sound of Seoyeon’s light footsteps receded, followed by the creak of the en-suite bathroom door opening. Water began to flow from the tap, and you could picture her calmly washing her hands, as if what had just happened was merely a minor moment in her ordinary day.

Meanwhile, you remained motionless on the bed, the wet, sticky sheets beneath you a stark reminder of your defeat. "What have I done..." you muttered inwardly, the words never making it past your lips.

=================

As Seoyeon emerges from the bathroom, her hair slightly damp with water droplets clinging to her cheek, she glances at you, still lying silently on the bed.

"Manager-nim, come on, get up. We still need to go over the schedule, right?" she says casually, as if nothing extraordinary just happened. You lower your arm from your eyes, looking at her with a mix of confusion and embarrassment. She offers a faint smile, then sits at her vanity chair, crossing her legs gracefully.

"tripleS is going to be huge, Manager-nim," she says, dropping the usual formalities this time. "Later, when there are 24 members, you’ll need to be stronger than this. I’m just one, and you’re already like this..." Her tone is playful, but there’s an underlying challenge in her words. You sit up slowly, trying to gather what’s left of your authority as a manager. The stained sheets behind you feel like silent evidence of your weakness, but Seoyeon’s right—this is only the beginning.

tripleS will grow, member by member, until it reaches 24, and if you can’t control yourself with just one, what will happen later? Your chest still pounding, you grab your notebook from your bag, attempting to refocus on work. But in the back of your mind, the secret of the Purple Room looms like a ticking time bomb, one that could explode someday.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your notebook open on your lap, but your hands still tremble slightly as you try to jot down the points Seoyeon mentions. She stands in front of her vanity mirror, casually brushing her slightly damp hair as if the events in the Purple Room earlier were nothing more than a passing breeze.

"Tomorrow, there’s a vocal training session at 10 a.m., then a meeting with the creative team in the afternoon to discuss the debut concept," you say, your voice flat, like you are reading off a grocery list.

"Make sure I’m not late, okay, Manager-nim?" She replied, her hands still brushing her half-messy hair.

You nod quickly, trying to appear professional despite your scrambled thoughts. "Yeah, I’ll... I’ll set a reminder," you reply, your voice a little hoarse. The pen in your hand nearly slips, and you tighten your grip in a hurry, hoping she doesn’t notice your nerves.

But Seoyeon, with her sharp instincts, glances at you through the mirror’s reflection. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and you know she’s fully aware of what’s running through your head.

"Don’t be so tense, Manager-nim," she says, turning around and leaning against the vanity with a relaxed posture. "We’re just getting started. I’m the only member right now, so you only need to focus on me. Easy, right?" Her tone is light, but there’s something beneath her words that makes you feel like she’s testing you again.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. tripleS is indeed just beginning, and Seoyeon is currently its sole member. But the agency has big plans—recruiting new members gradually, building the group into something unprecedented.

As a junior manager, your job is to ensure everything runs smoothly, starting with Seoyeon and eventually extending to the other 23 members who will join later. But after what happened earlier, you’re starting to doubt whether you can truly keep things under control.

Seoyeon walks over and sits beside you on the bed, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of shampoo from her hair. "I heard the second member’s going to be announced next week," she says, her eyes locking onto yours with a knowing look.

"You ready to manage two girls at once, Manager-nim? Or do I need to teach you more, so you don’t get all flustered?" She lets out a soft laugh, her hand briefly brushing your knee before resting back in her lap.

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look down at your notebook, pretending to be busy writing. "I... I can handle it," you mumble, though your voice lacks conviction. Seoyeon just nods, but her smile doesn’t fade, as if she knows you’re still under her spell.

That night, after leaving the dorm and returning to your small apartment, you collapse onto the sofa, your mind spinning. The Purple Room, Seoyeon’s touch, and the secret promise now binding you both feel like a shadow you can’t shake.

tripleS are just beginning, and with the second member soon to join, the pressure of being a manager will only grow. But beneath it all, a question gnaws at you: can you really maintain boundaries, or will Seoyeon keep playing you like she did this afternoon, even as tripleS expands into a full 24-member powerhouse?

=================

Three days. Just three days until Hyerin, the second member of tripleS, officially joins and shifts the dynamic that’s so far only involved you and Seoyeon.

The days since the incident in the Purple Room have flown by, filled with vocal training, photoshoots, and strategy meetings with the agency team. You’ve been trying desperately to slip back into professional mode, keeping your distance from Seoyeon, but she always finds a way to remind you of the secret you share.

This morning, you stand in the corner of living room, clutching a clipboard with today’s schedule. Seoyeon with the vocal trainer, train her vocal into a microphone, her voice flowing soft yet powerful. The vocal trainer beside her nods approvingly, but your eyes can’t help but linger on the subtle movements of her body—the way she grips the mic, the way her hair sways with every high note. Every little detail seems to pull you back to that moment in her room, and you quickly look down at your clipboard, forcing yourself to focus.

"Manager-nim, I’m thirsty," Seoyeon calls out suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. She walks toward you, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead after the intense practice. You nod, hurrying to grab a water bottle from the counter and handing it to her.

As your hand brushes hers, she lets her fingers linger a moment too long, her eyes meeting yours with a smile that’s far too familiar. "Thanks, Manager-nim. You’re always so thoughtful," she says, her tone innocent but her gaze saying something entirely different.

You pull your hand back quickly, feeling your face heat up. "Y-yeah, no problem," you mumble, turning away to pretend you’re checking the schedule again. Inside, you curse yourself.

Three days until Hyerin arrives, and you need to get a grip. tripleS is about to grow, and you can’t let Seoyeon keep playing you like this. But every time she gets close, every time her voice calls you with that sweet tone, your resolve seems to crumble.

That afternoon, after practice wraps up, you and Seoyeon sit in the living room for a quick briefing. She leans back on the couch, one leg propped up on a small table with a casual air. "So, Hyerin’s coming on Saturday, right?" she asks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "You ready to be a manager for two of us, Manager-nim?"

"I’m ready," you reply, trying to sound firm. "I’ve already coordinated with the team, and the schedule for both of you is set. We just need to stick to it."

Seoyeon chuckles, then leans forward, bringing her face closer to yours. "Good to know. But don’t forget, I was here first. Don’t get so caught up with Hyerin that you neglect me, okay?" Her tone is teasing, but there’s a slight edge to it, like she’s staking her claim.

You swallow hard, struggling to keep your expression neutral. "I’m your manager—both of you. I’ll be fair," you say, though your voice wavers slightly.

Seoyeon just smiles, then stands and gives your shoulder a light pat before heading to her room. "I trust you, Manager-nim. But we’ll see how it goes," she says, disappearing behind the door of the Purple Room, leaving you with a tangle of emotions.

That night, in your small apartment, you sit at your desk with your laptop open, reviewing Hyerin’s profile, freshly sent by the agency team. She’s 16, energetic, with standout dance talent—a perfect addition to tripleS.

But beneath the excitement of welcoming a new member, a growing tension tightens in your chest. Seoyeon’s already a handful, and with Hyerin joining, things could get even more complicated. Three days from now, your journey as a tripleS manager will truly be tested—not just by schedules, but by the secret still tucked away in the Purple Room.

=================

The night before Hyerin’s arrival, the sky outside your apartment is dark, lit only by the faint flicker of streetlights. You’ve just finished double-checking tomorrow’s schedule—Hyerin’s arrival shoot is set for noon, with a team briefing scheduled in the morning. Everything’s in order, and you plan to sleep early to keep your energy up. But as you reach to turn off the lights, your phone buzzes. Seoyeon’s name pops up on the screen, and her short message makes you frown.

"Manager-nim, come to the dorm now, please. I need more briefing for tomorrow’s shoot."

You stare at the text, your fingers hesitating.

"The briefing’s tomorrow morning, Seoyeon-ssi, Hyerin’s arriving in the afternoon, so we still have time. I need to rest first."

You hit send, hoping that’ll settle it.

But less than a minute later, your phone buzzes again.

"Please, Manager-nim. I’m serious about you coming. I need to vent, and... I need calming down. I’m not ready for Hyerin. I’m scared we won’t get along."

The message ends with a sad face emoji, and the vulnerability in her tone makes you second-guess refusing her.

You let out a long sigh, glancing at the clock—it’s past 10 p.m. You could stand your ground, but something in her words tugs at you, making it hard to say no. After wrestling with yourself, you type back,

"Fine, I’ll come. But just for a bit."

Grabbing your jacket, you step out into the chilly night.

When you arrive at HAUS, the door to the Purple Room is slightly ajar as you knock. Seoyeon appears, wearing an oversized hoodie and shorts, her hair messy and loose.

"Thanks, Manager-nim," she says softly, opening the door wider. The room still glows with its purple hues, the sheets replaced, but her familiar perfume lingers, pulling you back to memories you can’t shake.

You sit on a small chair in the corner, keeping your distance from the bed. "So, what do you want to talk about?" you ask, trying to stay professional. "We’ve locked in tomorrow’s shoot schedule, and the briefing just needs confirmation in the morning."

Seoyeon doesn’t answer right away. She sits on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest. "I’m scared, Manager-nim," she murmurs quietly. "I’ve been the only one in tripleS so far. Now Hyerin’s coming out of nowhere... What if we don’t get along? What if she doesn’t like me?" She looks at you, her eyes soft but hopeful. "That’s why I asked you to come. I need you to calm me down."

You frown, unsure of her meaning. "Calm you down? How? I can give you advice if you’re anxious," you say, confused but trying to help.

Seoyeon gives a small smile, then stands and walks toward you. "Not just advice," she whispers, her voice low. Without warning, she takes your hand from your lap and guides it slowly toward her chest.

Your fingers flinch as they brush the softness of her breast through the thin hoodie, its full, warm shape pressing into your palm. "I need this, Manager-nim. Calm me down... before Hyerin gets here," she says, her eyes locked on yours, filled with a plea you can’t misinterpret.

You freeze, your breath catching. "Seoyeon-ssi, this... this isn’t—" Your words falter, your mind scrambling for a reason to pull away, but your hand doesn’t move, letting her press it harder against her. Your heart pounds, and Seoyeon closes the distance, sitting on your lap without hesitation, her face just inches from yours.

"I just want to feel safe tonight," she whispers, her hand now stroking your neck. "Tomorrow’s going to change everything, and I don’t want to lose what we have right now." She moves your hand, letting you feel the curves of her body more deeply, and though your mind screams to stop, your body surrenders to her will once again.

That night, in the Purple Room, the line between manager and member crumbles yet again. When you leave the dorm near midnight, Seoyeon’s scent clinging to your jacket, you know tomorrow—when Hyerin arrives—will be more complicated than you ever imagined. The secret grows deeper, and Seoyeon, in her own way, ensures you can’t break free from her hold.

Seoyeon sits on your lap, her body light yet undeniably real, pressing against your thighs with a warmth that’s impossible to ignore. Your hand remains on her breast, guided by her, your fingers feeling the soft texture beneath the thin hoodie.

Your breath catches, your heart racing uncontrollably, and your mind races to find a way to pull back—but your body refuses to listen. "Seoyeon-ssi, we can’t..." you mumble, your voice weak, almost like a plea unsure of itself.

"Manager-nim, I’m only asking for this tonight," she whispers, her voice soft yet laced with a captivating strength. Her face is so close, her warm breath brushes your lips, and her eyes—usually sharp and confident—now radiate a vulnerability that somehow makes it impossible to refuse her. She moves your hand again, letting you squeeze her breast more deeply, and a faint moan escapes her lips, a sound that sends a jolt through your entire body.

You know this is wrong. As a junior manager for tripleS, your job is to protect and guide Seoyeon, not to drown in the temptation she offers. But as her other hand strokes your neck, her fingers sliding slowly toward the nape, all logic seems to evaporate.

"I’m scared tomorrow will feel different," she says, her voice almost a whimper. "Hyerin’s coming, and I don’t want you to forget me." She presses herself closer, her hips shifting subtly on your lap, and you feel your cock hardening, no longer concealable.

"Seoyeon-ssi..." you try again, but your words falter as she leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft yet deliberate. The already fragile boundary shatters completely.

Your hand, once passive, now moves on its own, squeezing her breast more boldly, feeling its weight and softness as your blood surges. She smiles faintly between kisses, then pulls her hoodie up, revealing a simple black bra that frames her perfect shape.

"Calm me down, Manager-nim," she pleads again, taking your other hand and guiding it to her hip. Your mind can’t think straight anymore. Your fingers slip beneath her bra, brushing against warm skin and a hardened nipple, and Seoyeon moans softly, her head tilting back.

That sound acts like a trigger—you pull her closer, your lips finally meeting hers, a hesitant kiss that quickly turns hungry, fueled by the desire you’ve suppressed all this time.

She responds fiercely, her tongue dancing with yours, while her hand slides down to your pants, stroking your already stiff cock, through the fabric. "I want you to remember me, even when Hyerin comes," she whispers between kisses, her fingers swiftly undoing your zipper.

You can’t resist anymore—your hands explore her body, squeezing her breasts, slipping to her hips, while she strokes you with a rhythm too familiar from that earlier moment in the Purple Room.

The kiss deepens, Seoyeon’s tongue dancing with yours in a rhythm fueled by raw desire, making you momentarily forget who you’re supposed to be in this room.

Your hands move more freely now, slipping beneath her black bra, your fingers finding her hardened nipple and stroking it gently until a soft moan escapes into your mouth. That sound—soft, needy—ignites something inside you, and thoughts of the boundaries that should exist vanish.

Seoyeon pulls back briefly, her breathing uneven, her eyes glinting in the dim light of the Purple Room. "Manager-nim," she whispers, her voice husky yet sweet, "I want you even closer." She takes your hand from her hip, guiding it downward toward her shorts.

Your fingers hesitate for a moment, but she leaves no room for retreat—she presses your hand against the inside of her thigh, letting you feel the warmth of her soft skin and a faint dampness starting to seep through.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding. "Seoyeon-ssi, this..." you start, but your voice fades as she shifts, spreading her legs wider on your lap. Her hoodie is hiked up to her waist, revealing the smooth curve of her stomach and the slightly shifted bra that exposes more of her breasts. She looks at you, lips parted, then pulls your hand deeper until your fingers brush the thin fabric of her damp panties.

"I want you to touch me, Manager-nim," she pleads, her voice almost a whimper. "I’m scared that tomorrow I won’t be your only one anymore. So... make me feel special tonight." She moves her hips slowly, rubbing herself against your fingers, and you feel the heat building between your own legs, your cock straining against your pants, pressing into her thigh.

You can’t resist anymore. Your fingers begin to move, tracing gently over the fabric, feeling her soft shape and the way her body trembles in response. Seoyeon moans again, louder this time, her head tilting back, her hair spilling wildly over her shoulders.

"Yes... like that..." she breathes, her hands gripping your neck, pulling you into another kiss. Your lips crash into hers, a kiss brimming with lust, as your fingers slip inside her panties, touching her slick, warm skin directly.

She flinches slightly, her hips rocking to the rhythm of your touch, and you feel how fragile she is beneath her usual dominance. "Manager-nim... you’re all I have right now," she whispers between ragged breaths, her hand sliding down to your pants, undoing them with quick yet careful movements. Her fingers wrap around your cock, stroking it slowly, unhurried, as if savoring the moment.

You let out a small groan, the sensation of her hand mixing with the softness you’re exploring between her legs. Your touch grows bolder—one finger slips inside her pussy, feeling the tight warmth that makes her bite her own lip.

"Deeper..." she begs, her voice trembling, and you obey, adding a second finger, moving them in a rhythm that has her gripping your shoulders tightly.

The Purple Room fills with the sound of your mingled breaths, Seoyeon’s soft moans, and the rustle of shifting fabric. She leans in again, kissing your neck, her teeth grazing your skin lightly as her hand keeps stroking you with gentle control.

"Don’t stop, Manager-nim," she whispers, and you realize this night isn’t about briefings or venting anymore—it’s about Seoyeon embedding herself into you before Hyerin arrives.

=================

Seoyeon can no longer hold back. Her breathing quickens, coming in short, ragged gasps, and her body trembles beneath the touch of your fingers, still exploring the softness between her legs. "Manager-nim..." she breathes, her voice thick with a need she can’t hide anymore.

She pulls her hand away from your cock, then, with trembling movements, shifts off your lap and onto the bed. She lies back on the purple sheets, her hair fanning out wildly across the pillow, her eyes locked on yours with a mix of desire and vulnerability.

Her thighs spread wide, an unmistakable invitation that nearly stops your heart. Her hoodie is fully hiked up, her bra pushed above her chest, revealing her breasts rising and falling with each breath.

Her right-hand slides downward, her fingers brushing over her glistening, wet pussy in the dim light of the Purple Room. Slowly, she parts her lips, exposing the slick, pink softness within, waiting for you with palpable anticipation. "I can’t take it anymore, Manager-nim," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "Put it in... I need you now."

You freeze for a moment, staring at the sight before you—Seoyeon, your first member, the one you’re supposed to protect, now lying so open, so vulnerable, yet so irresistibly tempting. Your cock is fully hard, standing rigid in the air after she released it, and your blood surges, urging you to go further. "Seoyeon-ssi, this..." you start again, but your voice dies in your throat, overtaken by an impulse you can’t fight.

She nods faintly, her eyes pleading. "I just want you tonight. Tomorrow there’s Hyerin, but right now... it’s only me." Her fingers keep herself spread, and the wetness dripping from her pussy leaves a small stain on the sheets, a testament to her longing. "Come on, Manager-nim," she urges again, her thighs quivering slightly, awaiting your touch.

You move closer, your knees pressing into the bed as you position yourself between her legs. Your hands tremble as they graze her thighs, feeling the warm, soft skin, then slide to her hips to steady her. Your cock hovers near her entrance, the tip brushing against her inviting wetness, and Seoyeon lets out a soft moan from just that small contact. "Hurry..." she breathes, her hands reaching for your shoulders, pulling you closer.

You draw a deep breath, your mind still struggling to resist, but your body has already given in. With a slow push, you slide your cock inside her, feeling the tight, warm embrace that envelops you instantly.

Seoyeon lets out a long sound—part moan, part relief—her head tilting back as you sink deeper. "Yes... like that..." she says, her voice shaking, her legs wrapping around your waist, urging you not to stop.

The sensation is overwhelming—she’s so wet, so tight, that every inch you enter feels like plunging into something forbidden yet addictive. You start moving, slowly at first, savoring every slide, every subtle clench from within her. Seoyeon grips the sheets beside her, her mouth open as louder moans spill out, her eyes fixed on you with fierce intensity.

"Faster, Manager-nim... I want to really feel you," she pleads, her voice dripping with lust.

You obey, quickening your thrusts, driving deeper until the bed creaks faintly beneath you. The Purple Room fills with sound—your clashing breaths, Seoyeon’s increasingly wild moans, and the undeniable friction of your bodies. She lifts her hips to meet each thrust, her hands reaching for her own breasts, squeezing them as if to amplify the sensation you’re sharing.

=================

Seoyeon suddenly pushes your shoulders with both hands, sending you falling back onto the bed. The purple sheets beneath you feel cool against your heated skin, but it’s not enough to douse the fire raging between you.

She wastes no time—with swift movements, she climbs on top of you, her soft thighs straddling your hips, her eyes glinting with a raw, unbridled lust. "Manager-nim, I want more..." she breathes, her voice hoarse, dripping with unrestrained desire.

Without waiting for your response, she grabs your cock—still hard and slick from her wetness—and guides it back to her pussy with trembling, eager hands. As the tip brushes her entrance, she slams her hips down, taking you in fully with one forceful thrust that draws a simultaneous groan from both of you. "Ahh..." her voice breaks, her head tilting back, her hair swaying wildly as she begins riding you from above.

Her movements are fast, almost feral, with no trace of gentleness left. Her hips rise and fall in a relentless rhythm, each thrust making the bed creak loudly under your combined weight. You can feel every inch of her—warm, tight, and slick—gripping your cock as if refusing to let go. "Manager-nim... you feel so good..." she moans, her voice fractured by her ragged breathing, her hands pressing against your chest for balance.

You’re mesmerized, unable to tear your eyes away from her. Her body moving atop you is a sight you can’t escape—her breasts, free from the bra, bounce with the rhythm, her hardened nipples tantalizing in the air, and her face—lips parted, eyes half-lidded—etched with an expression of unbearable lust. Instinctively, your hands reach for her hips, gripping her soft skin, guiding her increasingly wild motions.

"Yes... hold them..." she pleads, her voice almost a small cry. She leans forward, her hair spilling over your face, and her lips capture yours in a ravenous kiss. Her tongue dances fiercely with yours, while her hips keep riding you, faster, deeper.

You can feel the subtle clenches inside her, a sign she’s teetering on the edge, but she doesn’t stop—instead, she speeds up, as if determined to wring every second from this moment.

"Manager-nim... I want you to only think of me..." she says between kisses, her hot breath washing over your face. Your hands slide up to her breasts, squeezing them firmly, your fingers teasing her nipples until she moans louder, her body tensing above you.

Her pussy grips you tighter, each movement pulling you closer to the brink, but Seoyeon clearly doesn’t care—she’s lost in her own desire, fully in control of you.

You groan beneath her, the sensation of her rapid movements and the pressure of her body overwhelming your senses. Your hands grip her hips harder, trying to match her pace, but she’s the one in charge—she dictates how deep, how fast, how far you’ll go.

"Seoyeon-ssi..." you mutter, your voice swallowed by a groan, but she only flashes a small, triumphant smile, her flushed, sweaty face glowing with satisfaction at seeing you helpless beneath her.

Seoyeon keeps riding you from above, her movements growing faster and more erratic, her hips slamming up and down in a rhythm that makes the bed creak loudly beneath you. Her body glistens with sweat, her hair clinging to her flushed face, and her moans rise higher, almost like small cries of pure ecstasy.

"Manager-nim... I..." she gasps, her voice breaking, her hands gripping your chest so tightly that her nails leave faint marks on your skin.

You can feel her pussy clenching harder, the frequent little spasms signaling she’s on the brink. The sensation—warm, slick, and tight—pushes you to your limit, and you can’t hold back any longer.

Your hands clutch her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh, trying to match her wild pace, but she’s too powerful, too consumed by lust. "Seoyeon-ssi..." you mutter, your voice lost in ragged breaths, your body tensing beneath her.

She leans forward, her face just inches from yours, her half-lidded eyes burning with desire. "Inside me," she whispers, her voice trembling yet firm, "I want to feel you... all of you."

Before you can respond, she speeds up again, her hips crashing into you with deep, forceful thrusts, her pussy gripping your cock so tightly it feels like she’ll never let go.

The climax hits like an unstoppable wave. Your body shudders violently, a long groan escaping your lips as you reach your peak, and with one final thrust from Seoyeon, you release inside her. Your cum surges out, filling her pussy with slick warmth, and she moans loudly, savoring every spurt you unleash, her hips still rocking slowly as if to milk every last drop from you.

Her body tenses above you, her pussy clamping down hard around you, and she reaches her own climax just moments after yours. "Manager-nim!" she cries out softly, her head thrown back, her hair whipping wildly, her body trembling fiercely atop you. Her juices mix with your cum, creating a warm, sticky mess between you, a few drops spilling onto the purple sheets, staining them once again.

Seoyeon collapses onto your chest, her breathing heavy and uneven, her face resting against your neck as her legs still straddle your hips. You can feel her rapid heartbeat against yours, both pounding in unison. Your cock remains inside her, slowly softening, but the warmth of the creampie lingers, a tangible proof of what just happened. "Manager-nim..." she whispers weakly, her voice now soft, a stark contrast to her earlier ferocity. "I feel safe now."

You stay silent, your hands still holding her hips, unsure of what to say. Your mind is a mess—guilt as a manager clashes with the lingering pleasure still coursing through your body. The Purple Room falls quiet again, filled only with the sound of your breaths gradually calming and the scent of sex now thick in the air.

Seoyeon lifts her head, giving you a small, satisfied smile before kissing your lips gently. "This is our secret, okay?" she says, then slowly rises, letting your cock slip out of her, a trickle of your cum dripping from her onto your thigh.

She walks to the en-suite bathroom, leaving you lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a shattered mind. Tomorrow, Hyerin will arrive, and tripleS will enter a new chapter. But tonight, you know Seoyeon has etched herself deeper into your life—and this secret will keep binding you, for who knows how long.

=================

Seoyeon disappears into the en-suite bathroom, the faint sound of running water drifting through the closed door. You linger on the bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling of the Purple Room, which now feels both foreign and all too familiar.

The purple sheets beneath you are damp and disheveled, stained with your cum and Seoyeon’s juices—a stark reminder of what just transpired. Your breathing steadies, but your chest still trembles with a mix of intoxicating pleasure and creeping guilt.

You sit up slowly, your body sluggish and heavy, as if you’ve just weathered a storm. With slightly shaky hands, you fix your half-open pants, then grab your jacket from the floor, slipping it on to mask the scent of Seoyeon that seems to have seeped into your skin. Before leaving, you glance at the bathroom door—no sign of her emerging tonight. Maybe she’s deliberately giving you space to slip away wordlessly, or perhaps she’s already satisfied with what you shared. For some reason, you don’t want to know the answer right now.

With quiet steps, you exit the Purple Room, closing the door behind you until a soft click echoes in the stillness. The HAUS dorm of tripleS is silent, its hallways dark save for the faint glow of an emergency light in the corner. You hurry toward the main entrance, the cold night air greeting you as you step outside. The wind bites at your skin, but it’s not enough to erase the heat still lingering in your body. Your phone shows it’s nearly midnight—tomorrow, Hyerin will arrive, and your life as a tripleS manager will grow more complex. But tonight, your mind is consumed by Seoyeon, her touch, and the creampie you left inside her.

The walk back to your small apartment feels like a haze. Seoul’s usually bustling streets are quiet now, with only the occasional car passing by, its headlights briefly blinding you. You opt to walk despite the chill piercing through your jacket, unable to sit still in a taxi with your thoughts spinning wildly. Each step takes you farther from the HAUS dorm, but the image of the Purple Room clings to the back of your mind—Seoyeon atop you, her moans, the warmth as you climaxed inside her.

When you reach your apartment, you unlock the door with hands that still feel sluggish. The small space is dark, lit only by slivers of streetlight slipping through the gaps in the curtains. You toss your jacket onto the sofa and collapse into a chair in the corner, staring at the blank wall ahead.

Seoyeon’s faint scent lingers on your hands, and when you close your eyes, the sensation of her riding you felt vividly real again. "What have I done..." you mutter to yourself, your voice swallowed by the silence.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and when you check it, there’s a message from Seoyeon.

"Manager-nim, thanks for keeping me company tonight. Let’s welcome Hyerin together tomorrow, okay? Sleep well."

The message is simple, but there’s a trace of satisfaction in her words that unsettles you. You don’t reply, just turn off your phone and let your head lean back against the wall.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. Your mind splits between your looming responsibilities as a tripleS manager, which will grow heavier tomorrow, and the secret now binding you tighter to Seoyeon. A tie that will shadow you even as tripleS expands to 24 members.

In the quiet of your small apartment, one thing is certain: what happened in the Purple Room tonight isn’t an end—it’s the beginning of something far more complicated.

#kpop smut #kpop fanfic #girl group smut #kpop fanfiction #male reader #male reader smut #triples smut #seoyeon smut #yoon seoyeon smut #triples seoyeon semut

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kwilquib · 1 month ago

Text

Driving you Mad

Series: Promised 9

Chapter - 3

Chapter 0 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Lee Chaeyeoung (Fromis_9) X Male reader (ft. Seoyeon)

Word Count: 21.8k+

a/n: See tags...

Recap:

What started as an ordinary weekend after a night with Chaeyoung unraveled into dread when you discovered Jiheon had woven false memories into your mind—crafting a counterfeit love story you’d lived as if it were real.

You wake up, gasping, the weight of two lives clawing at your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. The memories Jiheon shoved into your skull haven’t just buried the real ones—they’ve fused with them, a grotesque snarl of half-truths and lies bleeding into each other like ink dumped in water. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and the chaos is eating you alive.

You see it all at once—her fabricated love story etched in vivid, nauseating detail, every fake touch branded into your skin, every whispered promise echoing in your ears. But the truth screeches behind it, clawing at the edges of your mind, a faint, ragged whisper you can’t ignore. The two don’t even fight—they coil together, mocking you, daring you to pick which one’s real. First dates you never lived, her lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss that never landed, vows you swore to nothing but air. Then the jagged reality: Jiheon’s cold, surgical hands slicing into your past, rewriting you like some lab experiment gone wrong.

Your phone buzzes, a violent jolt against your nerves. Friday, 6 AM.

You stare at it, eyes burning, body locked in place. The last thing you can grab onto—Sunday night—slips through your fingers like sand. A whole week, gone. Vanished. Just a black void where your mind used to be, a gaping hole that laughs at you.

You don’t move. Can’t. The sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin, the cold air biting at your face, and exhaustion sinks its teeth into you, dragging you down. You’re awake, but your head’s trapped, spinning in the wreckage of memory and madness, begging for something—anything—to claw its way out of the mess and make sense.

The morning light slashes across the walls, slow and cruel, but time’s lost its grip on you. In one twisted version of your head, this is her room—yours and hers—the faint stench of her perfume choking the pillow next to you. In the real world, she was here once, just one night, but it’s enough to make you gag on the lie. Your shaking fingers graze your phone, itching to dig through it—messages, photos, something to tether you to the ground. But dread coils in your gut. What if it’s all fake too? Doctored pictures of a life you never lived, texts spelling out a love story you never wrote—proof of her fingerprints all over your soul, even now.

The faucet drips. One drop. Another. Uneven, unhinged, a stuttering pulse drilling into your skull. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s alive, taunting you, unraveling you. Each sound rips another shred loose: her laugh ringing in a café you’ve never seen, her fingers locked in yours on a beach you’ve never touched, her sobs choking the air in a fight that never fucking happened. The emotions hit harder than the images—warmth that burns, tension that strangles, the gut-punch of losing something you never had. She didn’t just plant memories; she stitched them into you, thread by thread, so you’d feel every cut she made.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too fast.

You slam your hands against your eyes, grinding until white-hot sparks explode behind your lids, desperate to shove it all out—her lies, your life, the whole damn mess. But it’s a flood now, a screaming torrent of fake and real smashing together, and you’re drowning in it.

Drip.

Your teeth grind, a low growl building in your throat.

Drip.

Your nails dig into the sheets, clawing at the fabric like it’s her skin.

Drip.

Something molten erupts in your chest—rage, raw and jagged, clawing up your spine.

She did this. She broke you. She tore you apart and stitched you back together wrong, left you like this—this twitching, fractured thing.

The faucet drips again, and you shatter.

Fury floods your veins, a wildfire scorching everything it touches. At Jiheon. At them. At the pathetic, trembling mess staring back at you from the void. You let them in—you let their whispers and their twisted games sink their hooks into you, and now you’re coming apart, thread by thread, a puppet with its strings slashed.

Your mind spins, a frantic loop of blame—them, with their cryptic bullshit and their memory-warping tricks, then you, for being too stupid, too weak to see it coming, then back to them, because they’re the ones who lit the match and watched you burn. Your fists ball up, knuckles white. You suck in a breath, ragged and sharp. Let it go. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

The anger doesn’t fade—it festers, throbbing behind your ribs, thick and suffocating. You need to do something—scream, smash, find her and make her undo it. Anything to stop the buzzing in your head, the war tearing you in half.

Your phone sits beside you, a cold, mocking weight. You don’t think—you can’t think. Your hand lunges for it, fingers trembling like they’re about to snap, unlocking the screen with a swipe that feels too violent. The glare stabs into your eyes, cutting through the dim haze of the room, and everything’s wrong—the air buzzes with static, your memories twist and writhe like snakes, and your skull feels ready to split open. Rage floods your veins, too much, too fast, a feral thing clawing to get out, and you’re not sure if you’re holding it in or if it’s already tearing you apart.

You scroll past Jiheon’s name—her cursed fucking name—and your stomach lurches. Not her. Not now. You’d scream, you’d break something, you’d lose what little grip you’ve got left if you heard her voice. Your thumb jerks, hesitates, then slams down on Gyuri’s name like it’s a trigger.

It rings once. Twice. Then—

“Hey.” Her voice slides through, calm, steady, unfazed. Like nothing’s wrong. Like the world isn’t collapsing.

The sound of it—her casual, unshaken tone—snaps something deep inside you, a brittle thread you didn’t know was still holding you together.

“You knew.” The words rip out of you, jagged and dripping with venom, barely human.

She doesn’t answer right away. You hear something on her end—rustling, faint, deliberate. Papers? Fabric? You see her in your head, pristine and smug, perched in some sterile office, legs crossed, barely paying attention, already three steps ahead while you’re choking on the wreckage she helped make.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” Your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles bleaching, the plastic creaking under your fingers. “That Jiheon was—” You choke on it, the words tangling in your throat, too heavy, too real.

Gyuri sighs—a slow, deliberate hiss, not defensive, not sorry, just tired. “Of course I knew.”

The silence hits like a punch.

Then the rage explodes.

“And you didn’t stop her?!” You’re out of bed now, stumbling, pacing like a caged animal, your voice shaking with something unhinged. “You just fucking—let her do this to me? To my fucking head?!”

“I couldn’t risk it.” Her voice stays level, but there’s a crack beneath it, a wire pulled too tight.

“Risk?” Your laugh is a mangled, vicious thing, scraping out of you like broken glass. “Risk what? What was so fucking precious that you let her shred me apart? Too scared to cross your little psycho queen Jiheon? Or was it just easier—huh?—to sit there and watch while she turned my brain into her fucking playground?”

A pause. You feel it—the way she hesitates, calculating, deciding how much of you is worth her breath.

Then: “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” It’s a scream now, desperate, wild, clawing out of you. You need something—anything—to aim this fire at before it burns you alive.

She hums, slow, deliberate, and then she drops it: “You think you were the only one affected?”

Your breath catches, sharp and painful.

“What?”

“You act like you’re the only one suffering,” she says, voice still smooth but slicing deeper now, an edge creeping in. “Like Jiheon walked away clean. Like we’re all just laughing while you fall apart. Do you really think that?”

You stumble, your pulse hammering unevenly, tripping over itself. Because no—you hadn’t thought about it. You’d been drowning in your own splintered mind, your own violation, your own rage, and it never crossed your fractured skull to wonder—

Jiheon’s face flashes behind your eyes. Hollow. Guilty. A ghost of herself, crumbling under what she’d done.

Your fingers twitch, your jaw locks. No. Fuck that. You won’t let her haunt you with pity. You won’t let this twist back into your fault.

“Don’t you fucking—” Your voice shakes, splintering with fury. “Don’t you dare try to make me feel sorry for her!”

“I’m not.” Gyuri’s tone hardens, the polish cracking at the seams. “I’m saying it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple!” You’re roaring now, throat raw, words slamming against the walls. “I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t fucking deserve this!”

And then—

“Neither did she.”

The silence is a void, swallowing you whole.

Your breaths come hard and fast, ragged gasps that scrape your lungs. Your nails are carving bloody crescents into your palm, and Gyuri’s not saying a damn thing, and that’s worse—it’s worse—because it leaves you alone with the storm in your head.

You feel it shift now, the ground tilting beneath you.

She’s slipping too.

You hear her exhale, sharp and unsteady, like she’s clawing herself back from a ledge, but she’s already falling.

“Do you think I wanted this?” Her voice drops, low and taut, trembling at the edges. “You should’ve asked me for help.”

Your mouth opens—no sound comes out, just a hollow wheeze.

“Do you think I enjoy watching this implode? You think I wanted you tangled up in our shit? You think I don’t—” She stops herself, her breath hitching, and for the first time, she’s shaking.

And it hits you.

She’s burning too.

Not just at you—at Jiheon, at the Promised 9, at the whole rotting mess. At herself. The heat in her words, the tremor behind them—it’s the same feral, helpless rage that’s been gnawing you alive.

Click.

The line dies.

You stare at the phone, hands quaking, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. The rage is still there, a living thing coiled in your chest, but now it’s got nowhere to go—no target, no release.

Gyuri was supposed to be the wall you’d smash it against. But she’s not a wall—she’s a mirror, cracking under the same fire that’s torching you.

And that only makes it worse. The flames climb higher, hotter, feeding on themselves, and you’re running out of things to burn.

You call her again. Once. Twice. Ten fucking times. Each unanswered ring is a blade twisting in your gut, your pulse slamming so hard it’s rattling your skull.

No answer.

The screen glares back at you, a harsh, mocking light. She’s ignoring me. You knew she’d do this after hanging up—Gyuri, with her calculated little sigh, abandoning you to choke on your own chaos—but the silence gnaws, relentless, a living thing sinking its teeth into you.

You rake a hand through your sweaty, matted hair, about to smash the call button again when something slams into focus—something off.

Your phone’s… stuck.

No new notifications. No new calls. No new texts.

You squint, heart lurching. That’s not right. That’s not fucking right.

You swipe to your messages. The old threads are there—random chats, group texts, stupid memes from weeks ago—but nothing fresh. Not a single new word since… when?

Emails? Same deal. Professor nagging about deadlines, pinned lecture notes—all frozen, timestamped days back. No updates, no reminders, no org newsletters clogging your inbox like they should.

A cold, greasy panic slithers up your spine.

You fumble to the call log, stabbing at a name—some guy from class, a nobody, someone too boring to be tangled in their web.

It rings. And rings. No pickup. No voicemail. Just… dead air.

You try again, fingers trembling, jabbing harder like it’ll force a connection. Nothing.

Your breath comes fast, shallow, scraping your throat raw. No. No way.

You stagger to the window, nearly tripping, and mash your face against the glass. Outside, the world’s still turning—students drifting past, cars nosing into the lot, everything mocking you with its normalcy.

You unlock the latch with stiff fingers and shove the window open. Cold air rushes in, biting against your skin.

Then—you yell.

"Hey!"

Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and desperate. A few people pass directly below, their heads tilted in conversation.

No one looks up.

You grip the windowsill, knuckles white. Your breath shakes.

"Can anyone hear me?!"

Nothing. Not even a glance.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Your stomach flips, sour and tight.

You stumble into the hall, the dorm stretching out too quiet, too long. It’s the same as ever—chipped walls, scuffed floors—except every door’s plastered with flyers, loud and garish. Every single one.

Except yours.

Yours is blank, a void in the noise, like you’re not even here.

Rent was due days ago. Your landlord’s a bloodsucker—should’ve been hammering your door down, blowing up your phone with threats. But nothing. No calls. No texts. No knocks.

You lurch outside, past the entrance, into the open. People brush by—chatting, laughing, breathing—and you’re a phantom, invisible. No eyes catch yours. No heads turn.

It slams into you, a frigid, suffocating wave.

They’ve cut me off.

A laugh tears out of you, sharp and unhinged, bouncing off the emptiness.

Of course. Of fucking course. The Promised 9. Gyuri’s bullshit “I couldn’t risk it”—what a sick, twisted lie. Risk what? Protecting you? No, this was them, flexing their claws, severing every thread tying you to the world. No new messages. No new calls. No rent demands. Like you’ve been paused while everything else keeps spinning.

You stare at the crowd—oblivious, alive, real—and it’s like you’re slamming against a glass cage, unseen, unheard.

It’s impossible. It should be impossible. But they bend reality like it’s their toy, don’t they? Always have.

Your fists clench, nails carving into your palms, blood welling up.

“Fine.” The word growls out, low and shredded.

You storm back inside, kicking the door shut so hard it shakes in the frame. The lock snaps into place—a useless little click against their game. You’re trapped, a rat in their maze, and they’re rewriting the walls while you run.

You gulp air, ragged and desperate, trying to claw your way back to solid ground. But your mind’s splintering—rage and paranoia twisting into a jagged, screaming mess.

Are they watching? Right now? Hiding in the shadows, giggling at your collapse?

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding until they throb. You drop onto the bed, slamming your palms into your thighs, gripping so tight your knuckles bleach, fighting to keep from shattering completely.

But it’s slipping. The anger’s boiling now, a scream clawing up your throat, and if you let it out—if you let go

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know what you’ll break. Or who.

Time slips away. You don’t know how much.

Minutes? Hours? Days?

It’s all mush now, a smeared streak of nothing. The silence isn’t just outside anymore—it’s in your head, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your thoughts like damp rot.

It’s just you.

You and the jagged mess clawing inside your skull.

You collapse onto the bed, fingers twisting into your hair, pulling until it stings. Your mind lurches, dragging you down into the undertow—

Jiheon.

A flicker—a memory, or whatever the hell it is.

You’re in the back of a taxi, city lights streaking across her face, sharp and fleeting. She nudges your shoulder with hers, her voice a low murmur, teasing, curling into your ear like smoke. Her hand brushes yours—warm, soft—or did it? Did she ever touch you like that?

Another flash—her laugh, quiet and velvet, a secret carved out just for you, spilling into the dark.

Real? Fake? Does it even matter anymore? You don’t care. You let it roll, let it flood you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you chase it—her phantom warmth, the shape of her beside you, a lifeline to a past that might be a lie. You breathe it in, greedy, desperate, clinging to the edges of something that could’ve been.

Knock.

Your eyes snap open, wide and wild.

The room’s dead still. Your breath snags in your throat. Then—

Knock. Knock.

It’s sharp, real, slicing through the haze like a blade.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too loud.

Who—?

You lurch upright, dizzy, palms slick with sweat. You haven’t heard a human sound in—fuck, how long? Days? Weeks? The world’s been a void, and now this—this knock—it’s a lifeline, a threat, a scream in the silence.

Your mind scrambles, tripping over itself. Only one person knows this place. Only one person could find you here, buried in their mess.

“Jiheon.”

The name tears out of you, raw and instinctive, a growl from somewhere deep. Your body’s moving before your brain catches up—stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall, hands shaking as you lunge for the door.

Everything else burns away—the rage, the dread, the memory of her hollow eyes the last time you saw her, the way she broke you. It’s gone, torched in the frantic need to see her, to know, to rip something real out of this nightmare.

Your fingers claw at the handle, slick and fumbling.

You fling the door open, chest heaving, eyes wild—ready to face her, ready to break her, ready for anything—

Eyes lock onto yours through the open door.

Blue.

Not hers. Not Jiheon’s.

Deeper. Mesmerizing. A pull that sinks into you like hooks.

Chaeyoung.

“Missed me?” Her voice slithers out, thick and syrupy, laced with a taunt that makes your skin crawl. You freeze, brain stuttering, but she doesn’t wait—she glides past you, smooth and brazen, like the room’s already hers.

She surveys the chaos—tangled sheets, scattered bottles, the stale reek of too many days alone—and lets out a slow, mocking “Wow.” Her fingertip trails along your desk, collecting dust like it’s evidence, a smirk flickering as she wipes it off. “You live like this?” Her hum is low, teasing, a blade disguised as velvet. “I thought men only crashed this hard after a divorce. But you—” She pivots, those piercing eyes glinting, “you’re shattering over a little heartbreak, aren’t you?”

Your fists ball up, nails biting into your palms, blood prickling under the skin. “What do you want?” The words grind out, rough and unsteady, barely holding back the storm churning inside.

Chaeyoung tilts her head, sizing you up, that knowing smirk sharpening. “Why so tense? You were practically drooling to see who was at the door.” She steps closer—too close—her perfume curling into your lungs, sweet and suffocating. “Did you think I was her?”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, and her grin widens, delighted.

She moves past you, slow, unhurried, fingers grazing the door as she swings it shut. The lock clicks into place.

When she turns back, her gaze drips with amusement.

“Poor thing,” she purrs, her hand lifting, fingertips brushing your collarbone—light, deliberate, dragging down slow enough to burn. “Still waiting for Jiheon to crawl back? Begging on her knees, maybe?”

She leans in, her breath hot against your neck, voice dipping low. “Or maybe you wanted something else. Someone else.”

Your exhale is a jagged rasp, and her laugh—sharp and lilting—cuts through you like glass.

“Don’t be shy.” Her fingers dance across your chest, teasing, pressing, stoking something raw. “Locked up in here for days—alone, restless, no one to talk to, no one to touch—” She inches closer, her body brushing yours, “it’s gotta be eating you alive.”

Your muscles coil, heat spiking where it shouldn’t, where you don’t want it to. Your mind’s screaming—trap, trap, trap—but your body’s traitorously still, caught in her pull.

“It’s okay,” she coos, voice softening into something dangerous, something that coils around your throat. “I can make it easier. Just let go. Let me.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Something in you fractures, a dam splitting wide open. Before she can blink—before you can think—your hands lunge.

Fingers clamp around her throat, tight and trembling, and you slam her against the wall with a force that rattles the room. Her head snaps back, breath catching—

But she doesn’t flinch.

No fear. No shock.

Her lips twist upward, a slow, wicked smile blooming under your grip.

“Oh,” she breathes, voice rough but dripping with hunger, eyes blazing dark and wild. “There he is.”

Your grip tightens, pulse pounding in your ears, but her stare—unyielding, pleased—digs into you, unraveling what’s left of your fraying sanity. She’s not scared. She’s thrilled. And that—that—makes the chaos in your head scream louder, teetering on the edge of something you can’t claw back from.

Your grip tightens, fingers digging into her throat, the tendons in your hands straining as rage boils over, uncontainable. Her hands latch onto your wrists, tugging, but it’s weak—halfhearted—like she’s playing at resistance.

“You did this.” Your voice rips out, a guttural growl trembling with fury. “You and the others—you fucking isolated me. Cut me off. Why?!”

Chaeyoung tilts her head against the wall, barely fazed, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Torment?” she tosses back, her tone light, mocking, like it’s a game.

“Don’t act fucking clueless!” Your nails bite into her skin, carving faint crescents, your breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?!”

She exhales, slow and deliberate, a sigh that’s too calm, too unbothered for the pressure crushing her windpipe. Then—her eyes flicker up, locking onto yours.

A smirk curls her lips, sharp and venomous.

“Did you forget?” she murmurs, voice low, dripping with something dark.

“You chose this.”

Her lashes flutter, her gaze slicing through you—cruel, knowing, peeling back layers you didn’t know were there.

“You wished for this.”

Your mind stutters, a jolt of ice cutting through the heat. “Wished for this? Why the fuck would I—when—?” Then it hits—the memory slams into you like a fist. That night with Chaeyoung, her voice teasing, sultry, whispering ‘Be careful what you wish for’ as the room spun and her laughter faded into the dark. “That night? That stupid fucking wish you threw out there? How was I supposed to know—you didn’t even explain it!”

Her smirk deepens, unfazed by your snarl. “Either way, you’re with us now.” Her voice is velvet over steel. “You locked yourself in when you spent that night with me—and oh, so much more with Jiheon.”

One of her hands, still gripping your wrist, shifts—sliding up, slow and deliberate, caressing your cheek. Then it drops, her fingers brushing lower, rubbing against your crotch through your pants, a bold, taunting stroke.

“Why don’t you calm down for now?” she purrs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or if you prefer this, I wouldn’t mind.”

Your breath hitches, a mix of fury and disbelief choking you.

“You’re fucked in the head,” you spit, voice shaking, incredulous.

Your grip clamps tighter, fingers sinking into Chaeyoung’s throat, your breath heaving, wild and uneven, like something’s clawing out of your chest. Her gasping, broken laugh spills out anyway, her chest shuddering under the strain, defiant even as you crush her windpipe.

“Ironic,” she wheezes, eyes half-lidded, glinting with something mocking, dangerous, her lips twitching despite the chokehold. “Coming from someone who’s losing his mind.”

“Insane?” Your voice cracks like a whip, jagged and unhinged, your grip tightening until your knuckles bleach. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

She forces a ragged breath, her smile unwavering, predatory. “Haven’t you seen it? Felt it?” she rasps, voice low and cutting. “You’re coming apart. That memory’s eating you alive.”

Then—

A bang at the door—sharp, thunderous, rattling the frame.

“Hey! It’s me—Gyuri!” Her voice slices through, fierce and commanding. “Chaeyoung, open the damn door! I know you’re in there—enough with your fucking games, he doesn’t need this!”

Another bang, harder, the wood groaning under her fist.

“What was that crash earlier?!” Gyuri’s tone spikes, worry twisting into anger. “Open it—NOW!”

Your head jerks toward the sound, but your eyes snap back to Chaeyoung. She meets your stare, her smirk stretching wider, feral and gleeful, like she’s feeding off the chaos.

“What are you gonna do now?” she whispers, voice trembling with delight, strained and taunting under your grip. Her fingers twitch, still clutching your pants, pressing harder against you, shameless. “Unless… you wanna keep going?” Her lips part, a shaky inhale breaking through, her smile teetering on the edge of collapse. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Then—

The world shatters.

The door doesn’t just explode inward—it detonates. A violent eruption of force tears through the room, sending a shockwave rippling outward. The walls groan under the impact, picture frames shattering, glass spraying across the floor. Furniture is upended—your bed slams against the opposite wall with a deafening crack, a dresser topples, scattering papers and broken wood across the floor.

A crimson-red streak of light flares from the splintered remains of the doorway, burning hot, searing bright. The entire building shakes, the foundation trembling under the sheer weight of the force. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling, the floorboards quivering beneath your feet.

A shard of wood slices past Chaeyoung’s cheek—a thin red line blooms, blood welling up instantly. She barely reacts, eyes locked onto the wreckage, onto her.

Gyuri stands amidst the destruction, breathless, eyes blazing like molten fire. Her silhouette is framed by the carnage—splintered wood, dust still swirling, the faint glow of embers flickering at her fingertips. She takes it all in—one sharp, furious sweep—the trashed dorm, the suffocating tension, the overturned chair, the damp stench of neglect.

And you.

Looming over Chaeyoung. Hand still locked around her throat.

Then—her eyes land on you.

And something shifts.

The raw, furious blaze in her gaze wavers, flickers—just for a moment. The fire dims, softens, but it doesn’t disappear. It settles into something steady, something alive.

She steps forward—slow, deliberate, like you’re a bomb she’s afraid to set off.

“Hey.” Gyuri’s voice cuts through, soft yet insistent, piercing the static screaming in your skull.

Your chest heaves, breaths ripping out in sharp, uneven bursts. You don’t move. Can’t. The world’s a haze of red and shadow, your hands locked, trembling, unrelenting.

Her fingers graze your arm—light, cautious, not forcing, just there, a fragile thread in the storm.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her hand sliding to your wrist, warm and steady, curling around it like a lifeline. “Look at me.”

Your grip stays iron-tight, nails digging into Chaeyoung’s throat. Her smirk’s vanished—wiped clean. Her lips part, gasping, straining for air that won’t come, her chest jerking faintly. Her eyes meet yours—stripped of taunts, hollowed out, reflecting something shattered.

“Why should I listen to you?” Your voice claws its way out, raw and trembling, thick with rage. “You fucked with my head. You’re fucking with my life. You’re making me disappear.”

Chaeyoung’s gaze holds, unblinking, her wheeze barely audible under your chokehold. No defiance. Just that flat, eerie stillness.

Gyuri exhales—slow, controlled, a thin line of calm threading through your chaos.

“We did that,” she says, her voice deliberate, careful. “And I’m sorry. We could’ve done better—I could’ve done better.” Her fingers tighten around your wrist, not pulling, just grounding. “I should’ve cared for you more. Kept you closer instead of… this.”

Her words hang there, heavy with regret, but they don’t soothe—they sting, like salt in a wound you didn’t know was bleeding.

“We didn’t know how to handle you,” she continues, softer now. “Your mind—it’s fragile. We thought controlling everything, cutting you off, would keep you safe. But I see it now—we fucked up.”

Your vision blurs, red seeping into the edges, the room swaying as your mind teeters on a brittle edge—fury crashing against her confession, tearing you apart.

“Let go. Let’s talk.”

Her hand slides up, cupping your face, her palm pressing firm against your jaw—solid, unyielding, anchoring you. She pulls you in, closer, until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm, steady, mingling with your ragged gasps.

A faint red glow flickers at the corners of your sight, pulsing faintly, warm and alive.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, her voice cracking just enough to feel real. Her warmth seeps into you, threading through the tangled mess shredding your head, dulling the sharpest edges.

“Breathe.”

Your fingers twitch, the grip on Chaeyoung’s throat faltering—slowly, haltingly—until your hands drop, heavy and shaking, useless at your sides. She collapses with a choked gasp, air rushing into her lungs, but you don’t look. Can’t.

Gyuri’s hands stay, firm on your face, her forehead pressed to yours, her touch the only thing keeping you from spiraling into the void gnashing at your heels.

Your grip on Chaeyoung slackens, trembling fingers peeling away.

She drops, hitting the floor with a thud, gasping, coughing, hands flying to her throat. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t taunt. Just watches.

Gyuri doesn’t spare her a glance.

Gyuri holds you there, her fingers digging into your skin, a desperate tether dragging you back from the abyss gnashing at your heels. Your pulse thunders, a deafening roar in your ears, your mind spinning—fractured, teetering—but her eyes, steady and unyielding, lock you in place, keeping you from shattering completely.

“You need help. You know it yourself,” she says, her voice firm but laced with a softness that stings deeper than you want. “Let us help you. Me. No more of… this.” Her hand sweeps faintly toward the wreckage—the trashed dorm, the splintered door, the chaos seeping into every corner. “I promise this time.”

Her words dangle there, a lifeline tangled with guilt. You hesitate, chest tight, breath hitching. She’s right—you need help. They broke you, shredded your mind and left you clawing through the debris, but they’re the only ones who can piece you back together. It’s a cruel, twisted punchline, and the bitterness burns your throat.

You nod—just a twitch of your head—too drained, too furious, too lost to fight. Gyuri’s grip eases, her thumb brushing your jaw, a fleeting warmth you hate needing but can’t reject.

Behind you, a faint rustle. Then—Chaeyoung pulls herself up from the floor, slow and stiff, her movements deliberate, like she’s testing if her body still works. Her fingers flex and curl, trembling faintly before she clenches them into fists. “Great. Can we go now?”

Her voice is flat—no teasing lilt, no playful bite. She’s facing Gyuri, her back to you, her tone hollow, drained of its usual spark. You can’t see her face, but the air shifts—something unspoken crackling between them.

Gyuri’s jaw tightens, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung, then back to you. “I can’t,” she says, quieter, a strain threading her words. “I need to stay. Clean this up.” She nods toward the shattered door, the mess of your dorm, her hands slipping from your face but hovering close, like she’s scared you’ll bolt. “The Mist can only do so much. We shouldn’t strain it more.”

Mist? Your brows knit, confusion spiking through the haze. “I thought we were done with that. Can you just explain—”

She flinches—barely—but doesn’t answer. Her gaze meets yours, heavy with something murky—regret, maybe shame. “Go with Chaeyoung,” she says instead, voice firming up. “She’ll take you to Saerom. She’s waiting. She can… give you answers.”

You scowl, frustration boiling over. “Then why her? Why can’t you do it?” You glance at Chaeyoung, expecting her usual smirk, but she’s still—too still. Her face is blank, no fire, no taunt, just a weary, distant stare. The cut on her cheek gleams, blood still wet, but she doesn’t flinch at it.

Chaeyoung turns to you then, and—like a mask snapping back into place—her smirk flickers on, jagged at the edges. “What’s wrong? Scared to be alone with me after our little dance?” she purrs, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, leaning in just close enough to let her breath graze your ear. “Don’t you trust me, baby? I thought we were getting so… intimate.” Her tone wavers for a split second, a faint crack betraying her, but she covers it with a low, taunting chuckle.

The air thickens, heavy and suffocating, as Gyuri glares at her. A faint red glow pulses at the edges of the room, seeping from Gyuri’s clenched fists, the light flickering like a heartbeat—angry, unsteady. She squeezes her eyes shut, her chest rising and falling too fast, and you feel it—a hum in the air, a crackle of something raw and red bleeding into the space. She’s meditating, or trying to, holding back whatever’s clawing to get out. When her eyes snap open, they’re sharp, glinting with a crimson sheen she can’t fully hide, and she deliberately avoids Chaeyoung’s grin.

“Just go with her for now,” she mutters, her voice tight, strained, like it’s taking everything to keep the red from spilling over. She pulls you aside, her fingers trembling faintly against your arm, and whispers, tense and low, “Chaeyoung acts like teasing’s her only trick, but she’s the one you can trust most. At least you know what she’s after.” The red light flares briefly around her, casting harsh shadows across her face, then dims as she forces it down.

You chew on that, the words sinking in slow and bitter. Gyuri, who seems to care but keeps proving otherwise with every move. Jiheon, who cracked your mind open and left it bleeding. The others, shadows you can’t read. Chaeyoung—at least she’s predictable, her edges sharp but familiar.

“Let’s gooo,” Chaeyoung sing-songs, her lazy grin stretching wide, but her hands fidget at her sides, fingers twitching—a crack in her act she can’t quite hide.

You hesitate. Gyuri’s hand presses lightly to your back, a gentle nudge. “Go,” she says softly, urging you forward.

You step toward the door, but Gyuri’s voice cuts through just as you reach it. “Chaeyoung.”

You both pause. You glance back; Chaeyoung doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” Gyuri says, her voice taut, eyes dark and piercing. “Don’t hurt him.” It’s not a request—it’s a warning, laced with steel.

For a split second, Chaeyoung’s mask slips. Her shoulders stiffen, her breath catches—just a flicker of something raw—before she forces a sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her neck like she’s shrugging it off. When she turns, the teasing glint is back, polished and bright, but her eyes are too tight, her smirk too forced. “I’d do eight other things with him before we get to that kink,” she chirps, voice airy, then leans toward you, dropping it to a mock whisper. “Unless you wanna skip ahead?”

You don’t answer. Don’t look at her. Just step past, out the door, your mind a snarl of rage and exhaustion.

Chaeyoung follows, her footsteps light but uneven, like she’s still steadying herself. For a moment, she’s quiet—too quiet—her breathing shallow, a faint tremor in it she tries to cover with a soft hum. She’s shaken, more than she’ll let on, hiding it behind that brittle grin and barbed words.

You don’t care. You keep walking, and she trails you, the two of you slipping into the unknown, toward Saerom, while Gyuri stays behind in the wreckage—alone with her promises and the mess she can’t undo.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car hums beneath you, a low, steady purr cutting through Seoul’s streets with effortless precision. It’s not Chaeyoung’s usual blue Porsche, all flash and noise. This is subtler—a Lexus, four-seater, sleek and understated, the kind of luxury that doesn’t scream but commands. Familiar. You’ve seen it before, that night you first stumbled into their world, half-blind and reeling.

Chaeyoung doesn’t fill the silence with chatter. Her hands grip the wheel, steady, her eyes fixed ahead—no music, no distractions, just the engine’s rhythmic drone and a heavy, unspoken weight between you. You don’t ask where you’re going. You don’t need to. She’d dropped it once, casual and dismissive—Saerom will explain when it’s time. That time’s now, and it hangs over you like a blade.

The car slows, but not in front of the gleaming glass tower you’d braced for. Chaeyoung veers sharp down a ramp, plunging into an underground lot. Dim fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the hum of ventilation fans swallowing the Lexus’s glide. The world above fades, muffled and far.

She parks with crisp efficiency. Her fingers tap the steering wheel—once, twice—a quick, restless tic before she exhales and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Let’s go.” She’s out before you can blink, not waiting.

The elevator ride is silent, the numbers climbing higher and higher until they stop at the top. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that feels like the crown of the building. Not just an office—Saerom’s office.

The door is heavier than the others, a polished plaque with her name the only marker. Chaeyoung raps her knuckles against it once, sharp, then shoves it open without pause.

Inside, the air thickens—leather, fresh flowers, a ghost of perfume. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, tinted to hold the city at arm’s length. The space is pristine, curated, every detail deliberate.

At the center, behind a broad desk, sits Saerom. She doesn’t look up right away, her pen scratching across paper with a final, precise flourish before she sets it down. Only then do her eyes lift, locking onto yours. No surprise. No flicker of doubt. She’s been waiting.

“What took you so long?” Her gaze slides past you, pinning Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung answers with a smile—thin, tight, not quite reaching her eyes.

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the churn in your gut. “An actress with her own office, signing papers? Bit much, isn’t it? Almost like you run the place.”

Saerom doesn’t bite, doesn’t even blink. Chaeyoung lets out a low chuckle behind you, soft but sharp, like you’ve stumbled over something painfully obvious.

Saerom rises, smooth and unhurried, crossing the room toward you. When she’s close—close enough to feel the weight of her presence—she stops. “What happened to you?” she asks, her voice calm but edged, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung.

You follow her gaze. The cut on Chaeyoung’s cheek gleams, still wet, but it’s her neck that draws you now—red marks blooming where your fingers dug in, faint bruises tracing the shape of your grip.

Chaeyoung flinches, just a fraction, caught off guard. “Nothing,” she says, too quick, a tiny hitch in her breath. “Just got a little excited.” Her hands land on your shoulders, rubbing them with forced ease, her smile flashing for Saerom—bright, brittle, a shield snapping back into place.

Saerom studies her for a beat, then turns, satisfied or uninterested—you can’t tell. She moves to the center of the room, settling onto a low couch by the coffee table, her eyes locking onto yours again. Waiting.

Chaeyoung’s hands give your shoulders a final tap. “Well, good luck,” she chirps, already retreating. “I’ll be outside.” Before you can say a word, the door clicks shut behind her, the sound sharp in the stillness.

You sit across from Saerom, alone now, her presence a quiet storm filling the room. Her gaze is unrelenting—steady, piercing, drawing you in whether you want it or not. No assistants buzzing around, no flashing cameras, no polished persona. Just her, seated in this private meeting room atop the city, waiting.

She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Her eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, and she cuts straight to it. “Do you know the myth of the Promised 9?”

You exhale, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Conveniently, I do.”

Silence. She’s waiting.

You hesitate, then give in. “Nine women, tied to humanity’s extreme emotions.” Your voice feels heavy, like you’re dragging it out of somewhere dark. “The King begged a deity for help, and they sent nine embodiments to carry that burden. But they needed an anchor—someone to keep them from losing it.”

The words hit differently now, tugging at a thread in your mind. Jiheon’s face flashes—tear-streaked, broken—“I wasn’t myself. Please, forgive me.” It clicks, heavy and sickening.

Saerom, as if reading your unraveling thoughts, breaks the quiet. “You’re that anchor. You keep us from spiraling.”

Your jaw locks. “Why me? Why now? Don’t you have someone else?”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, unruffled. “We weren’t always like this. Normal, once. Then one night, we woke up… changed. Something shifted, and we had no choice but to carry it.”

Your fingers twitch against your knee. “How long?”

“A few years. Less than ten.” She tilts her head, studying you. “We managed—until we couldn’t. We knew we’d lose control eventually.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “And I’m supposed to just step in? I don’t even know if I can—or how.”

Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “You already have. Twice.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t need to ask. Jiheon. Chaeyoung.

She watches the realization sink in, then adds, “And there’s more.”

You meet her gaze, wary.

“You resist us,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Our influence—our magic—it doesn’t take you fully. That’s why you’re different. Why you’re necessary.”

The words press into you, a weight you can’t shake. “You’re the perfect anchor,” she continues, voice low, steady. “Especially when we lose ourselves. Others would’ve broken by now. You haven’t.”

“And what? I just accept it?” Your voice rises, edged with frustration. “Chaeyoung said I chose this, but no one explained shit. You misled me—dragged me into this without a fucking word.”

Her eyes flicker away for a moment, staring past you, lips moving silently—like she’s cursing someone under her breath. Then she refocuses, unyielding. “I see. But what’s done is done. Doesn’t change that you’re what we need.”

“Why should I help you?” You shove up from your seat, voice cracking with anger. “After everything you’ve done? Jiheon fucked my head, and you—you made the world forget me!”

“Jiheon’s effect was… unfortunate,” she concedes, calm as ever. “But the rest? That was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” You laugh, harsh and hollow. “By cutting me off? Making me a ghost? You’re sociopaths—”

“It’s not just us who needs help,” she cuts in, stopping your spiral cold. “You need us too. That mind of yours—those memories—they’ll drive you insane. We can make it bearable, at least. Normal, even.”

“Convenient as hell for you,” you mutter, sinking back into your seat, defeated. “Might as well say you planned it all.”

“You think this is one-sided,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “That we’re just using you. It’s not that simple.”

Your fingers dig into your knee, but you don’t interrupt.

“We’re tied to you as much as you are to us,” she says, her gaze unflinching. “You anchor us, yes. But we take care of you in return. That’s the deal.”

“Sounds like a fancy cage,” you bite back.

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. “If that’s how you see it, fine. But it’s not cold. Not transactional.” She tilts her head, assessing you. “You’re already changing us—more than you realize.”

She leans back, ticking off names like she’s reading a ledger. “Gyuri—never begs me for anything. She did for you, just to get me here faster.”

“Chaeyoung—doesn’t give a damn about anyone outside us. Now she does.”

“Jiheon—reckless, shameless Jiheon—crippled with guilt over you.”

“Seoyeon—avoids responsibility like it’s a disease. Mentioned your name once, and she stepped up.”

Each name lands like a brick, stacking up in your chest. You don’t know what to say.

Saerom lets the silence settle, then drops it, casual but firm: “You should move in with us.”

Not a question. A statement.

It hits like a slap. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat it. Just watches you wrestle with it.

“That’s insane,” you say, shaking your head. “I barely know you. Why would I—”

“Why not?” she cuts in, smooth and sharp. “What’s stopping you?”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out.

“Your dorm was wrecked. No family waiting,” she says, voice low, relentless. “No career you’re tied to. No friends anchoring you. What’s keeping you out there?”

Your throat tightens, her words slicing too close. “I have a life,” you rasp, but it sounds weak even to you.

“Do you?” She leans forward, piercing. “A shitty dorm. Classes you sleep through. A routine you don’t care about.”

The ache settles into your bones. You can’t argue.

“You’d lose nothing by staying,” she says, softer now. “But you’d gain something.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Your voice is rough, brittle.

Her lips twitch—not quite a smile.

“A purpose.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator chime cuts through the haze, a soft ding reverberating in the empty space. The doors slide open, revealing the underground parking lot—dimly lit, shadows pooling under flickering fluorescents.

You don’t move right away. Your hand clenches into a fist at your side, and you draw a slow, deliberate breath. This time, it steadies you.

For the first time in days your mind isn’t a storm of unanswered questions. The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted, but it’s shifted—less a choking fog, more a solid pressure you can finally wrap your hands around. Something real. Something you can face.

Anchor. Necessary. One of us now.

The words echo, but they don’t claw at you anymore. They’ve settled, heavy and certain, like stones in your pocket. It should scare you—shouldn’t it?—but instead, there’s a strange relief in the clarity. A thread to cling to, something to pull you forward when everything else has frayed.

You drag a hand over your face, rough against stubble, and step out.

Then you see her.

Chaeyoung’s leaning against the black Lexus, arms crossed, one boot kicked back against the concrete pillar. The faint light overhead glints in her eyes, sharpening the smirk tugging at her lips—a knowing, waiting curve.

Your gaze locks with hers, and you can tell in an instant.

She thought you’d run.

She thought you’d crack.

Instead, you exhale, a faint shake of your head as you step toward her. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel adrift. The ground’s still shaky beneath you, but it’s there—and that’s enough.

“Waiting for me?”

Her smirk widens. “Obviously.” She shifts, stepping toward you, closing the distance with a predator’s grace. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

You scoff under your breath, shoving your hands into your pockets. “I wasn’t planning on running.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice dipping, less tease and more weight—something off, something personal. “You won’t… you can’t… not with me.”

It’s not about Saerom or anchors or any of that. It’s her. Just her. Your shoulders stiffen as the words settle, heavy, like a snare you’ve walked into before.

You shake your head, exhaling hard. “She said you care about me.”

Chaeyoung snorts, amused. “Did she now?”

You shouldn’t ask, but it slips out. “Is it true?”

She steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “Does it matter?”

It does. You want it to. Your fingers twitch at your side. “What about Jiheon?”

Her expression flickers—brief, almost imperceptible—lips parting before she glances away, jaw tight. “You’re worried?” she says, sharper now, edged with something raw. “After what she did to you? Worry about her later.”

Your stomach twists. What if Jiheon didn’t mean it? What if she wasn’t herself when she broke you? The thought gnaws, but you don’t have an answer. So you don’t give one.

Instead, you nod toward the car, grasping for anything else. “This ‘anchor’ thing—what does it even mean?”

Chaeyoung exhales, shaking her head with a faint, bitter laugh. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’d like a straight answer for once,” you snap, teeth gritted.

She leans in, voice low, teasing but barbed. “You keep asking like you don’t already know.”

You don’t. Or maybe you’re terrified you do.

Her smirk sharpens, a finger tapping her lips before she drawls, “Fine. You’re ours, we’re yours… yet.” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Happy now?”

Your chest tightens. “And sex—is that really how I help you?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why?” She steps closer, her breath brushing your skin. “Wanna test it again—see if I’m still worth it?”

Your lips part, but before you can bite back, she moves—quick, fluid, like she’s been waiting. Her hands slam against your chest, shoving you back through the open car door. You hit the backseat with a thud, leather and her perfume flooding your senses.

Then she’s on you, straddling your lap with slow, deliberate grace. Her fingers trail up your jaw, curling into your hair, tilting your head back to lock eyes. “Still undecided?” she murmurs, lips hovering just above yours, teasing the space between. She leans closer, her smile grazing your cheek. “Need me to remind you how good this gets?”

Your pulse spikes. You swallow hard. “Chaeyoung,” you rasp, “this isn’t the time—or place.”

Her lips curl sharper. “Then stop me.”

You hesitate—too long. She sees it, and the glint in her eyes flares, reveling in the edge she’s claimed.

“Chae—”

Your protest barely escapes before she’s on you, her fingers twisting into your shirt, yanking herself closer. Her mouth crashes against yours, fierce and possessive, a hungry edge to it that leaves no room for doubt—she knows what she wants, and it’s you.

Her lips move with bold, teasing confidence, pressing hard, demanding, like she’s playing a game she’s already won. The heat surges when her tongue brushes the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open—an invitation you shouldn’t take but can’t refuse. You part your lips, letting her in, and she dives deep, tasting like danger, sweet and addictive, pulling you under.

Her weight shifts, hips pressing into yours, her body molding against you with a deliberate grind that screams intent. You should stop this—draw a line before it’s too late. You know it’s a distraction for her, a power play, nothing more. But your hands betray you, sliding to her waist, tugging her closer, feeding the fire. You want her, even if it’s just this fleeting burn.

Then it shifts.

The kiss slows—her lips soften, less demanding, more lingering. The hunger doesn’t fade, but it melts into something warmer, something unguarded. Her breath catches, a faint tremor against your mouth, and the tease gives way to a quiet depth you didn’t expect. Her tongue brushes yours again, but it’s tender now, searching rather than claiming.

Your hand twitches, lifting toward her neck. You hesitate—flashes of earlier, your grip too tight, her gasping under your anger flickering in your mind. Guilt stalls you, but the kiss keeps pulling you in, softer still, and you can’t hold back. Your fingers find her neck, resting there—not choking, not controlling, just cradling, gentle and steady, a stark contrast to before.

She doesn’t pull away. Her lips stay on yours, warm and slow, a scrape of her teeth against your lower lip—not playful anymore, but raw, almost aching. When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s too sudden, a soft gasp slipping out as she stares at you. Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, mask slipping—surprise, vulnerability, like she didn’t mean to let it feel this real.

“Chaeyoung,” you murmur, voice rough, your thumb brushing the graze on her cheek—still raw from earlier, a mark you left behind.

She snaps back fast, that smirk curling her lips like armor, her gaze sweeping over you as if she didn’t just bare something unguarded. “What?” she teases, voice steadying too quick, too smooth. “Don’t tell me you’re hooked already.”

But your hand stays on her neck, light and warm, and for a moment, she doesn’t shake it off—the softness lingers between you, unspoken.

“You’ve been acting pathetic long enough,” Chaeyoung murmurs, shifting atop you. She pulls back slowly, settling her weight onto your hips, pinning you in place. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hands, warm and sure, glide from your thighs to your belt, fingers deftly working the buckle loose.

You catch her wrist, halting her. “Chaeyoung, we’re in public—”

“No one’s coming,” she interrupts, voice soft but firm, cutting through your protest. She leans in, her breath teasing your lips. “You need this.”

Her free hand fumbles blindly behind her, pulling the car door shut with a quiet click. She doesn’t say she needs it too, but the way her fingers tighten on you, the way her pupils flare, betrays her.

Your grip slackens.

A slow, wicked smile curls her lips. She shifts lower, unfastening your belt with a tug, sliding your waistband and boxers down in one fluid motion. Your cock springs free, and her eyes widen—just for a heartbeat—before that grin takes over, sharp and hungry.

Her tongue flicks out, tracing a deliberate, languid stripe up your length. A shudder rips through you as she swirls around the tip, savoring you, then takes you into her mouth. She sinks down, lips wrapping tight, the heat of her throat swallowing you inch by inch. A groan claws its way out of your chest, your hips twitching up instinctively.

She hums, the vibration pulsing through you, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside as she bobs deeper, faster. Her fingers curl around the base, stroking what she can’t take, while her other hand teases your balls with a gentle roll. It’s too much—too good—pleasure coiling tight and fast. You’re close, teetering on the edge, when she pulls off with a wet pop, a thin string of spit bridging her lips to your throbbing tip.

She rises slightly, hands moving to her jeans. With maddening slowness, she unbuttons them, lifting her hips just enough to peel the denim down her thighs. Her dark panties cling to her, barely a barrier, and she kicks the jeans aside, settling back onto your lap.

Before you can catch your breath, she straddles you, grinding her hips down. The thin fabric between you does nothing to hide her heat, her slickness seeping through as she rolls against your aching length. Your hands grip her waist, fingers digging in, body taut with want.

“Mmm, you taste better than I remember,” she purrs, lips brushing your ear, nails raking your shoulders with a sharp thrill. “I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t stand.”

Her words ignite you, heat roaring through your veins. The slow drag of her hips has your breath stuttering, your hands itching to pull her closer, to lose yourself in her—

But then she stops.

Not hesitation. Not doubt.

She’s waiting, her focus shifting past you.

A beat hangs.

Then—click.

The car door creaks open, and your blood turns to ice.

“Chaeyoung…?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the haze, freezing you mid-breath. You don’t recognize it—not instantly—but the weight of that stare burns into you, heavy and unyielding.

“Oh… fuck—” A woman’s voice falters, stammering.

Panic hits like a flood. You jolt upright, scrambling to yank your pants up, fumbling in a clumsy rush. Chaeyoung, unbothered, slides off you with effortless grace, reaching for her jeans like it’s a casual pause in her day.

“Unnie, you’re here,” she says, voice light, almost bored, as she shimmies denim back over her hips.

You look up, heart slamming, and see her—Seoyeon—standing there, wide-eyed, caught in the doorway.

Your breath lodges in your throat, guilt and shock colliding as her gaze flickers between you and Chaeyoung.

Seoyeon freezes, her wide eyes flickering between you and Chaeyoung before dropping to the ground, like she’s trying to unsee what she just walked into. Her fingers tighten around her bag strap, and a faint flush creeps up her neck, barely visible in the parking lot’s dim glow.

That reaction—soft, unguarded—hits you harder than it should. Seoyeon, the quiet beauty you’d watched from a distance, always so composed, so untouchable. She’d had this effortless allure—serene, distant, captivating. And now, she’s flustered, unraveling before you.

Guilt twists in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. You hardly know her—just fleeting glances, occasional nods—but her seeing you like this, tangled in Chaeyoung’s mess, stings in a way you can’t explain. Her expression, unreadable yet raw, makes it worse.

She shifts, hesitating, like she’s torn between bolting and pretending this never happened.

Then Chaeyoung moves.

Unfazed, she slides out of the car, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off a minor annoyance. Her lips curl, eyes glinting as she turns from you to Seoyeon. “Seoyeon-ah,” she purrs, stretching the name with relish. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

Seoyeon stiffens. “I—I wasn’t—” she stammers, voice soft, faltering.

Chaeyoung’s laugh cuts through, stepping closer. “What? Didn’t enjoy the show? Or are you mad you missed your chance to play?”

Seoyeon’s breath catches, her grip on her bag whitening her knuckles. She doesn’t retreat, though—rooted there, trapped under Chaeyoung’s gaze.

You watch, a dark thread coiling in your mind. Chaeyoung’s teasing has shifted—no longer aimed at you, it’s sharper now, laced with an edge that feels almost territorial.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, closing the distance, her tone hovering between irritation and something colder.

Seoyeon hesitates. “You… said you’d drive me home.”

“Ah…” Chaeyoung tilts her head, smirk returning, but it’s tighter, meaner. “Right. I did, didn’t I?” She crosses her arms. “So, your little meeting’s done?”

Seoyeon nods, barely.

Chaeyoung spins back to you, her grin wicked. “Hear that? Our shy little puppy just signed a deal—her book’s getting adapted.” Her fingers trail up Seoyeon’s arm as she speaks, possessive, taunting. “Isn’t she incredible?” Her eyes lock on yours, gleaming. “Go on, praise her. She’d love to hear it from you.”

Your throat tightens, brain scrambling. A writer? You’d seen her in the café—alone, lost in thought, typing by her laptop. You’d guessed student, freelancer, anything but this.

“I—” You clear your throat, forcing it out. “Congrats. That’s… really impressive. I always wondered what you were up to.”

Seoyeon fidgets with her strap, eyes down. “I—I could just go home alone. I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Too late,” Chaeyoung cuts in, smooth and biting. Her fingers slide down Seoyeon’s wrist, tugging at her sleeve, and Seoyeon tenses—but doesn’t pull away.

“Join us,” Chaeyoung hums, tilting her head, lips curving sharper. “Unless…” She flicks her gaze to you, then lowers her voice, “you wanted a different kind of invitation?”

Your breath snags. Her hand drifts lower, fingertips brushing Seoyeon’s waist, pressing just enough to draw a faint shudder. It’s blatant, deliberate—performed for you, like she’s daring you to react.

Your jaw clenches.

Seoyeon bites her lip, face flaming, eyes darting away. She’s unrecognizable from the café girl—cozy sweaters swapped for something sleek, her softness sharpened by the moment, helpless under Chaeyoung’s grip.

And you—you’re still hard, the ache a cruel reminder of where this was headed. Chaeyoung catches it, her smirk flashing like she’s won something.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs, leaning closer to Seoyeon, fingers tracing her blouse’s hem. “Especially after crashing our fun.”

Chaeyoung glances at your still bulging pants.

She whispers something in Seoyeon’s ear—too low to catch—and Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her flush deepening.

Then Chaeyoung grins, turning to you. “Besides… don’t you want me to introduce you?” Her voice drops, eyes flicking between you both. “Show you who she really is?”

She tosses you the keys with a flick of her wrist. “Drive us, sweetie. Follow the GPS,” she says, mischief glinting in her stare. She glances at the backseat. “I want Seoyeon’s company back there.”

You slide into the driver’s seat, fingers clamping around the wheel, knuckles whitening. A quick check in the rearview shows Chaeyoung sprawled comfortably, dark hair fanning over the leather, one leg crossed casually. Seoyeon sits beside her, rigid, hands knotted in her lap, staring out the window like it might save her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car hums softly, the GPS’s faint beeps punctuating the quiet. The silence stretches—not heavy, but taut—until Chaeyoung slices through it.

“So… how much do you actually know about Seoyeon?”

Your fingers flex on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview. Chaeyoung’s smirking, amused, while Seoyeon jolts slightly, her gaze snapping from the window to dart between you and Chaeyoung.

You clear your throat. “Uh… I see her at Golden Brew a lot. She’s always there.”

Seoyeon blinks, startled—like she didn’t think you’d noticed her.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and teasing. “That’s it? Just some café girl?” She slings an arm over Seoyeon’s shoulders, tugging her closer with casual possessiveness. “Come on, you’ve got more than that. Give us an impression.”

You hesitate, Seoyeon’s eyes on you now, soft but searching. What do you say? That she always looked so calm there, tucked in her corner, lost in a book—like the world couldn’t touch her? That she’s nothing like the flustered girl beside Chaeyoung now?

“I don’t know,” you mutter, eyes back on the road. “She just… seemed at peace there. Like nothing else mattered when she was reading.”

Seoyeon shifts, a mix of flattered and uneasy, while Chaeyoung hums, twirling a strand of Seoyeon’s hair. “See? He notices you.” Her voice dances with playful mockery, but it lands—Seoyeon’s cheeks flush pink.

The air shifts, no longer awkward but charged, teetering on something new. Chaeyoung’s either diffusing it or stirring it—you can’t tell.

Then—“So,” she drawls, stretching her legs like she owns the car, “when are you moving in?”

Your grip tightens, knuckles whitening. You knew it was coming—Saerom’s words made it inevitable—but resistance flares anyway, a reflex you can’t kill.

“Gyuri called earlier,” she adds, casual but pointed. “Asked if you’ve got anything sentimental in that dorm.”

The question jars you. Gyuri called her—not you? And moving your stuff herself? Your mind scrambles for something sentimental, but it’s blank—Saerom was right. A week with them, and they’ve already peeled back how empty your life was.

Your silence lingers too long.

Chaeyoung clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Still acting like you’ve got a choice, huh?” She leans forward, propping her chin on Seoyeon’s shoulder, eyes glinting in the mirror. “It’s not just about you crashing with us. It’s that head of yours—we’re keeping it from cracking open.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Your mind’s a mess,” she says, smooth and unrelenting. “It’s not a quick fix, sweetie.”

“We—or someone—” she loops an arm around Seoyeon’s waist, pulling her tighter, “has to stop you from losing it completely.”

Seoyeon stiffens, like she’s just now catching the drift. Chaeyoung doesn’t let her squirm away.

“Meet your minder,” she purrs, nudging Seoyeon forward like a prize on display. “Our best little memory-sorter.”

You catch Seoyeon’s reaction in the mirror—her fingers knot into her dress, lips parting in a half-formed protest she doesn’t voice.

“You,” Chaeyoung continues, dragging a finger up Seoyeon’s arm, making her twitch, “never step up unless you’re forced. But when Saerom asked for someone to help our poor, scrambled boy here, you volunteered fast.”

Seoyeon glances at you—quick, fleeting—then down. “I didn’t—” She swallows, voice thin. “It just made sense.”

Chaeyoung snickers. “Oh, sure. Made sense.” She mocks it, tilting her head. “Not because you’re perfect for untangling his head, but because you wanted to, right?”

“Because I’ve got the most experience,” Seoyeon snaps, face reddening.

“Mhm. Purely professional,” Chaeyoung grins, dripping sarcasm.

You keep your eyes on the road, but it’s sinking in—Seoyeon chose this? You’d figured it was thrust on her, like everything else with you. If she wanted it… why?

Chaeyoung leans closer to Seoyeon, voice dropping, teasing but firm. “Then why’re you blushing, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, no answer forming. Seoyeon’s a stranger beyond café glimpses, but now—flustered, off-balance—she’s the last one you’d expect to sift through your fractured mind.

The wheel bites into your palms, city lights streaking past. You don’t want to unpack Chaeyoung’s words—or why Seoyeon’s quiet gaze in the mirror unsettles you so much.

Then— A sound. Soft, barely there. But in the thick silence, it cuts through like a blade. A… moan? Your grip tightens. Did you imagine that?

"You interrupted us earlier," Chaeyoung murmurs, voice slow, teasing. "He’s still probably hard from before. Don’t you think you owe him a show?”

You keep your eyes forward. You should keep them forward.

Another noise—fainter, but unmistakable—followed by the rustle of fabric, a shift of weight on leather. Your stomach twists, unease coiling tight. What the hell’s going on back there?

Chaeyoung’s voice breaks through, playful but laced with command. “See, Seoyeon’s brilliant with her spells, but there’s something she’s terrible at.”

You could look. One glance in the mirror would settle it. But with Chaeyoung, looking’s a trap—you know better. Still, your mind spins, torn between shutting it out and the nagging pull to understand. Is this her game again? Or is Seoyeon—? No. You kill the thought fast.

A soft, pleading whimper escapes Seoyeon. “Chaeyoung, please—” she mumbles, voice fragile, but Chaeyoung barrels over it.

“She can’t say no,” she teases, mischief dripping from every word. “Or rather, she’ll do anything but say it.” Another moan—clearer now—punctuates her taunt, leaving no room for doubt. “Such a sweet unnie, always so eager to please… or maybe you just love being used like this?”

Curiosity and dread tug your gaze to the rearview. The dim light barely outlines them, but it’s enough: Seoyeon pressed against Chaeyoung, her body yielding to soft, relentless touches. Chaeyoung’s fingers weave through her hair while another hand traces slow, teasing lines under her skirt. Seoyeon’s trembling grip clings to Chaeyoung’s arm, her gasps spilling out—small, desperate sounds of surrender.

“Mr. Driver, eyes on the road,” Chaeyoung chides, her tone sharp with glee. You snap your focus forward, heat prickling your neck, but the image sticks—burned into your mind.

“Sounds like someone’s enjoying herself,” she murmurs, voice curling with delight. “Seoyeon, why don’t you tell him? Describe every little thing I’m doing to you.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her fingers digging into Chaeyoung’s arm. “Chaeyoung, I—” she stammers, voice a whisper, fraying at the edges.

Chaeyoung hums, feigning consideration, but her hands don’t stop. “What? Want me to stop?” A deliberate pause. “When you’re already this wet?”

Silence—thick, heavy. Then, soft and broken: “No… please don’t… I’ll do it.”

“Good girl,” Chaeyoung purrs, satisfaction dripping from the words.

The air turns stifling, filled with Seoyeon’s shaky breaths and Chaeyoung’s low murmurs. You grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to look, to let their game pull you in. The city lights streak by, blurred and distant, drowned out by the pounding in your chest.

Seoyeon’s voice trembles, halting. “I… I feel Chaeyoung’s fingers… sliding under my skirt… touching me…” Each word wavers, forced out between gasps. “She’s tracing circles… slow, then faster… it’s—ah—it’s tingling everywhere…”

Chaeyoung’s eyes flick to you in the mirror, a brief, wicked glint, before she leans closer to Seoyeon. “That’s it,” she coaxes, voice a velvet tease. “Let him hear every sound. Show him how irresistible you are.”

Seoyeon swallows, her breaths short and ragged. “Her fingers… they’re higher now… brushing—oh god—brushing my panties… they’re soaked… it’s too much…” Her voice climbs, desperate, unraveling.

You can’t see it, but you don’t need to—the picture paints itself: Seoyeon squirming, flushed and needy, Chaeyoung’s fingers working her into a frenzy. You force your focus on the road, but it’s useless—the sounds, the heat, the tension—they claw at you.

“Getting excited, Seoyeon?” Chaeyoung whispers, lips grazing her ear. “Does my touch make you all fluttery inside?”

A strangled moan is her only answer, nails biting into Chaeyoung’s arm.

“I think he needs to know,” Chaeyoung murmurs, fingers teasing the damp fabric. “How much you’re loving this. Tell him how wet I’m making you.”

Seoyeon whimpers, her body squirming against the seat. “I… I’m soaking,” she confesses, voice trembling, barely holding together. “Chaeyoung’s fingers… they’re making me drip… my panties are drenched… I want—ah—I want her inside…” Her words break into a fractured moan as Chaeyoung’s fingers slip beneath the damp fabric, stroking her slick, eager folds.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and dark, her touch unrelenting. “You hear that?” she murmurs, voice a taunting caress. “She’s begging for it.” Her fingers plunge deeper, a slick, rhythmic sound filling the car as she works Seoyeon open, drawing out sharper gasps.

Your grip on the wheel tightens, sweat beading on your brow. You shouldn’t look—you can’t look—but the pull is too strong. Your eyes flick to the rearview, catching them in fragments: Chaeyoung’s hand buried between Seoyeon’s thighs, her fingers curling inside with a slow, deliberate thrust. Seoyeon’s head tips back, lips parted, her chest heaving as soft, needy cries spill out.

“Chaeyoung… please…” Seoyeon’s voice is a broken plea, her hips rocking into the touch, chasing it. Chaeyoung leans closer, her lips brushing Seoyeon’s ear, whispering something too low to catch—but it makes Seoyeon shudder, her nails scraping the leather.

The car feels smaller, the air thick and stifling. Chaeyoung’s fingers move faster, a wet, obscene rhythm that syncs with Seoyeon’s escalating moans. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” Chaeyoung purrs, her free hand sliding up to grip Seoyeon’s waist, holding her steady. “Let him hear how good it feels.”

Seoyeon’s response is a high, desperate whine, her body arching off the seat. You can’t tear your eyes away—her flushed cheeks, the way her thighs tremble, the glistening sheen on Chaeyoung’s fingers as they pump in and out. Your breath catches, pulse hammering, the road blurring at the edges of your vision.

She’s unraveling—fast. Chaeyoung adds another finger, stretching her, and Seoyeon’s cry spikes, raw and unrestrained. “Yes—oh god—Chaeyoung—” Her voice cracks, teetering on the edge, and you’re staring now, fully caught, the wheel forgotten as her climax builds.

“Come on, baby,” Chaeyoung coaxes, voice thick with satisfaction, her thumb flicking over Seoyeon’s clit. “Let go for me—for him.”

Seoyeon’s body tenses, a taut bowstring ready to snap. Her gasps turn sharp, frantic, her hands clawing at Chaeyoung’s arm. You’re locked on her—her glazed eyes, her shuddering frame—watching the wave crest, so close you can almost feel it.

Then—a horn blares, loud and jarring.

Your heart lurches as the car swerves, tires skidding over the line. You jerk the wheel hard, yanking it back into your lane, adrenaline spiking as the world snaps back into focus. Shit—too close. Your eyes snap forward, chest heaving, the climax slipping past you in the chaos.

You miss it—the peak.

But you hear it: Seoyeon’s sharp, broken cry, a sound of pure release that cuts through the roar in your ears. It’s followed by a trembling gasp, then a soft, shuddering exhale as she collapses against the seat. Chaeyoung’s low hum of approval weaves through the aftermath, her fingers slowing, guiding Seoyeon down from the high.

You don’t dare look again. The road demands your focus, but the echoes linger—Seoyeon’s ragged breathing, the faint slick sound as Chaeyoung withdraws her hand. Your knuckles ache from gripping the wheel, your shirt clinging to your back with sweat.

“Look at this mess,” Chaeyoung murmurs, her voice smug, lazy, dripping with triumph. “You really enjoy him hearing how perverted you are, don’t you?” She shifts, and in your peripheral, you catch her wiping her fingers on Seoyeon’s skirt—casual, possessive, like marking her territory.

“You do realize this is Saerom’s car, right?” Chaeyoung adds, a teasing lilt in her tone.

Seoyeon’s too spent to reply, her breath still unsteady, a faint whimper slipping out as she slumps against the seat, boneless and dazed.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and indulgent, leaning closer to Seoyeon. “Oh, don’t even try to play shy now. You loved every second of him listening—didn’t you, unnie?”

Seoyeon’s lips part, a weak protest forming, but it dies in her throat, replaced by a shaky exhale. Her hands twitch in her lap, like she’s grasping for control she doesn’t have.

“You don’t have to say it,” Chaeyoung continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for you to hear. “It’s obvious. You get off on this—being use freely. Anyone can have you, anytime, anywhere, and you just melt for it.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel, the words sinking in. Free use? Your mind stumbles over it, but Chaeyoung doesn’t pause, her tone turning instructional, like she’s savoring the explanation.

“See, that’s her thing,” she says, glancing at you through the rearview with a smirk. “Seoyeon’s too sweet to admit it, but she thrives on being taken—however, whenever. No boundaries, no fuss. Just… available.” She runs a finger along Seoyeon’s thigh, drawing a faint shiver. “Why do you think she didn’t say no back there? She can’t. It’s wired into her.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her head dipping lower, but she doesn’t contradict it. Her silence is louder than words—agreement by default, too overwhelmed to argue.

“Chaeyoung…” Seoyeon mumbles, voice barely audible, a plea or a surrender—you can’t tell.

“What?” Chaeyoung cuts in, grinning. “You’re not denying it, are you? Look at you—still trembling, skirt a mess, all because I decided to play with you in front of him. You didn’t stop me. You wanted it.”

Seoyeon’s fingers curl into the leather, her face flushed, but no rebuttal comes. She’s trapped—caught between exhaustion and the truth Chaeyoung’s laying bare.

The GPS chimes, a soft ping slicing through the charged air, signaling the final turn. The road stretches toward a towering mansion, its dark silhouette carving into the night sky, stark and commanding.

“Great, we’re here,” Chaeyoung says, stretching with a lazy roll of her shoulders, as if this were just another casual drive. “Park by the gate.”

You guide the car to a stop, tires crunching faintly against gravel, your hands still clamped around the wheel. Your mind’s a snarl—reeling from the sounds, the heat, the scene that burned itself into your skull from the rearview.

Chaeyoung slips out first, the door shutting with a crisp thud, her movements fluid, unbothered. You don’t follow. Not yet. Your fingers flex, uncertain, rooted to the seat.

Your gaze flicks to the mirror.

Seoyeon’s still there, slumped against the leather, her chest rising and falling in slow, unsteady breaths. Her skirt’s rucked up, thighs parted just enough to betray the aftermath—tremors still rippling through her, faint and fading. Her eyes are half-lidded, lost in a dazed fog.

You should say something. Move. Anything.

But before you can unstuck yourself, a light tap-tap raps against your window. Chaeyoung leans down, her smirk glinting in the dim light, sharp and knowing.

“Just leave her for now,” she says, voice thick with amusement, like she’s commenting on a spilled drink instead of a trembling wreck. “She’ll be fine.”

The way she says it—casual, dismissive—makes your fingers twitch against the wheel, a spark of something hot and unnamable flaring in your chest.

You exhale, sharp through your nose, and glance back at the mirror.

Seoyeon hasn’t moved. Her breaths are shallow, her body limp, a quiet shadow of the poised girl you’d glimpsed before.

You don’t respond. The silence settles, thick and unresolved, as Chaeyoung straightens and saunters toward the gate, leaving you with the echo of her words and Seoyeon’s heavy stillness in the backseat.

You shove the car door open, stepping out fast, gravel crunching under your boots as you close the distance. Before she reaches the gate, you grab her arm, pulling her to a stop. “What was that about?”

Chaeyoung turns, smirking like she expected this. “What, the show?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Just giving you a front-row seat to Seoyeon’s little quirk. She’s fine—better than fine. She loves it.”

Your grip tightens slightly, jaw clenching. “Loves it? She could barely speak back there.”

“Exactly,” Chaeyoung says, unfazed, twisting her arm free with a casual shrug. “That’s the point. She doesn’t fight it—never will. Free use isn’t just her kink; it’s her nature. You could take her right now, and she’d let you. Hell, she’d probably thank you.”

You stare, the words sinking in, a mix of unease and heat stirring in your chest. “And you’re just… okay with that?”

She laughs, sharp and low. “Okay? Sweetie, I’m telling you to use it. She’s your anchor duty too, you know—keeping us steady means keeping her satisfied. Plus…” Her smirk widens, eyes flicking over you. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy hearing her fall apart. Take advantage of it. For her. For you.”

You don’t answer, the weight of her suggestion pressing down, tempting and unsettling all at once. Chaeyoung steps back, grinning, then turns toward the gate, leaving you standing there—caught between her words and the quiet, trembling figure still in the car.

The gates slide open with a low hum, machinery purring softly into the still night. Beyond them, the mansion rises—a sleek, modern sculpture carved against the dark. Sharp angles and clean lines meld glass and concrete into something precise, deliberate. Warm light pours from vast windows, pooling onto the manicured garden and the smooth stone walkway that stretches toward the entrance.

It’s grand but restrained—wealth distilled into control, not extravagance. Every detail feels intentional, a quiet flex of power.

Your shoes crunch faintly on the path as you step forward, the sound crisp in the silence. Chaeyoung strides ahead, unbothered, stretching her arms overhead with a fluid, careless grace.

You glance back—just once—at the car, where Seoyeon lingers. Chaeyoung catches it, peering over her shoulder, her smirk deepening as she reads your pause.

“Relax,” she says, voice smooth, gliding over the tension like silk. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

The front doors part before you reach them—automated, or maybe someone’s watching. A rush of cool air greets you, crisp and faintly floral, laced with the scent of something expensive and understated.

You step inside, crossing the threshold into their world. “Might as well show you around,” Chaeyoung says, glancing back with a faint smirk. “Wouldn’t want you lost on your first night.”

The interior gleams—sharp, modern, all polished surfaces and muted tones. Chaeyoung takes the lead, her steps echoing faintly in the cavernous foyer as she gestures with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“We’re barely here,” she says, her tone laced with casual confidence. “Busy as hell—shoots, meetings, all that chaos. The place stays empty most of the time.” She shoots you a sidelong glance, smirk tugging at her lips. “Just us. No staff, no stragglers, no visitors. Keeps it clean—literally and figuratively.”

You follow, shoes tapping against hardwood, the silence amplifying each sound. She veers left toward a small hallway—her lobby. “This is me, Hayoung, and Jiwon,” she says, pointing to three doors clustered together, a sleek bathroom tucked at the end. “Our little corner. Hayoung’s … very territorial—don’t touch her stuff unless you want a lecture. Jiwon’s chill, but she’s hardly around.”

She doesn’t linger, heading up a cold, modern staircase—glass steps, steel railing. You climb behind her, the house’s quiet pressing in. At the top, a long hallway stretches out, doors like sentinels.

“Second floor,” she announces. “This is where you’ll be.” She nods toward a lobby with five rooms—Saerom, Jisun, Seoyeon, Nagyung, and yours—flanked by three bathrooms. “Seoyeon’s is closest to you—she likes her quiet.” She nudges a door open with her hip. “Here’s yours.”

You peer in—dark wood floors, a wide bed with crisp sheets, a desk angled toward a towering window framing the garden. Sparse, sharp-edged, waiting to be claimed.

“Not bad, huh?” Chaeyoung leans against the frame, watching you take it in. “Beats that cramped dorm by a mile.”

You nod faintly, the reality of moving in sinking deeper. She pushes off, strolling down the hall. “Saerom’s got the big office up here—barely uses it unless she’s playing boss. Jisun is a neat freak, don’t let her see any of your mess, Nagyung’s… Nagyung.”

She leads you back downstairs, drifting toward the kitchen—a pristine space with gleaming appliances and an untouched island. “Jisun rules this when she’s here,” she says lazily. “Hates us touching her stuff—knife-throwing threats included.” She pauses by a wall of windows overlooking the garden, night pressing dark against the glass.

The tour stretches—past a living area with a plush sectional and stark art, a sleek bar counter, a lounge with low couches and a massive TV, a small gym with mirrored walls, a tucked-away balcony catching the city’s distant glow. “We don’t use half this stuff,” she admits, shrugging. “Too busy. Keeps it nice for crashing, though.”

She veers toward another small hallway on the first floor, two rooms facing a glass wall to the garden. “Gyuri and Jiheon’s lobby,” she says, pointing. “Gyuri’s closer, Jiheon’s farther.”

You stop, staring at Jiheon’s door. A storm churns in your chest—anger, disappointment, longing, hate, forgiveness, disgust, a twisted ache you can’t name. It’s heavy, bitter, and you don’t know what to do with it.

Chaeyoung leans close, her whisper brushing your ear, breaking the spiral. “Wanna knock?”

“No.”

She smirks faintly but doesn’t push, guiding you back toward the second floor. “Let’s check on our little star—give her time to pull herself together.” Her voice dips with that familiar tease.

When you first saw Seoyeon’s room—just down from yours—it felt normal. Quiet, orderly, a haven of books and lavender. But now, as you return, your steps drag, each one heavier than the last, like the air’s thickened, resisting you. Chaeyoung doesn’t knock—just eases the door open and steps inside, claiming the space.

Seoyeon’s there, perched on her bed, changed into an oversized long-sleeved shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, faintly tousled, a soft flush still on her cheeks. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening briefly before dropping to her lap, fingers twisting into her cuffs.

You pause, the shift in the room undeniable—something sluggish, unseen, pressing down. But Chaeyoung just smirks, oblivious or unconcerned, and you let it pass, chalking it up to the day’s weight.

Seoyeon’s there, sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s changed—swapped the creased skirt for an oversized long-sleeved shirt that drowns her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, still slightly tousled, and the flush on her cheeks has faded to a soft glow. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening for a split second before dropping to her lap, fingers fidgeting with the shirt’s cuffs.

Chaeyoung crosses her arms, smirking. “Look at you, all cozy now. Took you long enough.”

Seoyeon mumbles something under her breath, too quiet to catch, her posture stiff but not defiant. The room fits her—bookshelves packed tight, a cluttered desk with notebooks and pens, a faint lavender scent softening the air. It’s a refuge, even if she doesn’t look entirely at ease in it now.

Chaeyoung tilts her head toward you. “Told you she’d be fine. Didn’t even need a nudge to freshen up.”

You don’t reply, the air between you three thick with unspoken currents—Chaeyoung’s easy control, Seoyeon’s fragile calm, and your own unsettled place in this strange, polished world.

Chaeyoung glances at the sleek clock on Seoyeon’s wall, then back at you, a glint sparking in her eyes. “Still got a couple hours ‘til dinner. Plenty of time for you two to get started.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Started on what?”

“Healing that mess in your head,” she says, smirking as she nods toward Seoyeon. “She’s your little mind-fixer, remember? Might as well dive in now.”

Something nags at the back of your mind. A small, quiet wrongness.

Your gaze flickers to the clock.

The sleek, minimalist hands tick forward, smooth and unhurried. But something feels off. It takes a second to register—the movement isn’t quite… right. The rhythm is steady, but it doesn’t match the weight of the moment, doesn’t line up with the pulse in your veins, the breaths in your lungs.

Seoyeon shifts on the bed, smoothing the oversized long-sleeved shirt over her thighs, her composure steadier now—a stark contrast to the trembling wreck in the car. She doesn’t protest, just nods faintly.

You glance at the time again.

Something feels… off.

The second hand moves, but sluggishly, dragging itself forward in a way that doesn’t match the quiet tension in the room. The tick, usually sharp and precise, stretches—each second stretching just a little longer than it should.

The time is wrong. Not in numbers, but in weight.

Or maybe not. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe your mind is more broken than you thought.

“Fine,” you mutter, the weight of it settling in. You’re here, in their world—might as well see what this ‘healing’ actually means.

Chaeyoung steps back, leaning against the doorframe, her smirk widening as she eyes you both. “Perfect. A cozy little session. Just don’t get too distracted, hmm?” She tilts her head toward Seoyeon, voice dipping low and teasing. “Our sweet unnie’s still got that free-use itch, you know. Might be hard to focus when she’s so… available.”

Seoyeon’s cheeks flush faintly, but she doesn’t flinch this time. Her gaze lifts, meeting Chaeyoung’s with a quiet steadiness. “If he needs my help,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, “I’m here.” It’s passive, almost detached—yet the way her eyes flicker to you for a split second carries an anticipating leer, unspoken but undeniable.

Chaeyoung’s grin sharpens, delighted. “See? Always so willing.” She lets out a bright, cutting laugh, pushing off the frame. “You two have fun—I’ll leave you to it.”

With that, she slips out, the door clicking shut behind her, her laughter echoing faintly down the hall.

You’re left alone with Seoyeon, the air in her room thickening—lavender and paper mingling with the weight of her words. She sits there, composed but not entirely closed off, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse tick faster.

“So,” you say, voice rougher than intended, breaking the quiet. “How does this… healing thing work?”

Seoyeon pats the space beside her, a silent invitation. You don’t move right away, and she shifts, the oversized sleeve slipping past her wrist as she gestures again—patient, expectant, a quiet pull in her motion.

“Come here,” she says, soft but certain. “Lay down.”

You hesitate.

She doesn’t repeat herself, just waits, her gaze steady, unwavering. There’s no push, no command—just a calm assurance, like she knows you’ll come to her.

And somehow, you do.

You ease onto the bed, head settling into the pillow she nudges against her lap. The fabric of her shirt drapes over you, soft and warm, brushing your skin like a whispered promise. Her heat radiates through, steadying you in a way that catches you off guard.

Then she moves.

Her fingertips graze your temple, light as a feather, tracing slow, wandering patterns. Each touch is deliberate, tender—like she’s unraveling you, thread by thread, feeling the knots of tension still coiled beneath your surface.

Your eyes lift to hers.

Her gaze catches you, and something shifts. At first, her eyes are shadowed pools—deep, unreadable—but then they bloom. Color seeps away, melting into a grey that’s alive, liquid silver threaded with dusk, like the tender hush of twilight spilling over a still lake. It’s not stark or cold; it’s a soft veil, a mist kissed by starlight, drawing you into its quiet embrace. Her eyes shimmer with a gentle depth, as if they hold the weight of a thousand unspoken dreams, tender and infinite.

The air thickens—light, hazy, blurring the edges of the world until it’s just you and her in this fragile, suspended moment.

A grey fog unfurls at the corners of your vision, curling like tendrils of smoke. You don’t flinch.

Seoyeon doesn’t blink. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, her fingers still dancing, still grounding. “Just breathe.”

You do.

The pressure against your ribs softens—just a fraction.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Her voice weaves through the haze, a guiding thread—gentle, not pressing, simply offering a space for you to fill.

You swallow. “Too much.”

She hums, a low, knowing sound that resonates in your chest. “Then start small.”

Her fingers press faintly, a quiet nudge, her warmth sinking deeper—sliding into fractures you didn’t know you’d left open.

Your lips part before you mean them to.

And slowly, as the grey haze wraps tighter, pulling you into its tender depths, the words begin to spill out.

You wake to silence.

The room’s dimmer now—not dark, but the warm gold of before has dulled into something softer, hazier, less defined. Your head rests in Seoyeon’s lap, her hand lying still against your hair, a faint warmth lingering in her touch.

You blink, sluggish, piecing together the gap. How long were you out? Something’s… off. Not wrong—just unmoored. Like waking from a dream where the edges don’t align, the fragments slipping through your fingers.

Your eyes drift to the clock on the wall, its sleek hands stark against the muted backdrop. You frown.

The seconds tick—or don’t. The motion’s too slow, a crawl that drags against the rhythm of time, you know. Did it move at all? Or is your mind lagging, stretching moments into something they’re not?

You must’ve been under longer than it felt. That’s it—right?

Your body’s heavy, limbs thick and reluctant, as if they’re wading through molasses. A fog clings to you—not exhaustion, not the ache of sleeplessness, but something stranger, weightless yet suffocating. A spell’s aftereffect, you tell yourself. Just the residue of whatever she did to pull you under, clouding your edges.

Seoyeon shifts beneath you, a faint rustle breaking the stillness. “You’re awake,” she whispers, voice so soft it barely stirs the air.

You swallow, throat dry. “Yeah.”

She studies you, her gaze searching—probing—for something you can’t name. Her fingers lift, returning to your temple, pressing lightly, delicately, like she’s testing a pulse beneath your skin.

You should ask. Should question the sluggish air, the way time feels like it’s pooling instead of flowing. But the words stick, caught in the haze.

Her head tilts, and those eyes—still a quiet, misted grey, like twilight caught in glass—hold you. They shimmer faintly, a silvered depth that seems to stretch too far, too still. “How do you feel?” she asks, voice threading through the fog, gentle but heavy with something unspoken.

You hesitate.

The question lingers, and you realize the room feels softer—too soft. The light bends at odd angles, the shadows too lazy to sharpen. Your thoughts drift, sluggish, curling inward like smoke you can’t grasp. It’s the spell, you think—it has to be. The aftermath of her magic left you dazed and untethered.

But beneath that reasoning, something prickles—a flicker of doubt, a whisper that this isn’t just residue. That the world itself is slowing, sinking, and she’s at the center of it.

You don’t voice it. Can’t.

You shift, pushing yourself upright. The weight lingers, but the room snaps into focus—too quick, too vivid, like a reel jerked back into alignment. For a moment, the air still hums thick, heavy with the promise of something unravelling—but then it steadies, settling into a fragile normalcy.

Seoyeon’s hand hovers near you, hesitating before pulling back. The grey in her eyes lightens, the quiet storm fading into something softer, more contained.

“Ri—right, it’s the first treatment,” she says, voice gentler, a little unsteady. “That was the first time… I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you fully.”

You shake your head, the spell’s residue still fogging your edges. “No, it’s okay. I knew it wouldn’t be instant. But I feel better now.”

And for a fleeting second, you believe it.

Until it strikes.

A flash—too fast, too brutal. Jiheon’s face, warped and sharp, tears streaking her cheeks. Not a memory—a violation, shoved into your skull with searing force. Pain blooms, white-hot, and you clutch your head, breath catching as it digs deeper.

Seoyeon’s eyes widen, concern flashing as she leans in. “Are you okay?” Her fingers graze your wrist, steady and warm. “Tell me—ask if you need anything.”

You force a sharp exhale, the image of Jiheon flickering, unstable, like a signal breaking up. “Actually, there’s something I need your help with.”

She freezes. Then—“Oh—oh…” Her voice lifts, a spark igniting in her tone. Her hand slides from your wrist to your thigh, fingers curling tight, gripping with sudden, eager intent. Her other hand follows, rubbing slow, firm circles higher up your leg, her touch bold and warm through the fabric. Her lips part, breath quickening, eyes glinting with something hungry as they dart to your mouth. “Then… tell me what you need.”

The air charges, her excitement pulsing through her grip, her body shifting closer—too close—her oversized shirt brushing your arm.

You blink, the misunderstanding hitting you late, electric and awkward. “I keep hearing ‘The Mist.’ What is it?”

Her hands stop dead.

“What…?” The word hangs, her eyes widening as the spark snuffs out. Color floods her cheeks, a flush of mortification chasing away the eagerness. She pulls back fast, hands retreating to her lap, pressing her lips tight like she could swallow the moment whole.

“The—The Mist…” she echoes, voice leveling as she forces herself steady.

A breath—shaky, then firm. She exhales, recalibrating, the blush still lingering as she meets your gaze again.

“Think of it as a literal mist or fog,” she begins, voice smoothing into something measured, deliberate. She glances toward the window, eyes tracing the faint glow of the outside lamps before flicking back to you. “Let’s say this morning, Gyuri blew up your door. Shook the entire building. A full-force explosion—undeniably real.”

Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her oversized sleeve. “But what if that wasn’t what really happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“You saw it with your own eyes, right? But to outsiders? To anyone not meant to understand?” She tilts her head. “The Mist works on their perception. To them, it wouldn’t have been a single woman causing destruction. It would’ve looked like a gas leak. A structural fault. Something explainable—because that’s easier. That’s normal.”

The weight of her words sinks in, slow and unsettling.

“Or…” she hesitates, then leans in slightly. “Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you were there? Sworn something was different, but you couldn’t place what?”

She taps a finger against her temple. “That’s The Mist, too. It doesn’t erase things, not exactly—it redirects your thoughts. A missing object, a changed detail, a person who was never supposed to exist…”

Your mind flashes back. “That night at the café—when we first met. It felt wrong going back. Like something had shifted.” Your voice is careful. “Did you use The Mist then?”

She nods. “The Mist doesn’t just hide things. It bends perception, guides thoughts. It makes the impossible seem ordinary, the unnatural seem mundane.”

Her gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable. “It doesn’t just mask the truth.” A pause, the air thick between you. “It replaces it.”

"So you created The Mist?"

Seoyeon shakes her head. "No. It’s always been there—thin, spread out, almost insignificant. What we do is draw from it, shape it, use it as a tool. It helps us hide, keeps us at a distance… while letting us live normally."

Before you can respond, the door swings open.

Chaeyoung steps inside, scanning the room—first you, then Seoyeon. Her wound by her cheek, marks on her neck now gone, as if it never happened. Something flickers across her face, a mix of surprise and… disappointment?

"I leave you two alone, and you did nothing?" she asks, voice lilting with amusement, but her gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Seoyeon.

A beat of silence.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," she murmurs, unreadable.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel. "Come on. Let’s eat."

The dining room hums with a lived-in warmth—familiarity etched into the clink of plates and the quiet rhythm of routine. Gyuri and Hayoung move with seamless precision, setting bowls and dishes across the table, a dance they’ve done countless times. You follow Seoyeon and Chaeyoung to your seats, easing into the house’s unspoken flow.

Gyuri keeps her focus on the task, her movements precise, not sparing you a glance. Hayoung’s eyes snag yours—sharp, fleeting—and without thinking, you start, “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she snaps, voice cutting like a blade, venom simmering beneath. Her hand hovers over a glass, fingers tightening for a split second before she turns away, dismissing you.

You pause, then press on, undeterred. “—a big fan of yours.”

The words land softer, earnest, and Hayoung freezes mid-motion. Her head snaps back to you, eyes widening just enough to betray her surprise. The sharpness in her stance falters—her grip on the glass loosens, and a faint flush creeps up her neck. She blinks, caught off guard, the bite in her fading as something shy flickers across her face.

She doesn’t respond right away, her lips parting then pressing shut, like she’s unsure what to do with the compliment. The hostility doesn’t vanish entirely, but it’s tempered now, her gaze darting away as she fumbles with the glass, suddenly less certain.

You settle in, the air prickling faintly as the first dish remains untouched. “What about the others?” you ask, glancing around.

Chaeyoung, already pouring herself a drink, answers with a lazy drawl. “Saerom and Jiwon are tied up with work—won’t be back tonight. Jisun’s with Jiheon, eating in her room.”

Jiheon. The name drops like a stone in your chest, dragging up jagged, counterfeit memories—her tears, her touch, a love that never was. Your head throbs, the falseness of it clawing at you, and you force a nod, swallowing the ache.

Something’s missing, though. A gap in the tally nags at you—until the chair at the table’s far end scrapes lightly against the floor.

Nagyung sits.

No one reacts.

It’s not deliberate—no one looks her way, no one adjusts to include her. It’s as if she’d been there all along, or never there at all. Gyuri keeps arranging dishes, Hayoung pours water with a taut grip, Chaeyoung sips her drink. Seoyeon doesn’t flinch.

But you see her.

“Hey.”

The word lands like a glass shattering on tile.

Gyuri freezes mid-reach, her arm suspended. Hayoung’s glass clinks hard against the table, her jaw tightening as her eyes flick to you, narrow and edged with something bitter. Chaeyoung leans forward, smirk blooming with intrigue. Seoyeon’s gaze widens, a quiet shock rippling through her composure.

Nagyung tilts her head—just a fraction—brown eyes locking onto yours, flat and unreadable, like a still pond undisturbed by wind.

“What?” You glance around, unease prickling. “Did I say something weird?”

Chaeyoung’s chuckle cuts the silence, her fingers tapping a slow, amused beat on the table. “Not weird. Just… unexpected.”

Hayoung exhales sharply through her nose, a sound laced with irritation. “We’re not used to someone noticing her first,” she says, her tone cold, barbed. Her gaze lingers on you, heavy with something unspoken, festering under the surface.

Your brows knit. “Noticing—?”

Then it clicks.

The vague itch when you’d asked about the others, the way her entrance slipped past everyone like a shadow dissolving into dusk. She’s not just quiet—she’s apathy, a presence that erases itself, deliberately unseen.

And you broke that.

A faint spark—curiosity, perhaps—flickers in Nagyung’s eyes before she speaks, her voice smooth, detached, like it’s drifting from somewhere far off. “You see me.”

Not a question. A quiet acknowledgment, testing the air.

You hold her stare. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches, too long, too still. Then, without a ripple of reaction, Nagyung picks up her chopsticks and starts eating, as if the exchange never happened.

The clink of chopsticks against porcelain punctuates the quiet after Chaeyoung’s offhand comment.

“Oh right, we haven’t told Jiheon you’ll be living here from now on.”

Your chopsticks freeze above your plate, mid-reach.

“I—”

You don’t get further—if you even meant to argue—because Hayoung chokes across the table. A harsh, ragged cough erupts, her hand fumbling for water. The sound jars the room, but no one flinches. No one moves to help. It’s as if they’re used to her unraveling like this.

You exhale, leaning back, letting your chopsticks settle. “I don’t care.”

You do. Too much.

Hayoung wipes her mouth with a napkin, her gaze snapping to you—razor-sharp, venom simmering. “Of course you don’t.”

The hostility isn’t veiled anymore—it’s a blade, honed and pointed.

You don’t bite back. There’s no point.

But you notice.

Each time your chopsticks hover toward a dish—steamed greens, grilled fish, even the plain rice—Hayoung’s move first. Her motions are swift, precise, cutting you off before you can touch anything. Once might be chance. Twice, impatience. By the third, fourth, it’s a game—a quiet, spiteful claim over every bite, every inch of space you try to take.

You let her have it.

The tension coils tighter, a bowstring pulled taut, thrumming between you. It’s suffocating, unspoken—until Gyuri’s voice slices through.

“I’m leaving first.”

You turn, really seeing her for the first time tonight.

Her eyes catch yours, and for a brief, electric moment, she holds the stare. There’s something there—raw, flickering beneath the polished mask she wears so effortlessly. A storm brews behind her calm, a heat she’s wrestling to bury. Wrath, barely leashed, glints in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers flex against the table’s edge.

Then she forces a smile.

It’s thin, brittle—never touching her eyes.

And just like that, she’s gone, chair scraping faintly as she slips away, leaving the air heavier than before.

Dinner winds down, the clatter of dishes fading into a quiet hum. The table’s a battlefield of half-empty bowls and scattered chopsticks, the tension from earlier simmering beneath the surface. You push your chair back, the scrape soft against the hardwood, as the others begin to drift away.

Seoyeon rises without a word, her oversized shirt swaying as she heads straight for her room, steps muted and purposeful. Nagyung’s chair sits empty—you didn’t catch when she left, her absence slipping past like a shadow dissolving into the dark. Chaeyoung lingers, smirking faintly as she watches you, already poised to follow.

Hayoung stays behind, stacking plates with sharp, deliberate movements. Her jaw’s tight, her earlier hostility still clinging to her like a second skin. You hesitate, then step toward her, voice low. “Need a hand?”

She freezes, a bowl half-lifted, her eyes snapping to you—wide, caught off guard. The sharpness in her gaze falters, softening just a fraction, as if your offer punched a hole through her armor. “What?” Her tone’s still edged, but there’s a crack in it—surprise, maybe doubt.

“I can help clean up,” you say, reaching for a stack of dishes. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move, just stares, her grip on the bowl tightening then loosening. The hostility doesn’t vanish, but it dulls—her shoulders easing, her lips pressing into a thin line instead of a scowl. “Fine,” she mutters, turning back to the table, but there’s less bite in it now. A flicker of something—grudging respect, maybe—hints at her guard slipping, your thoughtfulness cutting through her resentment.

You work in silence, clearing plates, brushing past her as she rinses. She doesn’t snap again, doesn’t block you out. It’s not peace, but it’s a truce, fragile and unspoken.

When the last dish is stacked, you turn to leave—and Chaeyoung’s right there, leaning by the stairs , arms crossed, grinning like she’s been waiting. “Aw, look at you, playing nice,” she teases, voice lilting as she falls into step beside you.

You don’t reply, heading for your room, but she follows, undeterred, her presence a persistent hum at your side. Nagyung’s gone—slipped away sometime between bites, unnoticed again—and Seoyeon’s door is already shut when you pass it.

Chaeyoung trails you into your room, flopping onto the bed without invitation, stretching out with a lazy smirk. “So, hero of the night—how’s it feel to crack Hayoung’s shell a little?”

You shrug, the day’s weight sinking into your bones, but her eyes gleam—teasing, daring you to snap back. She’s not going anywhere soon.

You sink onto the unfamiliar bed beside her, the mattress yielding softly beneath you. Turning to Chaeyoung, you let the question drop.

“Hey. What was up with Gyuri earlier?”

She exhales, shifting to lean on one elbow, fingers slipping into your hair, twirling idly. “It’s expected.” Her tone’s light, but there’s a knowing edge lurking underneath.

“Expected?”

“No one told you, huh?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting as her fingers keep playing. “Using our powers nudges us closer to the edge. The more control slips, the less we fight it—a spiral. Gyuri trashing your dorm? That cost her. She’s wrestling it down now.”

You catch her wrist, pulling her hand away. “Then why keep using them?”

She slides her fingers right back, undeterred, smirking faintly. “If you had our gifts, could you really hold back?”

“If it risks my mind, yeah.”

“It’s not madness, exactly.” She tilts her head, considering. “Think of it like drinking. One glass—you’re fine. Two—you feel it, but you’re still sharp. Keep going, and suddenly you’re slurring, drunk on power. Literal power.” She pauses, voice dipping lower. "But we have to. Our powers help us cope with responsibility, make life manageable. So we focus as much as we can on controlling our emotions… ideally.”

“Like The Mist?”

She nods, a flicker of approval in her gaze. “Yeah. Seoyeon told you?” Then, after a beat, “It’s not usually that taxing, though.”

You wait. She’s not done.

“The bigger the cover-up, the more we lean on it, the worse the strain gets. And if someone breaks through?” Her exhale’s sharp, almost a scoff. “Keeping it steady turns into a fight.” She shifts, sitting up straighter, her fingers stilling briefly. “That night at the café, when you cut through The Mist? Seoyeon was holding it. She called it practice—said she’d make sure it never happened again. Since then, she’s been the one volunteering to manage it.”

Her voice drops, tinged with something rare—concern, maybe. “Your seclusion. The dorm explosion. She was probably weaving it together right up until this afternoon. And now?”

Her hand pauses, resting against your scalp, her eyes locking onto yours.

“Now she’s the one piecing your head back together.”

You’re lost in the thought, the weight of it pulling you under—so much so that you don’t notice how close Chaeyoung’s gotten. Her leg’s tangled with yours, her breath warm against your ear, her palm pressing firm on your chest, anchoring you there.

“You’ve yet to explain why you followed me here,” you say, voice low, catching up to her proximity.

“I think you already know why,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your ear, a smirk curling through her words.

“Really, now?” You shift slightly, exhaustion dragging at you. “Chaeyoung, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Is that a no?” Her finger traces a slow, deliberate dance across your chest, then dips lower, her hand sliding to your pants, rubbing your crotch with a teasing pressure that sends a jolt through you.

Her touch lingers, bold and unyielding, her breath steady against your skin as she waits—daring you to push back or give in.

“You really need to stop pretending you don’t love this,” she murmurs, leaning close, her whisper a warm tease in your ear. “I’ll be gentle. Just lie back for me—I’ll make it quick.”

You shift, dragging yourself to the bed’s center, head sinking into the pillow. Chaeyoung stays glued to your side, her leg still brushing yours, her presence inescapable.

“Were you disappointed we got interrupted earlier?”

Before you can answer, she closes the gap, her lips catching yours in a soft, deliberate kiss. She pulls back just enough to flash a smile—teasing, knowing.

“Nothing wild,” she promises, voice low and sultry. “Just one slow fuck…” Her hand moves deftly, unbuckling your belt with a flick, your cock springing free as she grips it, stroking gently, her touch firm but unhurried.

She chuckles, a soft, wicked sound, watching you squirm under her. Leaning in, she pecks your lips—a tease—then lingers, her eyes flicking over your face, drinking in every twitch of pleasure. Her next kiss dives deeper, her tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, hungry dance.

She tries to pull away, but you’re caught, chasing her lips, entranced, until air runs thin and you both break, breathless.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Stay,” she commands, voice firm, playful.

She eases back, turning it into a show. Her top peels off slow, revealing smooth skin, then her bra drops, baring her chest. Her pants follow, sliding down her thighs, and when her panties come into view, the damp fabric clings, a dark spot betraying her arousal. She tugs them off, and a glistening thread stretches, refusing to snap, connecting her to the discarded cloth.

“Fuck, Chaeyoung, you’re already wet?”

“Just for you,” she purrs, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and hunger. “Always.”

Chaeyoung shifts, climbing atop you with a fluid grace, her hips hovering just above yours. She straddles you, knees pressing into the mattress on either side, caging your body between her legs. Her heat radiates, close but not yet touching, a tantalizing promise hanging in the air. “I can’t wait,” she breathes, voice low, edged with need.

She lowers herself slowly, deliberately, her slick folds brushing against your length. The first contact is electric—warm, wet, a soft glide that coats you in her arousal. She starts to grind, hips rolling with a lazy rhythm, her wetness spreading over you, slick and hot, marking you with every subtle shift. Her breath hitches faintly, a sound that betrays her own want despite the control she wields.

Each motion teases you further, her folds sliding along your cock, dragging from base to tip in a slow, torturous dance. She moves too far sometimes—deliberately or not—and your tip presses against her entrance, nudging just at the edge of her hole. It’s fleeting, a tease of pressure, her warmth pulsing there, inviting but never quite yielding. She pulls back each time, smirking as your hips twitch instinctively, chasing her.

“Fuck,” you mutter, voice rough, the sensation overwhelming—her slickness, the friction, the nearness of sinking into her.

She chuckles, soft and wicked, leaning forward to brace her hands on your chest, her hair spilling over her shoulders to frame her face. “Patience,” she whispers, though her own breath trembles, betraying the effort it takes to hold back. Her hips tilt, adjusting the angle, and the pressure intensifies—your tip catches again, slipping just past her entrance, enough to feel her clench, tight and eager, before she retreats once more.

Her wetness pools, a glossy sheen coating you both now, strands of it stretching between you with each grind, glistening in the dim light. She rocks harder, just a fraction, letting your length slide through her folds, her clit brushing against you with every pass. A low moan slips from her lips, unbidden, and her eyes flutter, but that smirk stays—teasing, daring you to take more.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, voice husky, grinding slower now, savoring it. “That’s all for you.” Her hips circle, dragging you through her heat, your tip nudging her hole again—closer this time, lingering longer, her body trembling as she fights the urge to give in fully.

Your hands grip her thighs, fingers digging into her skin, torn between pulling her down and letting her play this out. The tension’s a live wire, snapping between you, her control fraying at the edges as her own need seeps through.

Her hips circle, dragging you through her slick heat, your tip brushing her entrance again—closer, lingering, her body quivering as she teases the edge of giving in. Your hands tighten on her thighs, fingers sinking into her flesh, caught between restraint and the urge to pull her down.

Chaeyoung catches it—the tension in your grip, the way your breath hitches—and her smirk widens, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “Oh, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” she taunts, voice a low purr as she slows her grind even more, torturing you with the barest contact. She shifts, letting your tip press harder against her hole—just enough to feel her tighten around it, a fleeting promise—before lifting away again.

“Chaeyoung—” Your voice cracks, rough with need, the word half a plea, half a growl.

She laughs, soft and cruel, leaning forward until her lips hover near yours, her hair tickling your face. “What? Too much for you?” Her hips tilt, and your cock slides through her folds again, coated anew in her dripping arousal. She rocks once, twice, letting your tip dip just inside—warm, tight, a maddening taste of what’s coming—then pulls back with a sly hum. “Thought you were tired,” she mocks, echoing your earlier protest, her fingers trailing up your chest to pin you with her gaze.

You groan, head sinking deeper into the pillow, hips twitching up instinctively. “Fuck, Chaeyoung, just—”

“Just what?” she cuts in, grinning as she straightens, hovering above you again. Her wetness glistens, strands of it clinging to your length, and she drags her nails lightly down your stomach, watching you squirm. “Say it. Tell me how bad you want it.”

You grit your teeth, the frustration boiling over, but her eyes dare you—playful, unrelenting. “I want you,” you mutter, voice strained, giving her the win.

Her smile turns triumphant, and she finally relents. “Good boy,” she purrs, shifting her hips with agonizing slowness. She aligns you, your tip pressing fully against her entrance now, and pauses—drawing it out one last time, letting you feel her heat, her pulse—before sinking down.

The first inch is torture—tight, wet, her walls gripping you as she takes you in, slow and deliberate. She gasps softly, a rare crack in her control, but keeps going, lowering herself until you’re buried deep, her hips flush against yours. Her warmth envelopes you, pulsing, overwhelming, and she stills there, savoring it, letting you feel every shudder of her body adjusting to you.

“Fuck,” she breathes, a quiet, unguarded sound, her head tilting back as she settles. Her hands brace on your chest, nails digging in just enough to sting, and that smirk creeps back.

Chaeyoung’s hips settle against yours, her warmth gripping you tight, a pulse of heat that steals your breath. She lingers there, savoring the fullness, her nails biting into your chest as she flashes that triumphant smirk. “Told you I’d be gentle,” she murmurs, voice husky with a teasing edge.

Then she moves.

Her first roll is slow, deliberate—a long, languid grind that drags her walls along your length, coating you further in her slick heat. You groan, hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips, but she swats them away with a playful tsk. “Nuh-uh,” she chides, pinning your wrists above your head. “Let me play.”

She picks up the pace, hips snapping faster, the rhythm sharp and relentless. Her breaths turn shallow, punctuated by soft moans as she rides you, her wetness soaking you with every thrust. The bed creaks faintly beneath her, her control absolute—until she shifts.

She slows abruptly, leaning down, her lips brushing yours in a warm, tender kiss. It’s soft at first, a contrast to the fire she’d stoked, her tongue slipping in to dance with yours, lazy and deep. “You feel so good,” she whispers against your mouth, her tone shedding its tease for something sweeter, her hands loosening on your wrists to cradle your face.

Before you can sink into it, she pulls back, sitting upright again. Her pace ramps up—harder, faster, her hips slamming down with a wet smack that fills the room. She tosses her head back, a low groan spilling out as she chases the edge, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” she pants, the affection threading through her voice now, raw and unguarded.

Your hands find her waist again—this time she lets them stay, her own fingers digging into your shoulders for leverage. The heat builds, her movements growing erratic, her walls clenching tighter around you. She leans down once more, kissing you fiercely, all warmth and want, her lips trembling against yours. “Stay with me,” she breathes, a soft plea wrapped in adoration, her teasing gone, replaced by something deeper.

Her rhythm stutters, hips grinding slower now, deeper, as she presses herself flush against you. Each roll is deliberate, drawing out the friction, her moans softening into whimpers. She kisses you again—gentle, lingering—her tongue tracing yours as her body tenses. “I’m yours,” she murmurs, voice breaking with affection, her breath hitching.

Then it hits.

Her hips falter, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her climax crashes through her. Her walls pulse hard around you, tight and hot, her body shuddering as she rides it out, grinding slow and deep to milk every wave. She leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, her kisses turning sloppy, warm, her arms wrapping around your neck as she trembles. “Fuck, I—” she starts, but the words dissolve into a soft, breathless moan, her affection spilling out in the afterglow.

Chaeyoung collapses against you, her body still trembling, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. You’re still hard inside her, the heat of her pulsing walls a lingering ache, and she notices—her hips shifting slightly, a soft hum escaping her lips as she feels you.

“You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with a knowing warmth. She doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding off you with a slow, deliberate drag, her slickness trailing as she pulls away. The sudden emptiness makes you groan, but before you can protest, she’s moving—slipping down between your legs, settling there with a glint in her eye.

Her hand wraps around your base, slick with her arousal and yours, stroking once, twice, before she leans in. Her lips brush your tip, teasing, then part to take you in—slowly, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting herself on you. “Can’t leave you like this,” she whispers, breath ghosting over you, sending a shiver up your spine.

She sinks deeper, her mouth warm and tight, sucking with a steady, gentle rhythm. Her cheeks hollow as she works, tongue flicking along the underside, drawing low, guttural sounds from your chest. Your hands fist the sheets, hips twitching up instinctively, but she presses a palm to your thigh—firm, grounding—keeping you still as she takes control.

Her pace quickens slightly, lips sliding down further, taking you to the back of her throat with a soft, muffled moan that vibrates through you. She’s relentless but tender, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, watching your every reaction—your strained breaths, the way your jaw tightens as the pleasure builds too fast.

It doesn’t take long. The heat coils tight, a molten knot deep in your core, her steady suction dragging you relentlessly toward the brink. Her mouth’s a furnace—hot, wet, unyielding—each pull sending jolts up your spine, each swirl of her tongue a spark that ignites the fuse. Your breath turns ragged, chest heaving as the pressure builds, teetering on unbearable.

Then she hits it—her tongue curls just right, a deft, wicked flick against the sensitive head, and you shatter. “Chaeyoung—” Her name rips from your throat, a broken, guttural cry as the climax slams into you, white-hot and blinding. Your hips buck hard, thrusting deeper into her mouth, and she takes it all—lips locked tight, throat flexing as you spill into her in thick, pulsing waves. The pleasure’s savage, shredding through you, every nerve alight as she keeps sucking, drawing out every last shudder, swallowing every drop with a soft, triumphant hum that vibrates through your core.

Your vision blurs, head slamming back against the pillow, a raw groan tearing free as she milks you dry, her tongue still teasing, prolonging the aftershocks until you’re trembling, spent, and gasping for air.

She doesn’t stop there—her lips stay on you, softer now, cleaning you off with slow, deliberate licks, her tongue tracing every inch until you’re spent and twitching from the sensitivity. You both feel it—the pull for more, the raw want still simmering—but she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Keeping my promise,” she says, voice low, a little hoarse. “You’re tired—I said I’d be quick.”

She slides off the bed, legs still shaky, and pads to the bedside drawer. Pulling out a cloth, she cleans herself with quick, practiced motions—wiping her mouth, cleaning away the mess between her thighs, the glistening trails of her own release. You watch, too drained to move, as she tosses the cloth aside and returns, climbing back into bed.

She slips into your arms without hesitation, curling against you, her head nestling into your chest. Her warmth presses close, soft and steady, her breath evening out as she settles into your embrace—a quiet end to the fire she’d stoked.

Chaeyoung breaks the silence, her voice cutting through the soft hum of the room. “I’ll be gone for a bit. Overseas work.”

You shift, turning to face her, the weight of her words sinking in. “That’s why you were so eager tonight?” There’s a bite in your tone—disappointment laced with the nagging thought that you’re just a tool for them, a convenient fix. “Needed a refill before you jet off?”

Her eyes lift to meet yours, hesitant, softer than you expect. The look isn’t smug or teasing—it’s unguarded, almost reluctant, like leaving isn’t her choice. It makes you pause, reconsider the venom in your assumption.

“What, did you forget that hotel night?” she says, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, though her voice stays low. “You fucked me so hard I’d have to shatter the moon to lose my mind now.”

You narrow your eyes, not fully buying it. “So it’s just horniness then? You’re always this desperate?” The words slip out sharper than intended, brushing against an insult you don’t fully mean.

Her face shifts—something flickers, hurt flashing behind her eyes, a quiet disappointment dimming her usual spark. “You think I’d just screw anyone, anytime?” Her directness hits you square, catching you off guard, and then that smile creeps back, softer now, teasing but warm. “What’s this—jealousy? I’ve already told you, I’m yours. Always will be. The others too, actually, they just haven’t caught up to that yet.”

She holds your gaze, the reassurance steady, her hand brushing your chest as if to seal it, leaving the sting of your words—and her response—hanging between you.

She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, warm and fleeting, then pulls back with a small, knowing smile. “Didn’t you say you’re tired?” she murmurs, her voice a gentle tease. “Sleep now—unless you want me to pounce on you again.” Her hand lifts, fingers brushing your face, tracing your jaw with a caress so tender it feels like a whisper against your skin.

No magic flares, no glowing eyes or woven spells—just her, her touch, her words wrapping around you like a quiet lullaby. Your eyelids grow heavy, the weight of the day melting under her steady gaze, and as her fingers linger, you drift—slipping into sleep as if she’d willed it so.

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kangshxrtie · 8 months ago

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Stay Numb & Carry On

Sypnosis ♡ Yunjin and Y/N are dating until one day Y/N finds out that Yunjin is cheating. Instead of breaking up like normal, Y/N decides to get revenge with the help of a friend of a friend, Nien.

Pairings ♡ Huh Yunjin x Fem Reader & Hsu Nien Tzu x Fem Reader

Status ♡ Completed

Cast ♡ The Love Square ♡ Girls Never Die ♡ No Celestial

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Part One ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

One | Why are we a secret?

Two | Being in a secret relationship

Three | No trust between us

Three.Five | She for everybody

Four | Use me

Five | Not alone

Six | Hidden truths

Seven | A recent thing

Eight | Why did you never

Nine | If only

Ten | Early tensions

Eleven | For the plan

Twelve | What if I

Thirteen | Kim Chaewon

Fourteen | Professionals

Fifteen | Crashing down

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Part Two ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Sixteen | Long time coming

Seventeen | New beginnings

Eighteen | These are my confessions

Nineteen | My person

End

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defmaybe · 5 months ago

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Arrangement

fromis_9’s Lee Seoyeon x Male Reader

1.4k words

A/N: Edited by the greats @midnightdancingsol and @prael! So, huge credits to those two! Thanks for reading!

—

“I mean, you didn’t do too bad in your exams. You were above the average!” Seoyeon smiles, rotating her chair from side to side. Her raven black shirt looks better than ever on her.

“I always strive to be better, Miss Lee,” you answer, giving her a shy smile.

“Have you considered tutoring a friend? It’s a good way to learn! And we really do want to reserve the tutors for the trailing students. Sorry.” She smiles. You can sense her sympathy in it.

You sigh, let down by her denial.

An idea pops up in your head, though.

“How about you, Miss Lee? Can you be my tutor for these finals, please?”

Seoyeon tilts her head just a little, but enough to let you know that she’s intrigued by the idea. “Me?”

“Yes, Miss Lee. You.”

She chuckles. “As much as I want to do that, it’s against the rules of the university to tutor your own students.”

“Please, Miss, I mean they don’t have to kno–”

“Whoa, whoa, that’s my job on the line here, mister.” Seoyeon stops you. Her voice is stern.

“Maybe just some notes, perhaps, doesn’t have to be a face-to-face thing, please?”

Seoyeon laughs. “Wow, I do admire your determination, but I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

Yeah, it’s over.

Again, you sigh, surrendering to the fact that you won’t find anyone to tutor you. “Okay, see you later then.”

You get up from your seat, leaving. Guess you’d have to rely on the Indian guys on YouTube again.

“Perhaps we can have an arrangement?” suddenly says Seoyeon.

You stop in your tracks, looking back to see her determined gaze.

“Arrangement, Miss?”

“Yes, arrangement.” She bites her lip. It’s enough to get you going. “I mean, they wouldn’t know, right?”

And she stands up.

You are frozen in the spot while she walks. Every stride is made with purpose, and they seem designed to make your mind wonder. From her wide-legged pants to that black shirt, it all fits her so fucking well. She looks at you with purpose, like a predator eyeing on their prey. Even a child could work out who is who.

“I can tutor you, but in exchange,”–she pulls her cuff back, revealing more of her skin–“you have to fuck me, brainless.”

It’s a good offer, actually, but you can’t just give in so easily. Your pride is at stake (kind of, you just don’t want to look like another man who’d say yes to sex at the first opportunity). “And why do you think I’d say yes to that, Miss Lee?”

“I mean, sure, assuming that you’d fold is premature, to say the least,” she coos, looking into your eyes.

“But with the way you’ve been looking at me for these past few months.”

Fuck.

“And I can’t help but think,”—her hand lands on your crotch, biting her lip, god, what a sight—“what wild fucking fantasies you’re having with me.”

You moan in response to her touch. The pleasure is seeping through your whole body.

“I–I do,”—and she squeezes your crotch once more—“ngh, have a lot of fantasies with you.”

“Show me, then. Shove this cock into my cunt, and I’ll get that A for you.”

You undo your pants as quickly as she undoes hers. They both fall to the ground simultaneously, sending the clunking sounds of your belts hitting the floor through the office. Your erection springs free at the sight of her bare, unshaved pussy on display. Her slit is slicked in arousal.

“C’mere, baby. Show me what you got.”

Seoyeon steps backwards and sits on her table, spreading her legs wide to give you the image of her cunt, so ready to grip your cock like a vice.

“And you’re going to tutor me after this, right?”

“If you can make me cum with you,” she says, fingers splaying her core for your access. “You get to cum inside me, either way. I’ve always been on the pill.”

You take steps towards Seoyeon. Your tip gets closer to her tightness every second. It’s closer, it’s closer, until your hands touch her knees.

“Your hands are so soft, baby.”

“Thanks, Miss Lee.”

She chuckles. It’s so cute when she smiles like this, shame that you’re going to wipe it away for at least the next few minutes—with her being a moaning mess and all.

It’s so, so, languid—the way your cock disappears into her wanton cunt. Her mouth hangs open in pleasure. Her hands grip onto the edge of the table tighter than ever. “Hah–hah, f–fuck, i–it’s pretty big, baby.”

“T–Thanks, ah, M–Miss Lee.”

She grips onto you so tightly with her velvety walls. It feels like heaven, the way her cunt welcomes you. You want to cherish this moment forever. And with a few inches more, you’re buried deep inside her.

“At the hilt, right?”

“Y–Yes, miss.” you stammer.

“A–Alright, fuck me slow and hard, okay? Take every stroke like you mean it,” commands Seoyeon.

“Okay, Miss L–Lee.”

And with that, you drag your cock back, out of her, before thrusting yourself back into her needy cunt again. Both of you moan in unison. She’s so fucking gorgeous with her mouth hanging open like this. It’s as if you’re enjoying the fact that it’s you that’s making her a flushing, moaning mess like this.

“G–God, you’re so, so big, sweetie. I wish I have your cock just for myself.”

You can do nothing but whimper, and you watch your length reappear out of her again. “Ngh.” Before plunging yourself back into her wetness.

“Pick up that tempo, baby, pick–it–up.”

And it becomes like clockwork. You thrust yourself back and forth, in and out of her wanting, wet cunt. Seoyeon’s face and inner thighs become beet red, so long lost in the pleasure you’re giving her. You’re no better, feeling the heat pooling in your cheeks. You’re as excited about this as she is.

“God, god, yes, you’re hitting the spot, baby,” screams Seoyeon. Someone must’ve heard that.

The table creaks and cries with each of your hammering. Stationeries and papers fall down to the floor, all in disarray—reports, pens, recommendation letters.

As the tempo picks up, sweat drips from her forehead. And as if it’s innate, you stick out your tongue to taste her fluid. Salty. Tangy. Robust.

“Freaky, are we?”

“Y–Yes, miss.”

Her walls are gripping onto you so, so hard. You can explode any minute, but you’ll have to hold on, for her. Your moans are filling the room right now, added with the smell of sweat and sex. The head of your cock finds its way to stimulate her insides, grazing the spot where it makes her a mess. She keeps reaching high notes with each thrust you take.

You swear she looks so ethereal, being filled with your cock right now. “You’re so pretty, Miss Lee,” you say.

“A–Aww, thanks, baby,” answers Seoyeon as she cups your face, body still vibrating from the thrusts.

And as cued, her body stiffens—a sign of her own high. Her grips on the table are tighter than ever. You can feel your cock getting ready to release inside her too, It builds up inside you like a tsunami.

“Nghn, M–Miss Lee, I–I’m gonna cum.”

“It’s okay, b–baby, me too, me too.”

Your thrusts are more determined than ever, chasing the high of blowing your load inside her cunt. Her walls are tighter than ever, so ready to take in your white hot cum.

“B–Baby, I’m cumming, ah!”

Seoyeon convulses on your cock. Her vice grips you so strongly. She wails, fuck, it’s a melody. And with the way her mouth opens wide, sweat dripping from her forehead, her eyes fluttering as she cums, it’s quite a sight to behold.

And within her orgasm, you cum, hard. Jets and jets of hot cum paint the insides of Professor Lee Seoyeon white, all while she’s shrieking on your cock. Your whole body shakes in the pleasure of taking her cunt.

With the last thrusts, cum dribbles off the tip of your length into her tightness. Your nectar leaks out of her, dripping onto the table.

The room is now a fucking mess. Papers and pens are scattered everywhere. Not talking about the smell of sex that needs to be washed out soon yet.

“So, Miss Lee, are you going to be my tutor now?”

“Yeah, definitely, maybe.”

#fromis 9 #fromis 9 smut #seoyeon #seoyeon smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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glossdebut · 20 days ago

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PRICE OF FAME | MYG ★ 05

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES SUMMARY: You were about ready to give up, your career nowhere near what you dreamed it’d be when you started at eighteen, bright-eyed and naive. Reality for you these past few years has consisted of pouting at a camera, ignoring whispers of your name at company events, and ensuring that the stupid, tiny designer purses they keep forcing on you can at least carry a flask. But now, you’re helping a friend in need. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. Too bad Min Yoongi, the newest thorn in your side, seems insistent on stopping you.

✧ SERIES TAGS: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fake/pretend relationship (not main couple), rockstar!yoongi, model!reader, guitarist yoongi, singer jungkook, bassist taehyung, drummer jimin, manager namjoon, yoongi & maknae line are in a rock band, reader & seokjin are best friends, yoongi & hoseok are best friends (sope duo ftw), yoongi has a tongue piercing, reader is a brat

✧ CHAPTER TAGS: we’re back to alternating POVs, many confrontations, a reveal of sorts, seoyeon is goated, namjoon is tired, yoongi learns all kinds of lessons and then instantly forgets them (as per usual), and then throws a pity party and forces MC to attend, this is the most MC and yoongi have been on the same page EVER tho, blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff (see series masterlist for series warnings)

✧ CHAPTER WORDCOUNT: 10k words

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: GLOSSDEBUT NATION! WE ARE SO FUCKING BACK! i’m sorry this took me so long but POF5 is finally here, and hopefully the 10k wordcount makes up for the delayed update. this one is a RIDE, so buckle in and enjoy! don’t forget to send me your thoughts and theories, because they truly help the updates come faster <3 thank you to my loves @ktownshizzle and @yooniivrse for beta reading this chapter!

P.S. if you can guess the two songs yoongi’s working on in this chapter by description alone, i’ll kiss you on the mouth (they’re both arctic monkeys songs)

P.P.S. congratulations to those of you who voted 2 in my poll. please heed the warnings under the cut

CH. 05: TOO FAR TO GO BACK

✧ CHAPTER WARNINGS: mentions of disordered eating, vomiting, drinking, yoongi is an asshole (wbk), dirty talk, nipple play, Yoongi’s Tongue Piercing, vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Yoongi vividly remembers the night he first saw you. It’s hard to forget.

He and Namjoon were flying solo that night, sans band. Freshly signed to the label, forced into a blazer he’d never pick out for himself, surrounded by people who didn’t know his name yet and didn’t care to learn. Out of place. He felt out of place all night.

But, as the hyung, Yoongi knew it was his responsibility to do the dirty work. Shmooze. Connect. And, to his credit, when he put his mind to it, Yoongi was actually good at that sort of thing. He knew how to read people, how to play them to get what he wanted. It was how they got signed in the first place. He just needed to wipe the sour look off of his face and remember the goal. For Jeongguk.

It was a music showcase, a big name network. Comebacks and debuts, one after the other. Giddy rookies who hadn’t eaten in days in preparation for their stage, something wild in their eyes. A desire to prove themselves. Yoongi wasn’t there to perform, but his position wasn’t unlike theirs. He had something to prove, too.

An appearance at the showcase was just that—an appearance. It was the after that mattered. It wasn’t just fans that went to things like this. The audience was full of bookers, promoters, industry magnates that could all mean big things for Burn The Stage if Yoongi played his cards right.

He spent the whole night tuning out blaring bubblegum pop, going over the script in his head—what he should say, what he should do. And then something stopped him in his tracks, forced him to sit up and pay attention.

A soloist, draped in something midnight blue and velvet.

You. Yoongi knows that now.

His first thought was that you had a voice unlike anything he’d ever heard before. His second was that you were beautiful.

All night, he couldn’t sit still. The tag of his blazer dug into the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop tapping his foot, flexing his fists, glancing around. All of the pressure made his chest feel unbelievably tight, because what if the night was a bust? What if nobody was interested in what he had to say? What if the label dropped them and he had to admit that he failed?

But as soon as you opened your mouth and sang that first note, the buzzing in his head quieted in an instant. From beginning to end, Yoongi was enraptured by you. Like nothing else in the world mattered except hearing you sing.

Being in that noraebang with you, years later… It didn’t feel any different. Not one bit.

Yoongi doesn’t follow you when you run.

Maybe it’s cowardly of him. Maybe a better man than him would reach out, grab your hand, spin you back around. Say something.

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. What to do. He doesn't understand what just happened, let alone how he’s meant to fix it. He’s not even sure if there’s anything to fix, not when everything was so broken from the beginning.

You hate him. He hates you. That was the agreement. So he lets you go.

He goes back inside, avoids Jeongguk’s eyes. Tells everyone you felt sick, which probably isn’t a lie judging by the look on your face when you broke away from him.

It’s not like he didn’t anticipate… something. He’s noticed the way you look at him. He’d wanted to use it, to see if he could catch you in some kind of lie. Catch you staring at him a little too long to be brushed off.

But this? Your lips against his, his tongue in your mouth, the sound you made. Fuck. You almost sounded as sweet as you do when you sing. He wants to forget it ever happened. He wants to hear it again, over and over.

It all happened too fast.

Yoongi wishes he remembered who had moved first. Someone to shoulder the blame, make things simple for him. He wants it to be you. It would be easy to slip that mask back into place, to hate you. It would be easy. He’d almost stopped, but going back would be so easy.

But something in his gut tells him it wasn’t you. That, foolishly, it was him. You wouldn’t give him everything he needs to point the finger, not like this.

It had to be Yoongi. He kissed you.

He lifts his head, meeting Jeongguk’s gaze. Jeongguk, who looks concerned. Yoongi doesn’t deserve his concern.

Yoongi opens his mouth to speak, but guilt rises in his throat, choking him. For a moment, he thinks he might confess—his mouth has betrayed him before. But what comes out isn’t words.

Instead, Yoongi surges forward and pukes his guts up. All over the noraebang floor.

★ ★ ★

You need to get the fuck off of this island.

You’ve never booked a flight so quickly in your life. You’d take one tonight, if the option was available, but tomorrow afternoon will have to do. In the meantime, you’ll pack as quickly as humanly possible—and then drink yourself to sleep, because that’s the only way you’ll be able to catch a wink of it at this rate.

You’re freaking out.

Your phone has been buzzing incessantly since you got back to the house, your screen filling with notifications from Jeongguk, Jimin, and Taehyung. Text after text asking if you’re okay, if you got back safe, if you need them to come home. You don’t want to deal with it, can’t deal with it right now. Not when—

Min Yoongi kissed you.

Or, you kissed him? There was kissing, with Min Yoongi, the bane of your existence. Insistently, with tongue.

An incredibly skilled tongue, at that—and that piercing. And strong hands, guitarist’s hands, smoothing over your waist, pulling you closer. You can still smell him on you, citrus and leather and smoke, and—

Fuck, no! Jesus, when did you suddenly become this desperate for cock?

This is exactly why you need to leave. You cannot keep having these thoughts about Min fucking Yoongi, you just can’t. You hate him! He’s rude, and insensitive, and he doesn’t respect you in the slightest. He’s made that abundantly clear.

You text Jeongguk that you’re okay, that you made it to the house, and no, you don’t need him to come back. That’s the last thing you need right now.

What you need is to pack.

You move through the bedroom in a frenzy, tossing your clothes into suitcases that suddenly seem too small. Hyerin somehow managed to make everything fit before you came, but now, your shaking fingers struggle to secure the zippers. Of course.

Irritated, you dig your flask out from your purse. It’s running empty, but it’s more than enough to swallow down the nausea that’s been climbing up your throat since you cut and run.

By the time you’ve packed up the rest of your belongings, the room is spinning, your gut threatening a different kind of sickness. It’s a familiar one, at least. After the events of the night, a little alcohol-induced vomiting is nothing.

Still, in an effort to fend it off, you force yourself into a horizontal position. You take a steadying breath, shifting onto your side. You know the drill. In five minutes, you’ll either be dead to the world, or hugging porcelain.

Luckily, it’s the former. Before you know it, you’re drifting into a sleep so deep you don’t even stir when Jeongguk gets back.

★ ★ ★

In the morning, you say the necessary goodbyes.

Jeongguk is clearly confused, obviously concerned, but he doesn’t twist your arm. It must be the expression you’re wearing when you tell him you’re going. You can only imagine how it screams, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

The others are sad to see you go. Taehyung hugs you tightly, with promises to catch up when everyone is back in Seoul. Jimin does the same, although he’s remarkably quiet in comparison.

And Yoongi…

You stop at his door last. You shouldn’t, you know that. All of the questions swarming through your brain about where you stand with him, about what last night meant—they don’t matter. A clean break. That’s what you need.

But still, you knock with a shaky fist, his stolen jacket clutched tightly in the other.

When the door swings open, you force yourself to meet his eyes. Yoongi looks surprised—for half a second, maybe—but the expression vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar indifference. His voice is flat, unreadable.

"What can I do for you, YN?" he asks, already stepping away, like your presence barely registers. He returns to whatever he was doing at his laptop before you knocked, attention fixed anywhere but on you as he types.

You shift your weight. "Uh, your jacket," you say, holding it up. "I accidentally took it with me last night."

"You can put it on the bed."

You do as he says, carefully laying it down, though your fingers linger against the fabric. There’s a hesitation in your movements, a weight pressing down on your chest. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge the silence stretching between you. You clear your throat.

"Can we… Can we talk for a minute?" you try.

His fingers pause briefly over his keyboard. "About?"

"Well… Um. Last night. Shouldn’t we clear the air?"

Yoongi waves a hand dismissively, not even glancing up. "Consider it cleared."

You knew this wouldn’t be an easy conversation, but the casual way he brushes you off still stings. You steel yourself, pressing forward. "It’s just—I’m leaving. I don’t know if you heard. And I just wanted to—"

He scoffs before you can finish, finally swiveling around to face you. He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he smirks. "What, were you expecting a goodbye kiss?"

Something inside you hardens at that. "No," you say, voice clipped.

His smirk doesn’t falter. "Then have a safe flight, dollface."

You let out a breath, scoffing under it, more at yourself than anything. Stupid to think this could have gone any other way. "Yeah," you mutter. "Bye, Yoongi."

You don’t wait for a response. You turn, stepping out of the room, the weight in your chest sinking deeper with every step.

Your Uber pulls up just as you step outside, the driver barely glancing at you as you slide into the backseat. The car smells faintly of leather and mint, and the quiet crackle of the radio fills the space, but none of it does anything to settle the tightness in your chest. You swallow hard, pressing your forehead briefly against the cool window as the car pulls away from the curb. The streets of Seogwipo blur past, Yoongi’s house slipping away behind you.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, the screen lighting up with Seoyeon’s name. Shit. You forgot you texted her this morning—she must be following up. You exhale sharply before answering.

"You’re coming back?" Seoyeon doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

"First flight out."

There’s a beat of silence, and then, "sooner than I thought."

"Yeah." The word comes out thinner than you’d like. "I just—can you pack my schedule? As tight as possible. Meetings, shoots, interviews—whatever you can get me."

Seoyeon doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t need to. It’s something you’ve always appreciated about her—she doesn’t make your personal life her business unless forced.

"Alright," she says, brisk and efficient as always. "I’ll have everything lined up by the time you land. You sure you don’t want a day or two to breathe?"

You close your eyes for a second, picturing the alternative—hours alone with nothing but your thoughts. "No. I just want to work."

Seoyeon exhales, like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. "Okay," she says instead. "I’ll handle it."

"Thanks."

"Get some rest on the flight," she says, like she knows you won’t. And then the call ends, leaving you staring at your reflection in the darkened screen.

The rest of your ride to the airport is quiet, save for the soft music on the radio. Your thoughts swirl, looping back to Yoongi. The way he barely looked at you, how easily he dismissed you. Maybe this is better. Maybe this is exactly what you needed to let it all go.

The flight into Incheon is uneventful, but fatigue pulls at you the moment you step off the plane. Everything feels hazy, like you’re just going through the motions. You move through baggage claim, through the terminal, into another car without fully registering any of it.

And then you’re home. Seoul is as grey as ever.

By the time you unlock the door to your apartment, exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. The familiar scent of home greets you, clean and untouched, but the silence is deafening.

It’s strange—coming back to this emptiness after being surrounded by the band for so long. No voices filtering in from another room, no aroma of freshly-cooked food, no strumming of a guitar. Just you, the hum of your empty fridge, the quiet creak of the floor beneath your feet.

You drop your bag by the door and let out a breath, rubbing your face with both hands. The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s settled deeper, heavier.

You’re alone, for the first time in weeks.

You’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

★ ★ ★

Yoongi can’t focus.

He sits hunched over his desk, fingers poised above the keys of his laptop, but the words won’t come. It’s not like he doesn’t have lyrics—he does. He always does. But now that they’re laid out in front of him, neatly transcribed from notebook to laptop, they all feel wrong. Disingenuous.

He’s been at this for hours—writing, deleting, rewriting—but it all feels pointless. He glances at the clock. 2:45 a.m.

The label needs a progress report. Yoongi has to come up with at least six usable songs soon, and his mind should be locked into it, but instead, it keeps wandering. Every minute, every second, the image of you keeps pushing its way in.

The way your voice shook when you asked to clear the air, the way you hesitated before leaving, like there was something else you wanted to say, but couldn't. He can't shake it. Even gone, you’re a distraction.

Yoongi fishes his phone out of his pocket for the millionth time tonight, his fingers moving instinctively as he searches for your username.

He’s not proud of it. It’s beyond pathetic, checking up on you like this. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for—some kind of indication of how you’re doing? What you’re feeling? Yoongi knows he won’t find any of that on an Instagram account that you don’t even personally run, but it’s all he has.

All he has, short of texting and asking you himself. Yeah, right.

You haven’t posted anything new since the last time he looked, so Yoongi swipes through your most recent update again. It’s a carefully curated photo dump announcing your return to Seoul. Yoongi has probably looked at it about twenty times tonight.

It’s not like it’s a particularly interesting photo dump—Taehyung is the master at those. It’s all normal shit. Clouds outside of an airplane window, an airport selca, the details of your outfit with all of the brands tagged. It’s classic model—a pretty girl doing boring shit and documenting every last detail.

The last one, though. The last one fucks Yoongi up.

You, standing in front of your well-lit bathroom mirror wearing an Innisfree face mask, your infamous Burn The Stage hoodie—and from the looks of it, not much else.

He knows it’s not for him. If anything, it’s probably preemptive damage control. Something to appease the fans before they start asking questions, wondering why you’re back in Seoul when Jeongguk is still on Jeju. But, fuck.

Yoongi flexes his free hand, stretches his fingers before curling them into a fist again. If there are two things you excel at, it’s looking pretty and riling him up. He should be focused, should be writing, but instead, his mind insists on wandering to places it shouldn’t. Dangerous places. Places that make his cock stir in his sweatpants, while simultaneously making his throat tighten with guilt.

What a predicament Yoongi’s managed to get himself into.

He’s so consumed by his warring emotions that he barely registers the sound of Yijeong clearing his throat.

"Yoongi-yah, we’ve been at this for hours," Yijeong says, effectively breaking Yoongi out of his reverie. His lips flatten into a thin line as he swipes out of your most recent post, back onto your profile. "Maybe we should take a break."

"It’s fine," Yoongi mutters dismissively, not looking up.

Yijeong sighs. "I think you’ve hit a wall."

"Yah, I’m fine," Yoongi snaps, finally glancing up, agitation creeping into his voice. "I’m working."

"Are you?" Yijeong asks, tilting his head toward the phone in Yoongi’s hand.

Yoongi exhales through his nose, sets the phone down with a pointed click, and swivels back toward his laptop. He taps at the keys, opening and closing files he hasn’t touched in hours. "Four mostly finished songs isn’t half bad."

"But you need six," Yijeong points out.

"Mm." Yoongi barely responds, still clicking aimlessly. "Still two songs I didn’t have this morning."

"What about this one?" Yijeong rolls his chair closer in Yoongi’s periphery, sliding his open Leuchtturm across the desk.

Yoongi’s eyes flick to the page, and he immediately stiffens. It’s that song—the one he’d written about you, sang for you when he was bitter and angry. The reaction is instant, his body language shutting down before Yijeong can even say anything else. "No." He snatches the notebook from Yijeong’s hand, shutting it with finality.

Yijeong frowns. "What?"

"That’s not going on the album," Yoongi says.

"But it’s fully written," Yijeong points out, eyes narrowed. "And good. Why wouldn’t it go?"

Yoongi shrugs, feigning indifference. "Doesn’t fit the vibe."

"The vibe," Yijeong repeats, unimpressed.

"Yeah."

"What vibe?"

Yoongi hesitates. "It’ll make us sound like assholes."

Yijeong snorts. "Well, you wrote it."

"Ha."

Yijeong sighs, glancing at the shut notebook. "It’s good, Yoongi-yah. It’s something to show the label, at least."

"I have time to write something better."

Yijeong gives him a long, exasperated look. "You haven’t written anything all day." His patience is wearing thin, Yoongi can tell. "Come on. I’m trying to do what you asked me to come and do."

"It’s one song, Yijeong-ah."

"You’ve been pushing back on everything I’ve tried all day," Yijeong replies, voice tinged with frustration. "I can’t help you if you don’t let me."

Yoongi rubs at his temples. He knows he’s not being fair—that Yijeong came here out of the kindness of his heart, just because Yoongi asked him to. Maybe Yoongi’s monopolized enough of his time.

"Yeah, I know." His voice is quieter now. "Look, it��s�� I’m not trying to be difficult. I can do this myself. I know you have your own shit."

Yijeong watches him carefully, his gaze so penetrating it makes Yoongi shift in his seat. Then, he says, almost too casually, "we were making good progress over the weekend."

Yoongi’s posture tightens. "…Yeah." Over the weekend. Before the noraebang.

Yijeong leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Could this lack of focus have anything to do with YN’s sudden departure?"

Aren’t you the source of all of Yoongi’s hardships lately? You and that stupid Burn The Stage sweatshirt, those deadly fucking silk shorts you flounced around in the whole time you were here. The fact that he kissed you—or you kissed him, the jury’s still out on that—and that you’re Jeongguk’s girlfriend, and that Yoongi has been shifting between guilt and delirious arousal since you left.

"You’re crazy," Yoongi scoffs. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

Yijeong hums. "Sure."

Yoongi pretends not to hear the knowing tone in Yijeong’s voice, shifting the conversation with practiced ease. "I’ve taken up too much of your time, Yijeong-ah. I only have to come up with two more songs."

"You kicking me out for bringing up YN?" Yijeong teases. "Tyrant."

Yoongi huffs a laugh through his nose, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "I just think I need to figure the rest out on my own."

Yijeong shrugs, seemingly disinterested in pressing the matter any further. Thankfully. "If you’re sure. I should be heading back soon anyway."

"Yeah," Yoongi reassures. "I’m good, Yijeong-ah. I promise."

"Okay. I’ll figure something out tomorrow, then."

Yoongi grunts in response, already turning back to his laptop.

Yijeong stands, grabbing his jacket. On his way out, he reaches for Yoongi’s half-empty coffee cup and confiscates it with a small smile. "I’m going to sleep. I suggest you do the same, Yoongi-yah."

Yoongi rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He just watches as Yijeong leaves, the room settling into silence once again.

His eyes flick to the dark screen of his phone beside him, fingers twitching like they want to reach for it. Instead, he exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and turns back to the lyrics in front of him.

★ ★ ★

The set is busy today. Cameras clicking, makeup artists fussing over the music playing from the speakers. Hyerin, who has been buzzing around you all day like a fly, runs her fingers over the expensive garments you have yet to be photographed in, inspecting them for imperfections. Assistants flit around the room carting coffees and clipboards. You’re wearing Moschino. It’s everything you’ve dreaded for the past several years, but today, you’re thankful.

It’s familiar, muscle memory taking over as you move through poses. You arch, tilt, shift, your body following the rhythm of the camera’s shutter. The stylist adjusts the hem of your outfit between shots, fingers quick and efficient, but you barely register it. Your gaze lands just past the camera lens, somewhere indistinct. You don’t need to be fully present for this; you just need to be good.

And you are.

The morning had started before sunrise—a briefing with your team, a fitting for an event later in the week, hair and makeup. Then, a quick coffee you barely tasted before being ushered into wardrobe.

Seoyeon delivered exactly what you asked for. The next few days are stacked to the brim—more shoots, trendy pop-up events, interviews. You have no room for anything else.

Still, your mind wanders. Between outfit changes, between shots, between the moments where you stand still as hands fuss over your hair and clothes. Your phone sits face-down on the makeup counter, silent. It’s stupid that you even notice. That you’re even thinking about—

"Okay, let’s reset for the next look!" the director calls out, snapping you out of your haze.

The second you step off set, Seoyeon is at your side, clipboard in hand. "You’re doing great," she says, brisk. "They’re running a little ahead of schedule, so we might be able to squeeze in that interview with Elle later this afternoon. Sound good?"

You nod automatically, reaching for a bottle of water. "Yeah. That’s fine."

"You holding up okay?"

You fiddle with your straw before taking a sip, careful not to mess up your lip gloss. "I’m fine," you insist.

Seoyeon doesn’t push, but she doesn’t look convinced either. "This is the last outfit change. We’ll get proofs back in a few days."

"That’s perfect." Your smile is practiced, professional. "Just keep it coming."

"You have an early call time tomorrow," she reminds you. "I’ll send you the details tonight."

And just like that, she’s gone again, moving onto the next task, making things happen. You exhale, tipping your head back, willing yourself to shake off the weight pressing against your ribcage.

One of the assistants calls you over to wardrobe, and you go, slipping seamlessly back into the performance. It’s easier that way.

★ ★ ★

Once Yijeong leaves, Yoongi knows he’s on borrowed time. He can’t stay holed up in this bedroom forever. It’s only a matter of time before Park fucking Jimin calls him on his shit.

To his credit, he’s been much more productive now that he’s alone. There’s a fifth song now, and he’s well on his way to a sixth. Sure, they’ve come at the expense of his health and hygeine, but hey. That’s the music business, baby.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. That the sleepless nights and skipped meals are for the sake of the music, that the burning in his chest is just exhaustion, not something deeper. That the guilt sitting heavy in his stomach is just another feeling to be ignored.

He’s in the middle of scrawling something down—a song about beautiful women and kissing with teeth, something reckless, maybe with a catchy bass riff for Taehyung?—when his bedroom door swings open. Yoongi hears Jimin call his name, but he doesn’t look up. He keeps his head down, pen moving across the page, clinging to his last thread of focus.

"Yoongi-hyung," Jimin says again.

Yoongi ignores him. Keeps writing, because what he’s coming up with now is way better than the song he was workshopping earlier—which, lyrically, was just a heavy handed metaphor for jerking off. Surely that says something about where Yoongi’s head is at lately.

Then—bang. Jimin’s palm slams onto the desk, making the pen in Yoongi’s hand jump. His pulse spikes in response. "Min Yoongi!"

"What?" he mutters, his grip on his pen tightening as his teeth grind together. His voice comes out hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days. Maybe he hasn’t.

Jimin doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches forward, snatches the pen from Yoongi’s fingers, and throws it across the room.

Yoongi watches it go, the small clatter of plastic hitting the floor echoing in his ears. "What the hell is going on with you?" Jimin demands.

Yoongi takes a deep breath. Holds and releases. Tamps down his mounting irritation. "I don’t have time for this, Jimin-ah."

"Make time," Jimin says, tone final.

Yoongi exhales, finally pushing away from his desk. The wheels of his chair scrape against the floor as he turns to face Jimin, his patience razor-thin. "Fine. What the fuck do you want?"

"You’ve been acting like a jackass—"

Yoongi scoffs. "Because that’s so out of character for me—"

"—since YN left," Jimin finishes, crossing his arms with a smug finality.

Yoongi’s stomach lurches, but he keeps his face impassive. He’s good at that. Years of practice.

Jimin doesn’t back down. "Why did YN leave, Yoongi?"

"How should I know? What YN does has nothing to do with me."

Yoongi knows Jimin isn’t an idiot. He notices things. And even if Yoongi didn’t know that, the way Jimin confronted him (read: scared the shit out of his asshole) last week made it abundantly clear. But still, denial feels easier.

"You haven’t spoken to Jeongguk all week, either," Jimin points out.

Yoongi reaches for another pen, swallowing his guilt. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not now. Not when he’s finally getting somewhere with these songs. "Been busy," he mumbles.

"Bullshit," Jimin says as he grabs the new pen and throws it, too, forcing Yoongi’s now-empty fist to clench tightly. "Tell me what’s going on."

"What’s going on," Yoongi grits out through clenched teeth, "is that I have a fucking album to write. An album that nobody else but me seems to give a shit about. So I’m writing it." He scoffs, gesturing towards his discarded pen. "At least, I was."

Jimin shakes his head, not buying it. "What did you do to her? What could you have possibly done to make her get on a plane to Seoul with no notice? I told you that you were going too far. And then we went to the orchard, and everything was fine."

Yoongi laughs, but there’s no amusement in it. "I’m not talking about this with you, Jimin-ah. This is none of your business."

"What happened outside of that noraebang, Yoongi?"

"Nothing—"

"Don’t even try to lie to me," Jimin interrupts. His voice is sharp, unrelenting. "I’ve known you since I was twenty years old. You barely drank that night, and even if you did, you can hold your alcohol. But then you come back inside, and you’re spilling your guts all over Taehyung’s shoes."

Yoongi stays silent. That’s really the only option when receiving a certified dressing-down from Park Jimin.

"And less than twelve hours later, YN is back in Seoul. You want to tell me that’s a coincidence?"

It’s not. It’s not. Yoongi doesn’t want to fucking talk about this.

"Everybody likes YN, except for you. Jeongguk loves her. And you’re entitled to your opinion, whatever, but that doesn’t mean you can treat her like trash. And you have."

The words snap something in Yoongi. His control slips. "I kissed her." Jimin freezes, eyes wide, and Yoongi looks away. "And she kissed me back."

"She…" Jimin shakes his head, like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You and YN…"

Yoongi runs a hand over his face, frustration curling around his ribs, squeezing tight. "She drives me fucking insane, okay? I don’t know why I did it. Nothing I do makes any fucking sense anymore."

Jimin exhales. "But… Jeongguk—"

"Why do you think I’ve been in here all week?" Yoongi gestures vaguely at the cluttered desk, the crumpled papers and mugs of cold coffee. The ashtray, even though he hates to smoke inside.

Jimin’s expression softens. "Hyung…"

Ah, there it is—the pity, the concern. Yoongi shuts his eyes, his exhaustion settling into his bones. He already knows what Jimin is going to say. "I know."

"You have to tell him."

"I know."

Jimin studies him for a long moment. "Hyung, it looks like you haven’t slept in days. I know you haven’t been eating like you should, either."

Yoongi says nothing, his gaze dropping to his lap.

Jimin shifts on his feet. "I’ve… I’ve never really understood you and Jeonggukie’s relationship. Nobody does, I mean… You’re both so…" He trails off, shaking his head. "You love each other. I don’t think anything could ever get in between you two."

Yoongi’s fingers curl into his palm as he recalls Namjoon’s warning from weeks ago. Jeongguk is a grown man. He’s fully entitled to make his own decisions, and you need to respect that if you don’t want to lose him. His voice comes out quieter than before. "Something already has."

Jimin takes a slow breath. "Jeonggukie knows you would never do anything to hurt him, not on purpose. You just need to talk it out with him, hyung."

Yoongi nods, just barely. "Yeah."

Jimin doesn’t let up. "Promise me."

Yoongi hesitates, then mutters, "I promise."

Jimin gives a small nod before stepping back toward the door. "Okay." He reaches for the handle, pausing. "Get some sleep first. You look like shit."

Yoongi huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. "I’ll try."

Jimin exhales. "Just… Deal with it before it gets any worse." He pulls the door open. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

★ ★ ★

Yoongi isn’t in the business of breaking promises, so the next night, he ventures out of his room.

He watches Jeongguk stare back at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. His stomach twists.

He has spent years protecting this kid’s dream—no, making it his mission, his purpose, his redemption. Jeongguk had been barely more than a teenager when Yoongi first met him, eyes bright with possibility, looking at Yoongi like he hung the damn stars.

Back then, Yoongi had just dropped out of college, drowning in the weight of his own failure. He had been a classical piano major—a prodigy, people said. Someone who was supposed to make something of himself.

But the pressure had been too much, the expectations too high, and when he couldn’t bear it anymore, he had walked away with nothing but a hollow chest and a name that didn’t mean a fucking thing outside those walls.

Jeongguk was an underclassman at the time. The voice of an angel and the dream of being in a rock band. It was stupid—childish, even—but Yoongi saw himself in the kid, saw what he had lost, and he had sworn right then and there that Jeongguk would never know what it felt like to give up. To be crushed under the weight of something bigger than himself.

If Yoongi could make Jeongguk’s dream come true, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel like such a failure himself.

But now, sitting on the edge of Jeongguk’s bed, watching the hurt in his face, Yoongi wonders if he had only ever been deluding himself.

"You and YN…?" Jeongguk’s voice is careful, controlled, but Yoongi can hear the fracture beneath it.

"I’m sorry." The words taste like ash in Yoongi’s mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

"When?"

"At the noraebang," Yoongi mumbles. He wants to look away, wants to sink into the floor, retreat from the sheer expressiveness Jeongguk’s eyes are capable of. But he doesn’t.

"That’s why she left?" Jeongguk asks, realization washing over his features.

Yoongi exhales shakily, the guilt settling deep in his bones. "I haven’t called to confirm or anything, but…" He drags a hand down his face. "Yeah. Probably."

"I thought you hated her."

"I do," Yoongi says automatically, but the words feel strange. False. Like he’s clinging to something that was never really there to begin with.

Jeongguk stares at him, incredulous. "But you kissed her?"

"It’s…" Yoongi clenches his fists, bitten down nails digging into his palms. "Guk-ah, it was stupid."

"It sounds stupid," Jeongguk scoffs.

"It was." Yoongi drags a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling over. "I don’t have an excuse, okay? It happened, and I’m sorry. How can I get you to forgive me? I’ll do anything."

Jeongguk shakes his head, the laughter still on his lips, but it’s humorless. "There’s nothing to forgive, hyung."

Yoongi stills. "What do you mean?"

"YN and I aren’t really dating."

What the fuck.

Yoongi feels his mind blank out, practically hears the record scratch. The suspicion that Yoongi’s held so tightly this whole time, and Jeongguk is the one saying it out loud. No fucking way.

"…What?"

"You think I would bring my real girlfriend around you?" Jeongguk tilts his head, expression unreadable.

Did he say real girlfriend? What the hell does that mean?

It doesn’t make sense. Jeongguk isn’t the type to lie, not like this. But the way he’s looking at Yoongi right now—like he’s daring him to deny it—tells him this is very real.

"Hyung, ever since you met YN, you’ve acted like a lunatic."

"That’s not—"

"Yoongi-hyung."

Yoongi shuts up instantly. Fair is fair.

"The girl I’m dating isn’t in the public eye, and YN is," Jeongguk continues. "We’re friends. She agreed to help."

The idea of Jeongguk hiding something from Yoongi—through a scheme this elaborate, no less—feels preposterous. It feels like a practical joke.

But the way he’s looking at Yoongi right now? There’s nothing funny about it.

Yoongi shakes his head, struggling to process. "But… Why not tell us? Me?"

Jeongguk gives him a withering look. "Come on, hyung. The backlash from everyone else would’ve been bad, but you? You’re so much worse."

Yoongi’s chest tightens. Fair is fair, but, "I wouldn’t have—"

"You don’t think I wanted to introduce my girlfriend to you, really? I knew what would happen. Things would’ve gone exactly the same as they did with YN."

Yoongi swallows hard. "I just don’t want you to get hurt."

"You’re so protective over me, hyung. Like I’m a kid. Like I’m incapable of making my own decisions."

And that? That hurts. Because Yoongi never meant to make Jeongguk feel small. Never meant to clip his wings when all he ever wanted was to help him soar. But somewhere along the way, his protection had turned into suffocation. He’s the one who pushed him to this, he realizes. The one who made him feel like he had no choice but to lie.

"Guk-ah, I don’t want you to have to hide things from me. Please. How can I fix it? Tell hyung how to fix it," Yoongi pleads.

"I don’t know." The words sound so hollow. Why didn’t he come to Yoongi sooner, if he’s felt this way for so long? Yoongi would do anything for Jeongguk. He thought Jeongguk knew that.

"Jeongguk—"

"No, hyung." Jeongguk snaps. "I introduce YN as my girlfriend and you act like a dick. You humiliate her. I ask her to go out of her way to work things out with you, which I shouldn’t have to do, and things are fine for like, a few days. And then suddenly she’s leaving, lying to me about why, and you’re telling me you kissed her?"

Yoongi stays silent. He’s played the protective hyung card, but where the kiss is concerned, he has nothing to say for himself.

"I haven’t heard from her at all since she left. Until now, you’ve been avoiding me, too," Jeongguk continues. "I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everyone treating me like I can’t handle shit."

Yoongi’s voice comes out barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry."

"I don’t want to hear it, hyung. Whatever issues you’re having with her, that’s none of my business anymore. You know the truth now. Just…"

"Yeah," Yoongi says, wiping sweaty palms off on his jeans as he stands from the bed. "Yeah, I’ll… I’ll go."

He hates how final it feels. How he’s left wondering if this is something he and Jeongguk can bounce back from. A half-written album for a band that could be hanging in the balance, because of Yoongi.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop him from leaving. He just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight—like he’s holding something back, like he’s already decided this conversation is over.

Yoongi hesitates for a moment, waiting for something. He’s not even sure what. A sign that things aren’t as broken as they feel. But Jeongguk won’t look at him.

So, he turns and walks away.

The air in the hallway feels stifling, thick with everything left unsaid. His feet carry him downstairs, back to his room. Once he’s back inside, he just stands there, staring at the door, fingers twitching at his sides.

He doesn’t know how to make this right.

Yoongi’s fingers tremble slightly as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s like his body’s on autopilot, moving without him. He scrolls through his contacts and presses call before he even thinks about it.

The phone rings once. Twice.

"Hyung? Did somebody die?"

It’s so Namjoon to pick up Yoongi’s calls like that. He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. He rubs his face, a sharp breath slipping past his lips as he fights to regain his bearings.

"You knew," Yoongi says simply. His voice comes out deceptively calm.

A long, heavy pause fills the line, a silence that stretches on as Namjoon’s brain catches up to what Yoongi is saying. But Yoongi knows he doesn’t need to say anything else. Namjoon is a smart guy.

"Yeah," he finally says, his sigh crackling over the line. "I did."

"Fuck," Yoongi huffs. His hands are shaking.

"Did he tell you?" Namjoon’s voice is quiet, careful.

Yoongi closes his eyes. "Yeah."

"Is it... Is everything okay?" Namjoon asks.

What a stupid fucking question. Yoongi starts pacing, desperate to change the subject. He’s working on the fly, but he’s not at all surprised by the words that end up leaving his mouth.

"Look, I have seven songs. Book a flight for me. I’ll come show the label what I’ve come up with."

There’s another sigh on the other end of the line, like Namjoon knows better than to fight him on this. Good, Yoongi thinks.

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Just for you?"

"I think space would be good. For a few days." Or longer.

"Hyung… What happened?"

"YN and I kissed," Yoongi says. Might as well.

The line falls silent. Yoongi can practically hear Namjoon’s brain processing the information, the shock and confusion on the other side. He doesn’t care. He just wants the conversation over with, wants to move forward.

"What?" Namjoon’s voice cracks with disbelief, the confusion clear even through the phone.

"Namjoon-ah, I’m really sick of talking about it, okay?" Yoongi says, struggling to tamp down the impatience in his tone. "I’m gonna fix it. I just need something from you."

"What do you need?"

"Can you get in contact with YN’s manager?" Yoongi swipes into his messages with Namjoon. His fingers shake as they fly over his keyboard, and then he presses send. "I need you to relay a message."

Namjoon is quiet for a long time, just the static crackle of soft breaths. When he speaks again, his voice is laced with exhaustion. "Okay. I’ll get it done."

"Thanks," Yoongi mutters, voice rough. He doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t wait for Namjoon to respond. Minutes later, he’s forwarded an email with a flight confirmation. He grabs a bag and fills it.

He has a plane to catch.

★ ★ ★

The last person you expect to see when you open your door is Min Yoongi.

It’s late. Late late. Like, ‘nothing good happens after midnight’ late. Your parents used to say that a lot when you were younger, back when your obsession with live music meant sneaking into venues past curfew. It’s funny—you never believed them. Back then, your nights only got better the later it became.

Now, though. Now you get it.

Because Min Yoongi at your door when he’s supposed to be a plane ride away from you? That can only mean trouble.

But here he is, dressed in all black, a beanie and a face mask concealing his identity from your building’s security cameras. Instead of wielding a knife like you’d expect, his arms are full of crinkly takeout bags.

"Hi, dollface."

"Yoongi? What—"

"I’m not here to fight, okay?" he interrupts, lifting the bags a little as if it’s supposed to reassure you. "Look, I brought you dinner."

Going with poison, then, you think.

"How did you figure out where I live?" you ask, dreading the answer.

"Namjoon asked Seoyeon on my behalf," he explains casually, like it's no big deal. "Or, on Jeongguk’s behalf, actually."

Oh, cool. So your manager is just giving your address away. "Why—"

"Can we have this conversation inside?" he cuts in. "The food’s gonna get cold."

You hesitate, but your curiosity gets the best of you, so you step aside to let him in. He moves past you like he belongs there, setting the bag down on your kitchen counter and methodically unpacking its contents.

"It’s chicken," he says casually. "Figured that was a safe bet."

You stare at him, bewildered. "Chicken is… Yeah, chicken is fine."

"I brought beer, too." He finally turns to look at you. You can only really see his eyes, but you can’t help but notice how tired he looks. You try not to care.

"Yoongi, why are you here?" you demand.

Sighing, he pulls off the face mask, tucking it into his jacket pocket. "Jeongguk told me the truth."

Unable to help it, your entire body goes rigid at his words. "Oh yeah? What’s that?"

"He has a girlfriend," he says, before clarifying, "that isn’t you."

You feel the world tilt beneath your feet. So Jeongguk told him the whole truth. Cool. You really should’ve returned those calls. The ones you were avoiding.

"Why did he tell you that?" you ask, and it’s not even anger that colors your voice anymore. Just a raw, unfiltered panic that you can't hide.

Yoongi turns and leans back against the counter, watching you. "I’ve been trying to figure out why you didn’t tell me that. From the start."

Your defenses instantly go up. It’s par for the course around Yoongi at this point.

"Because he didn’t want me to," you reply coolly, schooling your features into something less panicked. "So, what changed? What did you do?"

"I told him we kissed."

FUCK!

Well, so much for concealing the panic. "You—why?"

"I couldn’t just not tell him, YN," Yoongi reasons. "It was killing me. I felt like the world’s biggest piece of shit all week. You’re Jeongguk’s girlfriend." He snorts, shaking his head. "Or, at least, that’s what you both wanted me to think."

You scoff, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "Okay, fine. You told him. How did he react?"

"To the kiss?" Yoongi tilts his head slightly. "I mean, better than I expected, considering I was under the impression he was in love with you."

Your brow furrows. "So he’s not mad?"

Yoongi lets out a humorless laugh. "Not at you, don’t worry."

Ah. "But he’s mad at you," you guess.

"I’m not getting a world’s best hyung trophy anytime soon." Yoongi shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but you can tell it does.

You stare at him for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, the words slip out. "So… You flew back to Seoul to… What? Rub it in my face in person?"

Yoongi blinks at you. "What?"

"That you were right. That you knew it was bullshit all along."

Realization flits over Yoongi’s features. He doesn’t look defensive—he doesn’t even look surprised. In fact, he seems oddly amused, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "Mm. That’s more like a fringe benefit."

You throw your hands up, completely exasperated. "Then why are you here, Yoongi?"

"To have dinner with you," Yoongi says, breaking into a full-blown grin now.

"I’m not hungry," you say flatly.

"Look, I’m not exactly welcome in that house right now," he says, like that’s supposed to explain things any better.

"And you think you’re welcome in mine?"

He tilts his head, amused. "I don’t know, dollface. Am I?"

You gawk at him, your pulse thumping in your ears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"A kiss isn’t exactly a solo activity, last time I checked."

You bristle. "You kissed me."

"Is that what we’re going with?" Yoongi asks, brow lifting.

"That’s what happened."

"Let’s say I did make the first move, then." You don’t miss the way his gaze flickers to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "You took your sweet time pushing me away."

"And then I got on a plane to get away from you," you counter.

Yoongi hums, his eyes darkening slightly. "Couldn’t trust yourself?"

"What—"

"You think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been undressing me with your eyes lately?" He grins, clearly enjoying himself. "I’ve felt very objectified, you know."

"Fuck you," you spit, your pulse racing.

He just laughs—low, knowing. "Everything else is all out in the open now," he says. "Might as well come clean about this, too."

"There’s nothing to come clean about," you retort, your voice sharp, but inside, you’re shaking. "I haven’t been looking at you any type of way. You should get your eyes checked."

"So it wasn’t good for you, then?"

"What?"

"The kiss."

You stiffen. "No."

His smirk deepens. "Right. Okay, then."

"You don’t believe me?" you ask, defiant.

"Don’t get me wrong, your acting has improved. But no." He leans in slightly. "You wanna know what I think?"

"No."

Yoongi grins. "I think it drives you crazy, how attracted you are to me."

Your world tilts on its fucking axis, and you know it shows on your face.

"Get over yourself," you scoff, trying to find your footing again. But Yoongi isn’t having it.

"That sound you made when my tongue was in your mouth?" His voice drops lower, rougher, and it sends a shiver through your spine. "I fucking earned that. No way you would’ve let that slip on purpose."

Your breath catches in your throat, your body locking up. Fuck.

"I can get all kinds of sounds out of you, if you let me," Yoongi continues. He steps closer, cocking his head at you. "I think you know that, too. I think you know I can fuck you the way you’ve been waiting to get fucked."

Your breath stutters, heat creeping up your neck.

"No one else has gotten it right, huh?" His voice is softer now, coaxing. "Too nice, too boring. But I can. And you hate that you want it."

His words settle into the air between you, heavy and undeniable. You can’t look at him.

"If I’m wrong, tell me." He studies you closely, hand raising to tilt your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. That first touch, skin on skin, stupidly makes your thighs clench on instinct. "I’ll drop it. I’ll get on a plane tonight and go right back to where I came from."

The silence stretches. Long. Loaded.

Then, more gently, "am I wrong, dollface?"

You exhale shakily, and—slowly, reluctantly—you shake your head.

"Here’s the way I see it," he continues smoothly. "I have no reason to stand in the way of your arrangement with Jeongguk anymore. But you and I are still going to be around each other, whether we like it or not."

You don’t say anything. You don’t even know if your ‘arrangement’ with Jeongguk is still on, after all of this. But that’s the furthest thing from your mind right now.

"Might as well make the most of it."

Your throat is dry. Your skin feels too tight. You force yourself to take a steadying breath, despite the heat pooling between your legs.

"Beer isn’t gonna cut it," you decide suddenly.

You push past him, moving toward the kitchen.

Yoongi laughs, watching you. "That so?"

Wine feels right. You pour yourself a glass, glancing at him across the island. "Want one?"

"Yeah, okay," he agrees, amusement evident in his tone.

You pour another glass before you walk to the couch in the living room, settling down with a long sip before meeting his gaze. "Let me get this straight."

He sits beside you, taking the glass you offer to him. "Uh-huh," he says, urging you to continue.

"You want to fuck me."

His lips quirk. "I wouldn’t be opposed."

You huff in frustration. "No, Yoongi," you say. You’re over the games. If he wants to do this, he’s going to have to put a little bit more work in. "That’s what you came here for."

Infuriatingly, Yoongi doesn’t answer right away, only taking a slow sip of his wine.

"You got in a fight with Jeongguk, and for some reason, your immediate response was to hop on a plane and proposition me," you continue. "I’m not even gonna pretend to understand that train of thought, but I do want to hear you admit it."

He pauses, considering. "That’s what you want?"

"Yes," you say firmly. "That’s what I want. Why should I let you have it that easy?"

"God." Yoongi makes a noise low in his throat, frustration and arousal combined. "Okay, yeah. I want to fuck you," he admits, unwavering.

You let the silence linger for a moment. Then, finally, you nod. "Okay."

"Okay?" He raises a brow.

"Okay," you repeat. "You can fuck me."

Yoongi’s responding laugh is quiet, amused. "Don’t sound so excited, dollface."

Shit, if only he knew. You’re barely hanging on by a thread, shocked that you’ve made it this far without folding. You may not be Yoongi’s number one fan, but you’d be a liar if you said you don’t want to take him up on all of his offers.

"I just want you to stop acting like I’m the desperate one here," you mutter.

"Okay. We’re both desperate, then."

"Thank you," you say primly, trying and failing to calm your racing heart.

Yoongi sets his glass down on your coffee table, eyes glinting as he watches you. "So… Are you gonna come over here?"

You watch the way he leans back against the couch, his denim-clad thighs spread invitingly, and you bite your lip.

Okay. This is happening.

"Fuck it," you huff, setting your own glass down next to his and shifting your body to straddle his lap.

In an instant, Yoongi’s hands find your waist, molding to your curves. He tilts his head up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. Not unlike last time, there’s no finesse to it, but it feels so fucking good—lips and teeth and tongues fighting for dominance, like there’s something to win.

Now that all of the cards are on the table, it’s clear that neither of you are interested in holding back. Your teeth nip at Yoongi’s bottom lip roughly, earning a grunt from him as his hands skim over your thighs, calloused fingers catching on your shorts.

Yoongi pulls back first, his eyes inky black as he feels you up. "These fucking shorts," he mumbles under his breath, hands smoothing over the silk before squeezing harshly. "What are the chances."

With startling clarity, you realize that you weren’t the only one looking when you were on Jeju. You left an impression on Yoongi, too.

It makes you feel triumphant.

"Like them?" you purr, rucking the hem of your shirt up to give him a better view of the damp fabric clinging to you. Slowly, deliberately, you roll your hips, feeling the way he strains in his jeans.

"Shit, you’re a tease," Yoongi hisses, licking his lips as he helps you pull your shirt over your head. His eyes flick between your clothed core and your breasts hungrily, like he’s deciding where he wants to start first.

But your patience is wearing thin. You make the decision for him, dragging his hands up to cup your tits. Yoongi obliges, chuckling with amusement when he catches the way your nipples stand at attention already, without him even laying a finger on them.

Holding your gaze, he leans in, tongue flicking over a sensitive bud. You can’t look away—not when the cool metal ball of his piercing glides so skillfully over it, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure straight to your neglected cunt. It feels like he’s touching you everywhere, extra stimulation that forces a moan from your throat.

Yoongi doesn’t let up for a second, sucking and licking at your nipples until they’re aching, puffy and reddened. All you can do is take it, fingers threading through dark locks at the nape of his neck as you whimper for more.

"Look at you, dollface," he rasps, replacing his tongue with his fingers to pinch and tease. "You can be sweet, can’t you?"

"Fuck you," you gasp out, biting your lip to suppress the needy sounds that threaten to spill free. You can’t help it—he can’t win this quickly. He can’t know how badly you’ve needed this, needed him, ever since that fucking kiss.

Yoongi laughs, pinching a nipple one last time before retreating completely. "Always running that fucking mouth." Eyes fixed on yours, he moves his hand down your hip, cupping your cunt so firmly it forces your legs to spread. "Should make you choke on my dick, shut you up for a bit."

Your breath shakes in your lungs as he starts rubbing tantalizing circles over your folds. "You can be a nice girl, mm?" Yoongi growls, finding your clit such exacting accuracy that it makes your head spin, steals the moans from your throat. He noses along the line of your shoulder, murmuring against your skin, "be a nice girl for me."

"Yoongi," you moan, helpless. Without warning, Yoongi’s fingers slip under the leg of your shorts, slipping into you with an ease that makes him groan against your neck.

"So fucking wet," he growls, fingers stroking inside you, rubbing your inner walls. You can both hear how wet you are. He curls his fingers, and you cry out. "Can’t wait to feel you around my cock."

It’s his admission, the reminder that he wants this just as badly as you do, that breaks down your inhibitions. Suddenly, you’re rolling your hips, moaning as you grind down onto his fingers in a frenzied rhythm.

"Fuck," Yoongi breathes appreciatively, watching you move with dark eyes like he’s imagining you bouncing on his cock. "I’m gonna fucking wreck you."

You can’t take it anymore, single-mindedly focused on chasing your impending release. Yoongi’s fingers stroke so deeply inside of you that your eyes roll back in your head, your breath leaving you in staccato bursts of his name. His other hand returns to your breast, pinching hard at your nipple. You’re so close you can taste it.

"Go on," he encourages. His thumb moves to rub at your clit as his fingers fuck into you over and over. "Come for me, dollface."

That’s all it takes.

You sob as your orgasm hits you hard, your vision swimming. Your cunt squeezes around Yoongi’s fingers so tightly it earns a moan from him, but it barely registers. All you can do is moan, pulling hard at Yoongi’s hair until the movement of your hips slows to a stop.

When you finally come down, Yoongi’s fingers slipping out of you as you pant for breath, your eyes focus on him.

He looks fucking delicious.

Pouty lips bitten red. Dark locks mussed where they peek out beneath his beanie. Veiny hand squeezing around the thick bulge in his jeans.

You’ve never wanted something so badly in your life, and it’s clear the feeling is mutual. He said it himself—he wants to wreck you.

It occurs to you, suddenly, that you’re not going to let him. Not tonight.

Suddenly, you reach for your discarded shirt, slipping it back over your body. You stand on shaky legs, reaching for your forgotten glass of wine and tipping your head back to finish it off. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes tracking your every movement, waiting. It fills you with immense satisfaction that he’s waiting for something that won’t come.

"Well, thanks," you say, barely suppressing a grin. "This was fun."

"What?" Yoongi replies, confusion evident in his tone.

"It’s late. I have an early schedule tomorrow," you explain coolly, tilting your head at him. "Surely, Seoyeon told you?"

"But—"

"She’ll kill me if I show up with bags under my eyes," you interrupt. "You understand."

A long silence stretches between you as Yoongi weighs his options. You watch with triumph as his fists flex at his sides, clenching and unclenching. Finally, he schools his features into something neutral and speaks.

"Fine," he grumbles.

"Great," you say, grinning as he gets up from the couch. "Thanks for stopping by. I’ll walk you out."

The walk to the door is quiet, tension thick between you. Yoongi’s jaw is tight, his hands shoved into his pockets like he’s physically restraining himself. You revel in it, in the way you’ve turned the tables, left him aching.

You reach for the door handle, but before you can open it, Yoongi moves.

In a flash, your back is pressed against the wall, his body caging you in. His hands pin your wrists beside your head, and then his lips are on yours—hot, demanding, devastating. It’s not just a kiss. It’s a punishment. His mouth is all-consuming, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before his tongue pushes past, claiming you in a way that leaves no room for argument.

The way he surrounds you is dizzying, the hard planes of his body pressed against you all the way down. His hips roll once, slow and deliberate, making sure you feel it as the thick ridge of his cock in his jeans drags against your still-sensitive core.

And fuck, you feel it. Every. Single. Inch.

Then, just as suddenly as he came at you, he pulls back.

Breathless, you barely have time to register the wicked smirk curving his lips before he steps away, smoothing a hand down his shirt like nothing happened.

"Sweet dreams, dollface," he murmurs, voice husky, eyes dark with promise.

And then, just like that, he steps away, yanking the door open and walking out without another glance. You stand there, dazed, lips swollen, body still thrumming from the intensity of it all.

Fuck.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

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