Firaga Armor

It is what it is.

You are but a man, a living being: flesh, blood, pulse; an internet connection and access to hyper-zoomed photos and slow-motion fancams and excessive manifestos on Chou Tzuyu's legs and Chou Tzuyu’s waist and Chou Tzuyu’s perfect dimples and smile and the golden-ratio proportions; the S-curve, the hourglass of her; none of which get as straight to the point as these carefully curated comments:

notice me mommy

pleeease sit on my faaace

let me dieeeee between those thighs good looooooorrrrdddd

(Or, for the cinephiles: the quote-tweet of a poorly composited clip; one side—Tzuyu shaking ass, the other—a GIF from Mad Max: Fury Road of the guy jumping off a speeding truck yelling WITNESS MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

But you know what?

Fuck yeah: witness you, indeed.)

Witness you now, camped out in her dressing room—your home for the past fifteen minutes—listening to the roar of tens of thousands of people bleed through concrete and steel while you wait with your VIP pass and your fast-fracturing patience and your cock heavy and in a far worse state than it was backstage at the Victoria’s Secret show; that had Tzuyu in a number that pushed her tits up so delightfully it crashed their whole website; shopping carts flooded by wishes for cleavage that could look half as glorious as hers.

And then she's there, or here, and you're drafting a manifesto of your own.

“Baby—” is how Tzuyu starts, and all it gets her is a hand around her waist, fingerprints pressed into sweat-slicked muscle, and she just goes with it—lets herself be reeled through the threshold and spun into you until the arrangement goes: 1) the door, 2) her body, 3) your cock, 4) you.

“Hell of a show,” you coo into her ear, pulling out the shiver she's kept coiled tight just for this moment—a pressure valve, a controlled detonation, released the second your thumb presses into the meat of her thigh.

“Baby—” again, and your girl is burning up: stage-lights hot, dimpled cheeks gone rosy red, flushed throat to sternum, wrapped up in what is just a feat of costume design and structural engineering and frankly the pinnacle of human craftsmanship: the leather corset cinched around her chest, doing theological work with her tits; the matching hot-pants sealed over her thighs (likely had to be poured on earlier, left to set, that's the only possibility); the knee-high boots she is absolutely not going to be able to walk out of here in.

She leans anyway—gracing you with more room to work in, rolling herself against you, because there's a countdown until you both have to clear the stadium and it's only hard and fast from here on out.

(Don't concern yourself with whatever wreckage survives into the aftermath, you're not going to see this room ever again, anyway.

Well. Until next tour.)

“Need a minute?” You're busy taking stock: the rapid shallow breaths, the copper-spun hair matted to skin, the sweat tracing her collarbone and running rivers to places you'll find the end of soon.

Tzuyu tilts her chin up, cocks an eyebrow. That stadium-filling smile. So ruthlessly, indiscriminately gorgeous. Real breath-taker, soul-stealer, habitual cock-hardener; your girlfriend (you lucky, lucky fucker). Another grind of her hips against you finds you stretching. “Could you even wait a minute?”

“No, but I thought I'd be polite and ask.” You shrug, bump your hips back, far less graceful and subtle than the little ditty she pulled off; through your denim, dragging across her abs, a point of punctuation on her body. “Consent and all.”

“Oh?” She laughs; small, private, non-transferable to anyone outside this room. Rises on her toes so the tip of your cock drags down to where she actually wants it, takes your face in both hands. “Is this something I'll need to consent to?”

“Just your standard offer for concert aftercare,” you deadpan. “Very exclusive. One provider.”

“That's funny. I don't remember subscribing.”

“Opt-out situation,” you tell her, lips finding the exact junction where salt and sweet meet on her neck. She sighs, end-to-end. “Really have to read the fine print.”

“You know how I am with that sort of stuff.” And it's really something; your Tzuyu underneath everyone else's Tzuyu—stage-beautiful but zero performance left in those to-die-for cheekbones; just her, released and free, origami in your hands, folding like she was always going to—a swan, some sort of songbird, or maybe simply a fucking lawn chair, if permitted. “You get your hands on me and I just can't help but say yes.”

Tzuyu: dressed like this and saying shit like that.

Yes, you both are embarrassingly, irretrievably, categorically gone over each other; and it's your problem, and hers, you've both long made peace with it, ready to be buried in clearly marked graves, side-by-side: here lies Chou Tzuyu and her secret boyfriend who fucked each other well and truly to death.

So, of course you're going to kiss her.

Lips on hers—same every time, new every time—her sighs feeding into your lungs, hands fisting in your shirt, hips translating heat into friction. Her tongue finding yours in ceremonial greeting; sparking up the sign outside, reading: occupied, all yours, always been yours, you just had to show up and smile.

And it's the release from her, all of it: everything that's been pulled taut since soundcheck, since this morning; each glance she's had to swallow, instinct suppressed by choreography and professionalism and forty thousand watching eyes.

The kiss compounds, stacks on stacks. Her leg lifts, hooks behind your shin, grinds the core of her against you—more, wanting more.

You stop yourself. Pull your lips free. The whimper that follows is pitchy and involuntary and criminally cute.

Her bottom lip wobbles, doing its intended and well-documented work on your heart.

“Why?” she asks—genuine, adorable, the whole bullshit shebang—how could you ever deprive an angel like this of such an innocent/filthy carnal desire?

You peel her hands from your neck, leaving them at her sides. Like a good girl, she waits.

Then you slide down to your knees.

The sound she makes could shatter something; it settles for the room's acoustics, forces it into submission, bends it over a knee.

“Ah,” she exhales. “That's why.”

Hotter down here. Always is: down-lights been baking her all night and it radiates off every inch, and at this distance—breathing her in, flooding your airways with the tangy-sugary-rock-salt-fucking-umami-scented compound of Tzuyu after three hours on a lit stage, the heat pooling thickest right at the deep crease where her legs meet. Coherent thought exits the building, it was never given a backstage pass, and the inside of her knee gets an open-mouth kiss—she nearly keels over completely, hands scrabbling for your hair.

“Oh God—” and you can hear the laugh underneath it, the perpetual disbelief at how fast she comes apart. “You have no idea how long I've been thinking about this.”

“I have some idea.”

“Your fault,” she says, and her voice fractures on it—”oh—standing at the barricade, staring at me the whole time; you have a problem you know—always looking at my—”

“Precisely.”

(And permit the detour: just to pontificate about Tzuyu's thighs because they warrant it.

Her thighs are strong. Belonging to both the Goddess and the statue depicting her—inspired by myths, carved out of marble—everyone gets to see the output; nobody gets to feel the mechanism but you. Thousands of hours of training and dancing condensed into lean muscle that locks on either side of your skull and could, if you don't hurry up and get on with it, end you.

But you're with the manifestos on this one—it'd be a perfect way to go. Heat coming off them in waves, obscene against your lips, all that tension gone soft and pliant the second your mouth's on her, flexing when she likes something, gripping when she likes it more—under your palms, against your jaw, clamping over your ears; two years deep and not one degree cooler about it.

Glory, glory, hallelujah.)

Your tongue drags higher. Slow. Taking stock along that honey-gold strip of skin. She tenses under your mouth—quads jumping—and her fingers in your scalp go from grip to claw.

She breathes, “You're unbelievable.”

“I've been told.”

“There's other places for your lips besides my legs you know—ah—”

The rest dissolves: you're busy running your tongue along the seam where leather draws a strict border against the plush of her thigh, finding the points where she's holding the most tension, that make her hips buck up, where the fabric is already warm and damp and about to get so much worse.

It earns you a warning: “You need to get these pants off me.”

“Give me a second.”

“You've had all night—”

“Shh.”

“Shh?”

“Let me appreciate you.”

“That’s what the concert was for, honey—”

“No, that was for everyone else,” you correct her, breathe it straight into the leather. “This—” You make a show of it, the séance you’re performing on your knees, spellbound by the tightest leather on the sweetest body. “These—are for me.”

She manages, barely, “Always.”

You nod, reverently. “So. Shorts. Stay on. For now.”

Tzuyu goes quiet. Breath hitches. Oh, she knows what it means, what you want. It moves through her, settles deep, has her relaxing against the door, parting her legs. “Fine.”

Hands hold her cheeks, digging in, the type of shit you revel in; putting your girl through this. Getting closer, deeper in that crevice, slowly, slowly, slow—until her thighs slap against your cheeks, a clapperboard calling action.

And then you put your mouth on leather. On her.

Sighs—turning into unhinged, sloppy sounds—eke through the gap between her thighs and your ears, knees drawing you in, lethal force, and this is one for the history books, something Darwinian, maybe that grave only has room for one; here lies you, suffocated with the biggest pussy-eating grin on your face, found choking on leather and your girlfriend's cum.

Zero complaints there, anyway.

“Oh fuck—”

“Quiet,” you say into her folds, even though experience tells you this word has had little success with Tzuyu; but, honestly, whatever fuels the kink.

“Trying—” she gasps, hips rolling against your face, proving your point. “But you've got a mouthful of my cunt and you're telling me to keep it down?”

“Mostly leather,” you hedge, but Tzuyu really is grinding hard—hard enough that the heat cuts sharp and precise. Press harder, force out more of these keens, ‘til she has to muffle herself with the back of her own hand.

Kneeling at her altar, getting where she's hottest—tongue dragging up and down the inside, lathering under the seams, working into the gap and getting torturously close; wetness already leaking through, running down; scoop it all up, suck it down, drink your holy communion and cherish every drop.

Exactly what she deserves (Tzuyu, the outfit, these thighs). So, so sensitive, it's so rude—a flicker of your tongue, a press of your lips, pure filth rumbled against her skin and she's gasping, writhing, the idol outline breaking, reconstructing into a shape a bit more pliable, dissolving into a soaked, sweat-drenched mess.

“It's always so easy for you isn't it? Hate how good it is—” and it comes out as a whimper, pleasant, tipsy slurring as Tzuyu's voice pitches higher, higher than please, for God's sake, keep it down this time; the very polite request Nayeon made that you fully intend to break.

Has you questioning the thickness of the door, reminiscing about Osaka, the last stop, when Tzuyu got so obscenely loud that Jeongyeon herself burst in to see if her group's dearly beloved youngest was being murdered—only to be yelled at: get the fuck out, he's killing me with his cock.

These thoughts get pocketed, to be added to later.

Nose pressing hard into the peak of her pussy—taking a long, selfish inhale; fingers holding firm against the muscle, lifting her ass off the door so she can sink further down your face.

“Please,” and she's getting desperate, fingers knotting in your hair, trying to hoist you in. “Take them off—I need your mouth on me, I need to feel you—”

“Not yet,” you tell her again, but she blathers on and on—how Tzuyu always gets—at her best and her worst; a bundle of needs arranged in a neat hierarchy, scratch that: it's just a fucked up ouroboros with your tongue at the beginning and the end and her thick thighs and her full-lipped cunt being looped through in the middle of it all.

With your mouth on her, it always is. Sucking bruises into her long legs, taking the skin between your teeth, marking the softest parts on her body, your declarations, her medals she gets to wear later—this is mine, this belongs to me; next concert she'll be forced into shorts cut far too high to hide them. The idea of it, the zoom on the lenses, the high-definition rendering; they'll see it and they'll figure it out: this goddess belongs to someone.

Her mantra confirms it: “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-pleaaaase—”

You don't slow—not yet—not until she's writhing against the wall and her thighs are clenching and unclenching around your head in a rhythm to match the high and whorish sounds slipping from her mouth. You can hear her start to weep, but her cunt is sprouting tears far quicker; against your chin, down your neck, soaking into the collar of your shirt—you haven't even touched her properly yet.

You'll correct that.

You leave her with one final, deliberate, hard suck of your lips against your favourite bruise. Leave the skin red and glowing with your spit. One gratuitous slap against the curves spilling from the back of her shorts, just to see the ripple.

Then you stand.

Tzuyu blinks slow, can't quite land it. She'd glare if she could aim it—slumped against the doorway, fixing on your lips—shiny, wrecked from your project on her thighs—to drag herself level.

Two fingers under her chin, tilting her face until she's looking at you, meeting your eyes—all that dazed awe pointed straight at you. A nod at the vanity in the corner. “Get over there. Turn around. Bend over. Hands on the counter.”

Tzuyu doesn't say a word. Barely breathes.

Bites her lip, nods, and stumbles her way over.

You track her—flushed, a little disappointed that you left enough integrity in her knees to make the trip. The wobble in her limbs, the stripe of sweat running down her spine, the small of her back, disappearing beneath the leather.

Your girl, your performer, your one and only idol; the most out of this world, hand to God, strike you down where you stand, beautiful woman you've ever been in the vicinity of. The outfit on its way to ruin: tight leather still doing its heroic work against her sweaty tits, hot-pants finding darker shades; midnight stained vantablack from your mouth, from her leaking through; hair coming loose—hours to build, minutes to take apart.

She braces herself on the counter, falling forward until her hands land with a soft thump. The mirror stretches across the wall in front of her, fogged slightly at the edges from the heat churning through the room, and she spots you staring through the glass. Gives you a show, whether she means to or not.

You watch her watch you in the reflection—the instinctual arch of her back as you step closer, habit pushing her ass out to receive you. Hands find her hips, thumbs into the sublime belt of skin above the waistband.

A push here and she preens.

Lips back where they belong; dragging up her spine, her throat, up the columns of temples built by worship alone, feeling the foundations, the muscles tense and flex underneath.

Closer and closer, slurping the sticky-sweetness pooling at the crevasse of her neck and shoulder, setting up camp under her ear, before pitching lower to drag over her jaw, her lips slacking open by themselves and you're going to wedge inside—

“Hurry.”

You breathe into her mouth, “What do you need?”

“You,” she sighs, an exhale, a relief. A kiss atop her chin, the tightening of your grip. She knows it's not enough. “Your mouth. Your hands. Wherever. Everywhere.”

“Everywhere? I've only got the two.” Hands drift higher, up her sides, around her back, slowly, torturously slow, working the lacing loose. Not for need of effort—you've long since learned your way around bobby-pins and double-sided tape and enough knots to make you a certified sailor.

“Anywhere—my—”

The final string comes undone. A shrug has the straps off her shoulders and the corset falling, pasties dropping with it. Leaving her bare from the waist up, and you get indulgent with it, take your time. Look up, into the mirror, take it in. Only for a second.

Accounting for all the best decisions in your life, and every past life too; rewards for time spent in previous reincarnations possibly as some celibate monk achieving enlightenment; only to find in the next leap that true nirvana is actually between Tzuyu's legs.

This current incarnation has you discovering exactly how far down the flush goes, splitting the difference between her breasts; the same ones that fill your hands, splay through your fingers—and they rise and fall, shrill inhales making them heave, nipples pebbling at just a brush of your fingertips.

And Tzuyu, finding her words, the simple, single-syllable vocabulary she has for you: “There—more—yes.”

Toying with them, flicking the peaks, waiting for the right stiffness to pinch. Sharp enough to make her hiss, then ask: “Enough for you?”

“God no,”—loud, decisive, helpless. A demand underneath a laugh. “Your cock. My pussy is literally in tears right now.”

You laugh into her shoulder.

“Weeping. It's so tragic.”

“But does it deserve it?”

“I don't—” and she checks your reflection, honestly considering it. “I don't know. But I do know what I'll do to you if we don't shut it up with your cock in the next minute, and it'll be significantly worse than what you're planning.”

That's more than enough of an answer. You step back, admire the damage. “We'll see about that.”

And the gasp when you free yourself—the button, the zipper, the jeans—because she's been so lost in herself that she's only just realising how much of an entire situation it's been for you since the very start.

You catch it all: the drag of her tongue over her lips, the bite that follows. The shudder, the pupils flooding dark when she sees you.

You say, “You did this.”

“Are you ever not so—” She fumbles, forgetting her words when she watches you step closer, resting the length of you atop her ass with a definitive slap. “So full.”

You lift her, adjust her so she's as tall as she can be—the heels help but don't have her quite high enough for your nefarious ideas; you hold her whole weight in your hands.

She reads your mind, tilts her head back against your shoulder and says, “Go on. Take me.”

Reaching around, popping the button of her shorts, the shudder as you drag them down, her drenched panties with them—over the swell of her hips, down her thighs, force them over the boots until she can kick them off and land them somewhere behind you.

And then it's just her, Tzuyu in knee-high boots and nothing else, long limbs bare and red and littered with your branding; red highlighted against cream, glistening from the slick and the spit.

You step forward, position, aim, level yourself with her. Thumbs press into her ass, parting the valley of her cheeks, edging her knees slightly apart. Fingers firm around her waist, holding her in place, the squeeze of her thighs.

You slide right between them.

“Oh my God—” Her head lifts, eyes clenched shut, fingers scrambling at the counter, knocking over all the pieces that helped put her together hours before, sending them tumbling to the floor. “Always so thick between my thighs.”

You groan, grunt, can't help it—the first slide is unholy. You see it all, watch it through the mirror; the head of your cock emerging from between her locked legs, coming out the other side slick and dark, and it's heat and softness and smooth all around, her cunt lathering you as you push through.

Slowly, carefully, the friction easing with every pass; the schlick sound of it filling the entire room.

“It's going to ruin me,” Tzuyu realises, feeling the way you throb between her, engorged and fighting against the grip of her muscles. “When this gets inside me it's going to fuck me up, isn't it?”

You pass by the rhetorical, focused on setting a rhythm. Something slow, paced, plenty of room to drag achingly along her cunt, let your cockhead push against her clit and force a bit of pressure with each thrust. And Tzuyu responds in kind, finds the motion at once—rolling her hips when you press forward, polishing your thickness with her juices, your cock properly lacquered and stained in budding girlcum.

“Your thighs,” you breathe into her ear, pulling her back against you, catching in the glass two people with unflinching grins on their faces, utterly fucked out of their minds. “Always showing them off, stadium after stadium, leaving them on everyone's mind. You know how many people are probably choking themselves over you right now, yeah?”

“I only care about one,” Tzuyu murmurs back, eyes blinking closed and open again, as if to double-check, maybe it's a dream, maybe the wrecked visage reflected in front of her is too blissful to be true—some bizzaro-doppelganger that just happens to look like her except in her sluttiest, most honest form; tall and proud and tits on display, nipples like pendulums with every thrust, swinging up and down.

“And look at them now. So perfect around my cock,” you grit out, her thighs twitching around you as if they have a mind of their own, pressing you in from either side, God. “It's genuinely insane.”

And the sigh, the quiver, the shudder when you tell her:

“You're made for this, Tzuyu.”

“I know,” she says, words turning into mud; formless, less coherent the more you push. “I know—it's so right. Feels so—fuck—you feel so good. This is all I've been thinking about since—”

“All show.”

“Before then,” and she smiles, laughs, because she has a secret she's been holding. “I knew it. Knew when they showed me this outfit. This ridiculous corset. Those tiny, tight shorts. I told the stylist straight away—this outfit is perfect.”

The smile, pure innocence concentrated into a lie that you almost believe. She rolls her ass back against you, dips her hips into that dangerous vector; the one where her thighs clench and angle your cock higher, where the head of your cock brushes against where she's most swollen, most shamelessly soaked; drinks down the look in your eyes when she does it again and again and again.

“Perfect to be ruined. Perfect to get fucked in. Perfect to make my thighs look so good for you.” The noise you thrust out of her next—a grunt, a throat cleared—enough to get the next words out clean: “Now tell me it was enough to get you to fuck me properly.”

You answer with speed—with force—pushing your cock right through, forcing her clit to flicker roughly, a guttural 'Christ'—from someone's lips—hers, yours, you can't parse it—as your hips piston right into her ass.

“Faster—I'm—” she starts, but you know; because you're melding at this point, sharing one mind, one slick, urgent rhythm that makes the vanity, the mirror, the bottles, the whole stadium seem to rattle.

Knuckles turn white, she's meeting you thrust for thrust now, pushing back against you; each and every time—cock slides through the squelch-smack-sploosh of it, head bumping against her clit, an obscene little kiss with each pass, a call met with a response in the form of a jerk or a whine or just the squeeze of her around you to let you know that yeah, she gets the message.

“Holy—close,” she gasps, grabbing the word and holding onto it like a lifeline—through the thrusting, the trembling thighs and ragged breaths and the way she's so wet your cock is just dripping with it. “So close, so close, don't stop—please—”

Not in a million fucking years.

You reach around, fill a palm with her tits, squeeze, pinch, bring her closer and twist just right to have her body in fits; a seizure that makes her knees buckle together and your vision blur for an instant—but it's enough.

She lifts up—higher, goes to the tops of her toes, as tall as her heels would allow, coming off your cock, letting the tip drag down to land at the centre of her, across her folds—settling against the only place it really belongs.

“Oh-wait-God-fuck-I'm-not—”

You pull her down, push right through that blistering-hot cumhole and thrust hard all the way in, full-length, every thick inch fed to her greedy cunt, and Tzuyu screams.

“God-yes-fuck-you—” and the expletives that follow, something filthy and loud that can't be stopped by any number of walls—and the one thought in your mind that isn't some variation of holy-shit-Tzuyu's-ridiculously-wet-cunt-is-choking-my-cock knows Nayeon's going to have some words about this later.

But her pussy pulses, fights your cock thrashing against its walls; Tzuyu snapping shut around you so hard you can barely move, and she cums and cums and cums; her head thrown back, hair draping over your shoulder; wailing, moaning, cursing your name and your cock and your ancestors and the fact that this is only the first time you've made her cum today and you owe her so, so much more.

Squeezing and wrenching and desperately trying to milk you with every devastating method it has in its arsenal—but you don't fall with it, you don't finish it.

Yeah, God, of course you want to, you're right there, legs dangling off the cliff—but you're not done with her yet, not even close.

So you just hold her against you, let her shake, let her cunt flutter so heavenly around your shaft, her abs flex and quiver under one palm, her heart leaping out of her chest and through the lovely tit you've got a firm grip on. Let her drool onto your shoulder, tongue, mouth gone slack and eyes glassy, looking up at you because it is—reliably, catastrophically—and it bears repeating—every goddamn time.

You twist her, cock slipping out a few solid inches and she makes a sound of loss that would fit in a funeral dirge; but yeah, you just want to kiss her, something rough and claiming, to help her swallow the broken sobs she's still making.

And she kisses you back, desperate, like she wants to hurt you with her tongue and her lips, teeth catching your lower lip; hands, fingers, fingernails clawing at your skin and your hair and there really is only one thing left to say:

“Inside me,” she spits into your mouth; words of a woman who is owed a grand railing and is ready to call in the whole account, backdated to the day you met, “I need your cum inside me. Now.”

She reads the stupid smirk on your face. Bites your lip again.

Again: “Now.”

You step back, length completely sliding out of her; cunt-drool keeping you tethered to her pussy lips.

Tzuyu groans, nearly collapses against the mirror.

“Then earn it, Tzuyu.”

There's little room left for grace, you manage what you can; an awkward-four-legged crab walk because Tzuyu's still shaking and needs you to support her weight as you collapse onto the couch.

A thud and you're seated, Tzuyu falling into your lap; your flawless girl, tits level with your lips, thighs bracketing either side of yours, cunt juice streaming down the plane, and her hands on your shoulders, bracing for what's next.

“Needed this,” Tzuyu sighs; cradling your head closer to her chest, welcoming the tongue that snakes out, rolls around a nipple, the teeth grazing the sensitive slope of her tits.

You jerk your hips, drag your cock through her folds—not inside, not yet—and she grits out your name. “I know.”

“No—you don't,” she tells you, smile on her face, wistful and pretty and she's just melting into your hands on her hips. “You know how hard it was to not go looking for you? All day I thought about—fuck—thought about finding you. Getting on my knees,” she closes her eyes, bringing herself back to some half-remembered dream. “Wanted to take your cock deep and drink you dry and fill my belly full of your cum—but I had to stop. Do you want to know why?”

You don't need to respond; you know the real answer, can feel it thrumming through her.

Tzuyu nods, slow, languid. Leaning in, dipping her head, breath hot against your jaw like she's letting you in on a private confession, something she'd only admit through the longest, sweetest torture. “I wanted you desperate. Hard all day. Needed you thinking about nothing else but me and my mouth and my cunt and my thighs.”

Your cock's fighting your own willpower, levelling with her entrance, you can feel the pulse of her meeting your throb; beads of precum slitting out of your cockhead ready to make the leap into her cunt. It's a game of millimetres at this point—a slip of your hands, a twitch of her hips, a slight fucking breeze; all it would take to break her.

“So I think I deserve a reward—for being so good for you, don't I? Or maybe you're mad at me for not taking your cock sooner—you can tell me I've been bad, that I need to pay you back, that I owe you—” Tzuyu's lips skate across your chin, doing their wicked work, inhaling every wisp of desperation and pure insatiable need that's been simmering underneath your skin all day. “Please, go ahead and put me in my place.”

“Fine.”

A forced exhale—wind knocked out from her lungs and into yours; cunt parting around you hot and slick and Jesus Christ she's so fucking tight, but you drive through it, wrenching her down while forcing yourself up and by the time you're fully hilted there's just one high, continuous sound she's making—a choir of wails, sobs, cries; a blissful chorus.

Her hips tilt to draw you deeper, thighs locking around your waist and there's the whole of your interior life, mind returning to one reliable verdict—you can't help it—death, taxes, and the combination of both when you collect what you’ve been dying for from Tzuyu's tiny, pink pussy and fill her so completely she can launch a one-woman investigation into the existence of the afterlife herself.

And you know her, know your girl, she wants to be more eloquent about it, wants to find a better way to convey how good you're railing her right now—so easily, firm quick strokes gliding in and out of her blistering cunt; guided by your hands holding her waist steady, but all she can manage is the high-level shit, the words that don't really matter but the effort to make them is Herculean nevertheless: “There—God—there—fuck—please—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

You hold her, fuck into her, just watching her—this ideal idol, letting your thighs slap against hers, punishing the muscle; absorbing all the details, the classified information that never leaves your desk.

Her face when you bottom out; the squeeze of her eyes, the slacking of her jaw, this euphoric grin dancing across her lips. Her tits and their heft, the bounce with every stroke—putting a hand back on one, filling your palm whole; the thought there—did you mold them, or were they tailor-made for you—or really, who gives a fuck because a squeeze makes her squeal so delightfully and you know that if you roll it she'll clench, cunt will pulse once, twice, around you and her head will drop back and she'll tell you again—

“More—there—”

“Yeah?”

And mumbling, fumbling around the back of her pretty head, sorting through all the things that may have existed there before you started filling it with thoughts of your cock, diving deep for the words and somehow managing to string them together—”Both—please—your hands, mouth, whatever—touch me more—”

You return your teeth to the other and her volume pitches; whips its way around the room, like it's searching for the cracks, the little gaps under the doorway so it can sneak into the corridor, down the hall—reaching for someone, anyone who can acknowledge how thoroughly you satisfy Chou Tzuyu's cunt.

“Your cock is so damn good,” she breathes; and that's all there really is, plain and simple, the why of it all.

What you've always known—sure you're helplessly, embarrassingly, probably-going-to-ask-her-to-marry-you-eventually down bad for her, even though you both know that you really are.

It's this—pounding Tzuyu's insides and being thanked for it. Her grip, her heat; not just her tits, her whole body, glorious thighs and all; engineered with this application in mind; an absurdly deranged thought to conjure—a decade of discipline, of investment, liquidated against your cock; an endpoint to just bounce mercilessly.

You remind her of it too: “Forty thousand people,” you mark the record into the underside of her tits.

“Please—”

“Every single one of them.”

“I know—please—I know—don't stop—”

“Going home right now,” you drive into her, shattering her on the downstroke, coming back together when you pull her up, just to break her into pieces again when you impale her completely. “Dreaming about these thighs—this body—this tight cunt stretching around me so nice.”

She's just properly gushing now, unashamedly messy with it; from her cunt, down your cock, past the crevasses of her thighs slapping on top of yours and ruining the couch below, but so what, sell it online or something; a Tzuyu-fied cum-stained couch; the sweaty outlines of your fucked, formless bodies on the cushions, would make a great centrepiece in any international gallery.

But anyway, back to the obvious: “It's all fucking mine,” and before you even have to tack on the end of it the question, Tzuyu's already picking up what you're putting down—

“All of it,” she says, just holding herself by your shoulders now, digging herself in, fastening herself down for the storm, “Yours”—once, pounded out of her—“Yours”—again, but broken, shattered; losing its footing in her lexicon. “Only you—only for you.”

And the other thing, what's left when it all slips: the composed, picture-perfect idol facade vacated, checked out, no lens in the world able to catch what's underneath. Just her and her wanton needs—fucked raw, fucked hard, wrung dry and left boneless. If she can walk or make words, or remember her name after this you've fucked up, because this was always her scheme: she chose the outfit, laced herself up in straight-up mainlined sin knowing you'd tear it off, spent all those hours on that stage with this exact destination in mind; so, yeah, hurry the fuck up—pick up the pace.

The couch jostles, fights the wall behind it, the carpet underneath. Something crashes to the floor, rolls off a table, never even mattered. Tzuyu stops holding back, the words come out clean, no longer minced; it was only ever a matter of time, because she's finally getting what she needs and yeah, the whole room, all of backstage, her groupmates down the corridor; no doubt are all well fucking aware.

A problem for later, you suppose.

“They can't imagine,” she says, unique to just her when she's at the end, more coherent, not less. “My tiny pussy—filled so—fucking—deep,” breathlessly, urgently, getting off on saying it, getting off on knowing it's getting you off too, “Stretched—ruined—a big cock full of cum saved just for me.”

Using her in every way girls like her should never be, but pussies like hers are built for—fucktoy, fleshlight, cocksleeve on long legs—holy fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I deserve it—don't I? A nice load, deep inside,” whimpering, proper quiver in her lip, and a last beg for good measure; loading her ammo, cocking her gun, finger on the trigger, “Can't stop—like that—don't you dare—”

Like you could—”Not going anywhere,” you remind her, holding on to where she's flickering between hard and soft; Tzuyu, hot as fuck all over and even hotter when she cums and tells you—

“Harder—”

Trying to—

“Fuck me—”

You're there—

“Please—please—please—”

She only needs to ask once because her cunt is divine, wrapped around you and leaving you with nowhere to go but up and down, back and forth; fucking her with nothing but terrible, wonderful intention until your hand is under her hip, slapped across her ass, forcing her to change the angle so she goes completely rigid and oh—oh—oh fuck—

“So—gah—good—”

Running straight through it—keep the angle; drive harder. The arch of her spine, lifting herself up, abs peeling off your waist and there's a gap, the opportunity—thumb back on her clit and she's clenching around you in warning pulses.

Thighs locking around your waist, hairline fractures in your hipbones, her body winding up—she's—you can feel her everywhere.

A wet choke, a stunned gasp, cunt swallows, gushes, inks something with her cum down the veins of your cock and she says it in case you miss it—

“Fuck—how the fuck do you make me cum so—”

Hitting her, tearing her apart—long, so loud—like she never stopped, and maybe she hadn't; been on that frequency since you first pushed inside her, and it'd make sense—her pupils at that dreamy sheen, stars in her eyes, shot into the stratosphere on your cock—and yeah, you'll take it, die with it, leap off the truck and declare WITNESS MEEEEE for all to see.

But she's not done. Yeah, she's fucked open and out, but her pussy's got other ideas, and her mind's on the same wavelength.

“Yours,” she says, fierce, needy, petulant; the princess turned brat, a rare, precious occurrence. “Give me yours—all of it—now—please—inside—”

And she keeps demanding, the sounds getting worse and better simultaneously; run out of proper onomatopoeia for her cunt on your cock, inventing brand-new ones to make up for it; her moans are climbing back up to join the fray. Despite it all, despite that she's just cum, she's oversensitive, rattling with it, but still taking it anyway, pulling it from you—gorgeous in every way, every inch, every configuration—what you get when you take Tzuyu from the stage and fuck her this hard and for this long and she clearly does not give a fuck that she's literally crying for your cock and cum and cannot stop—

“I'm begging for you to—”

“I'm here,” and her pussy milks it out of you, twists, pulls, grips—long rolling quivers around you. You're sunken deep into her, can't move, can't do anything but twitch and you don't know when you started but you're kissing her hard, groaning into her throat and following her over.

In the midst of it, cock spasming inside her, detonation on either side of your timeline—was there a before, is there an after? Or is there just this, now; soul leaving your body and flooding this ludicrously tight, hot cunt and—where were you again, what's your fucking name even—do you even care to find out because this gorgeous, unbelievable, unreal girl has got you in the sweetest embrace, lips, arms, pussy and all; clearly working through her own aftershocks, draining every last drop and stray thought out of you, and it goes on and on, and her legs are holding you there and it goes on a little longer.

White—at the edges, her cunt, your vision, it's all the same at this point; just fucking it all into her, stuffing her full, bulging her tight belly with you whole; all of you, all of the future yous too and what do you have to say for yourself:

“Take my fucking cum, Tzu—”

And what does she have in response?

“So much—all mine—God, fill me, please—”

It comes back gradually.

Names, places, details colouring the edges.

Tzuyu—small, floating on air, hovering on your cock, eyes half-lidded, glazed, satisfied; something that leans narcotic. Faint tears tracking down her cheeks, somehow reaching your tongue, or it's her sweat, or yours; but it's just hot and salty and that just about sums up the both of you.

You feel her heartbeat coming down against yours; survey the damage, the mascara that survived an entire concert but couldn't make it past this, the hair that's been reset and tangled and still looks wonderfully her. The corset was left by the mirror. The shorts surrendered somewhere close by.

“Could you ever—” Tzuyu comes to life, first to speak, let you know that she's still with you in the land of the living. “Fuck me normally?”

You laugh. “What's that like?”

“Like, leave me with some dignity.” She shifts; the ooze of cum, the exaggerated pornographic audio that accompanies it as it seeps out around the seal of her perfect plump pussy-lips glued to your cock proves her point.

“Sounds boring.”

“It would leave us with a lot less explaining to do,” she says, and you're already on clean-up duty, thumb to her cheek, wiping away the stragglers there; piece-by-piece, reassembling this demolished dream of a girl.

“To who?”

Tzuyu gives you a look.

“I think we're well past that,” you say, rattling down your list; “Nayeon, definitely. Sana can't say shit after what she got up to in Paris.”

“I know, but—”

“Momo literally fist-bumped me in the hallway and said, See you in Valhalla, brother,” and that has Tzuyu snorting into your neck, adorable, winning, her; still all wet and shaking and in tears from how hard she came.

Another lazy squeeze of her walls around you, habitual milking at this point, and she sighs, repeating, “Valhalla, Christ.”

“Legitimately.”

And she tests her muscles around you again, intentionally this time, and you throb back, and you're steering the car back onto the road now, putting things back on the most obvious paths—”You're going to give me a reputation.”

“It'll look great alongside mine,” you muse, drag your palms up those thighs once more, thumbing the damage, the territory marked and yeah; the stylist, make-up artists, she's gonna get a real talking to. “We can compare notes.”

She adjusts, twists; obscene, and more of your load starts to run, messy, dripping down her folds and onto your lap, waiting to be fucked right back into her; it's an intersection of indecency—pretty, fucked-up, dangerous.

Tzuyu in a nutshell.

Noticing: “You're still hard.”

Noticing back: “You're still sitting on it.”

Rolling her hips once, experimental, having you both groaning, moaning in stereo. She reads your face and knows what's coming next.

“How long do you think before Jeongyeon comes knocking again?” And it's already published by the time you say it—posted, trending, bookmarked—out there to be read and thumbed through—she's giggling all girlish and cute, you're laughing dark and low; she's getting flipped onto her back, pressed into the couch cushions that once had bigger aspirations than this.

Those thighs—again; downright incredible things, run out of words to bless them, just holy fuck do they spread so nicely, automatically falling open, heels in the air, knees hooked high over your shoulders. Tzuyu, Tzuyu, Tzuyu—built to be handled exactly like this.

A look in her eyes, the adoration there, the only lovers left alive of it all, the I'll hold your hand and jump off the cliff with you if you'd just lead me, has you thinking all sorts of romantic shit: I love you, marry me, let's maybe finish up by doing something dumb to make this something permanent.

But the comments are in your head again, so:

“I'm going to die between those thighs.”

Tzuyu cocks an eyebrow, you're just reciting the obvious. “Good.”

“Yeah?”

“I'll sit on your face in the afterlife too.”

“Hell of a way to spend eternity,” and you're already moving, laughing, tongue wrestling her down but there's no need, she was, is, always has been; apparently forever will be even after you're bones and dust—yours.

Hand on her thigh, one last time for good measure, pressing your fingerprints into the give of it, stamping off on a job well fucked, and she has to say: “Baby, you are so, ridiculously—”

It’s one thing to be playing strip blackjack with your roommate for the fun of it, bored out of your mind because the semester’s over and the both of you decided not to go back to your hometowns for reasons out of both your control. It’s another to be playing strip blackjack when you’re down to your boxers and she’s still somehow halfway to getting into her birthday suit.

You probably should’ve told her to take off her jacket and all the accessories she was wearing. Having each one as an individual piece of clothing is the most bullshit excuse you’ve ever heard, more so when you realized she has earrings and socks on.

“Oh come on,” she starts, throwing her hands up in the air. “Are you that scared of me seeing your dick? It’s not that small from what I remem–”

“Fuck you.” You send a middle finger her way. “I'm on eighteen and you’re on fifteen. You hit.”

Playing safe normally isn’t what you prefer doing, the need to throw down another card tempting you. But the odds of getting anything below a three is so goddamn miniscule, you’d be guaranteeing your loss.

And this is not how you thought having Sooin see you naked after God knows how long would go.

Sooin grabs the stack of cards, taking the first off the deck. She doesn’t flip yet, only placing it down next to her two fours and a seven. “I bet this is a six,” she says, tapping on the card.

“And I bet that it’s anything but a six,” you counter, and she graces you with a laugh.

“Willing to bet your boxers on that?” she asks, nodding to said clothing. Your last line of defense to your dignity, pride, ego. But if that saying about a good defense is a good offense applies here, then you might as well use it to your advantage.

“You willing to bet your entire top off for it?” you counter, leaning back on your chair. It’s a gamble, not one you’re sure she’ll bite on, yet you’re desperate. In dire need of a hail mary, and this—this is your one shot to getting it.

Besides, seeing her tits is a major plus.

“Bitch, I’ll bet everything I’m wearing it’s a six.” The way she sounds so confident about it makes you think she’s somehow rigged the deck when though you’ve been the one that’s been shuffling it since the beginning of this whole thing.

She does the job for you, when she slams the cards down on the table. Crossing her arms and smirks at you. 

“I’ll even bet something better for you,” Sooin starts, her legs crossing, and the smooth expanse of her skin starts to entice you, her shorts riding up and showing even more of those thighs. “If I don’t get a six, I’ll be free use for you for the entire week,” she states, the glee in her face dropping an offer that only the devil would ever give. “And we got all week.”

“Sooin, what the fuck–” You’ve known this woman for years, since she barged in your life as your roommate in the middle of your sophomore year and called the supposed guest room as hers. With the amount of shit the both of you have gotten up to with all that time—the rare sex with her included—this has got to be the most dangerous thing she’s ever done. “You don’t offer that up like it’s nothing–”

“Sure I can,” she says, rolling her eyes at you. “We’ve fucked before, what’s so difference about this?”

“We don’t have to be betting shit like that.” You dodge the question, your own legs cross to hide the growing erection in your pants. “We can stick to clothes–”

“Boring.” Her fingers twirl around the curls of her hair. “You need some spice in your life. Some flair. And I’m offering it to you.” Her head tilts. “‘Sides, when was the last time you got laid? Was it that Chaeyoung girl–”

“Chaewon,” you correct, shaking your head. Now she has you hooked on the deal being offered. Your entire wager flipped on you, and you can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. “And that’s pretty rich coming from you.”

“Whatever her name is–” She shrugs, avoiding your own question by picking up one of her cards and tapping it on the table. “I’m here offering you a once in a lifetime deal. And we’d both be happy at the end of it.” 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Anytime you want.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Anywhere you want.”

Taptaptaptap—

“Anything you want–”

“If you don’t get a six,” you enunciate, syllable by syllable. “You’ll just–what, do as I say?”

“If I don’t get a six,” Sooin repeats, hand pausing the drumming of the paper. “I’ll do whatever the fuck you want. No holds barred. No questions asked. You can have me on my knees right now if you win–”

“Jesus Christ, Swim.” Your palm meets your face, in complete disbelief of what she’s saying. You sigh, real fucking deep, gaze going up to the ceiling for a moment, trying to think about the whole thing. Yet your mind’s already made up, and all you can do is ask about the one thing that you’re sure will happen.

“And if you do pull a six?”

“Then you be free use instead.” The answer is instant, and that is where she gets you. When you think about it, it sounds like a win win situation. “Actually, let’s make this easier for the both of us.” So nice of her, you think.

“If you have a worse hand than mine, you lose.” That’s mildly easier, but still impossible. Besides, only the crazy ones would ever think of hitting on an eighteen. “And the same goes to me.” She points to the one face down on the table. “Shittier hand than yours, I lose.”

“This has to be bait.” The comment slips out, airing out the first thing that came to mind hearing the terms.

“It’s not.” The look of disbelief on your face makes her gape at you. “I’m not joking, it’s not.”

“Sure, and you didn’t rig the deck so you win again.”

“I didn’t rig jackshit, thank you very much. You need to believe in the heart of the cards.”

“Whatever you say, Yugi,” you chuckle. You glance at the deck, and that top card is begging you to take it. Get the whole thing over and done with, the result be damned. 

Though, there is an instance of—

“What happens if we both go over?”

“Easy.” She shrugs. “Then we both win.” 

Your head leans back in surprise. “How the hell does that even work?” 

“I get to fuck you whenever, you do the same. It’s not rocket science.” Another shrug. “Your other head would do the thinking.”

“And I’m starting to think you’re the one who needs to get laid,” you comment, and she graces you with a smirk.

“It’s a win win type of deal.” She ignores the dig, propping her chin up with her hand. “Just depends who wins more.” She gives you a pointed look. “So, you in or out?”

Sooin’s not wrong. It is a win win deal, and you’d be an idiot not to take it.

You sigh. 

“Fine.”

Your hand grabs the card, sliding it off the stack and placing it next to your two cards. “Who goes first?”

“Same time?” Sooin asks, fingers ready to flip the card on her side. 

You nod, hand prepped to do the same. “This is insane, you know,” you mutter, licking your lips. Foot tapping rapidly—in anticipation or nervousness, you don’t know—and shaking your head at her. “Absolutely fucking crazy.”

“You can always back out.” She takes her time with it, pushing the edges up slowly, her gaze focused on you rather than on the piece of paper in her hands. “Or are you really a pussy?”

Well, those are some fighting words. And you didn’t get raised like a bitch to back off.

“Just fucking do it already, Sooin.” 

She smirks, and with a flourish, she turns it over faster than you can. Your eyes land on her hand, and lo and be-fucking-hold, it’s a goddamn eight.

Everything rushes at you, all at once—relief, shock, joy, unease. It’s all there, because on one hand, you just won a bet against Sooin. On the other, the bet’s stipulations scare the utter life out of you.

“Would you look at that,” Sooin scoffs, grinning at you. “We both lost.”

You blink, and you look down to your own hand.

Twenty Eight.

Heart in the fucking cards your ass—

“No fucking way that just happened.” She huffs a laugh, staring at your hands. “Did we seriously both fucking lose?”

“You’re the one that said to believe in the heart of the cards,” you retort, shaking your head at how things have ended up.

“You know what?” She stands up, picking up the cards and fixing them up back into a single deck. “I’m going to hold up my end of the deal.” Doesn’t even let you soak it in, simply takes your hand away from you and places it back onto the set. “That better be the same for you too.”

“What the fuck does that mean–”

“It means,” Sooin cuts you off, placing the deck neatly on the center of the table. “I’m going to be riding the fuck out of you tomorrow. Or, you know–”

She gives you an innocent smile, as if her words are to become a common occurrence in your household for the week. She bends down, her lips so close to whisper temptations in your ear. Whatever you want, she says, your name rolling past her lips. “All week long.”

Leaves you with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the shoulder as she heads to her bedroom. Doesn’t bother waiting for a response, instead settling for a—

“Goodnight!”

While you’re over here slumping on your chair, staring at her door and shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.

What the hell did you get yourself into?

—

Sleeping late came naturally to you.

The mental gymnastics you’ve done to convince yourself that everything Sooin said was some sick prank she’s pulling on you, that you’d be waking up to another normal day with her, lazing about and wasting another day doing nothing along with all the other reasons you tell yourself—made you lose your mind trying to instill all of that in your head.

Add to trying to understand why Sooin started that bet at all when she really didn’t have to, aside from the obvious one that your brain is telling you isn’t at all the reason, and you’re almost to a point where you need to admit yourself to a mental asylum trying to figure it out.

You’re almost glad that this didn’t happen during exam week, or else you would’ve been failing all of it left and right with the lack of sleep. Or stamina, if Sooin really was serious.

Which she wasn’t, of course.

You don’t know if you can stop yourself from taking advantage of the bet if she ever gave you any form of a go signal. And if she was, you know she would do the same.

Still, all those days trying to survive the term has made your body’s alarm clock ring, causing you to wake up in the early hours of the morning thinking that there’s some eight o’clock lecture you need to be up for. While you could always stay in, as there is nothing to wake up to this early for the next few weeks, your stomach rumbling tells you otherwise.

So here you are, dragging yourself to the kitchen to make some instant coffee that barely turns you into a functional human being, a bowl of cereal made while you wait for the kettle to heat the water. You would have loved to have some bacon and eggs but alas, someone forgot to do this week’s groceries.

Eventually, Sooin comes out of her room looking the complete opposite of you. It says a lot already, considering you look like a dead man walking and she slept like a baby last night. Arms stretching out as she walks towards you, slumping on the chair opposite of you. Greets you with such energy you’d think she isn't the Sooin you know.

And yet she is, staring at you eating your bowl miserably, a smile on her lips as she leans back on the chair. “You look like shit,” she muses, and she doesn’t need an answer from you to know why. 

“Didn’t get much sleep last night.” You play along with it, pretend that everything about last night doesn’t have you in a chokehold.

“I bet.” Her elbow rests on the top back of her chair. “Need a little pick me up?”

She’s dangling the entire thing in front of you, gauging to see just how far you’re willing to keep up with this charade. And if you weren’t so mentally exhausted you could have—should have—said no outright, trying to prevent the impending roller coaster that’s coming your way. And yet your brain decides to make things as ambiguous as possible.

“The coffee can do.” You nod to the kettle, where you are waiting for the stupid thing to finish heating up.

“You sure?” She raises an eyebrow, her eyes glances at the kettle herself. “I’m available to help out, if you want me to.”

The wording isn’t lost on you, making you smile as you raise a spoon full of cereal and milk. “Yeah, Swim. I’m sure.”

She grins, her mouth opening to speak until the kettle finally pings. The both of you take a glance at it, steam rising out of the opening. You move to handle it, but Sooin tells you that she’ll do it instead. Need a cup myself, she says as she passes by, leaving you to eat your cereal in peace.

You take the moment to take a few more spoonfuls as you think up ways of conveniently not run into Sooin for the week, but living with her makes that a daunting task. Being a shut in is always an option, but you’d go insane doing nothing in your room eventually. Or go out everyday until the week ends, check out the mall or go on a quick adventure out of town somewhere. 

You can feel your wallet begging you not to do it, making you wonder if you can find another part time for a week at some cafe or convenience store. Whatever to get you out and about and not being with Sooin twenty four seven.

Not that you weren’t against the whole thing. Hell, you want it. In the face of last night, anyone would be stupid not to accept it. Much like you are being an idiot about it.

It’s almost like a slap in the face, when you realize that you could’ve had her on her knees right about now.

The doubt slowly begins to leave your mind, when all the signs point towards Sooin taking it seriously come filling in. You’re being a complete dumbass—no, more than that for wasting a perfectly good night’s rest in exchange for losing your mind for something that really, really should not have been worth losing sleep over. 

You’ll be losing sleep over fucking Sooin instead.

The chair you’re sitting on gets pulled away from the table, and the soft, warm weight of Sooin straddles you. Her arms wrap around your neck as she takes a spot on your lap, not allowing you to leave.

“Sooin, what are you–”

“I won last night too, you know.” Her hips roll against yours, making you clench your teeth and tense up. A quick glance tells you that she’s taken her shorts off, leaving her in just her panties and a shirt tight enough to let you know she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath. “And since you won’t start, I figured I would.”

She pulls you in for a kiss, and everything you thought of—the denials, the doubt—fully goes out the window when you can finally have a taste of her lips once again. And she’s a force of nature, infecting your mind and body with an overwhelming sense of Sooin; how she smells, her grinding on your cock, her lips exploring yours for the first time.

“You taste like milk,” she says, a quiet chuckle coming out of her as your hands find her waist. She keeps her pace tortuously slow, your cock twitching and aching and wanting more.

“I did just have cereal.” Stating the obvious, obviously. “What else did you think I’d taste like?”

“I don’t know–” she teases, arms coming down to undo the tie of your shorts. “But I’d be happy to find out. We have all week, remember?”

You raise your hips, helping her fish your cock out from your clothing. “Right,” you sigh out, her hand caressing your length, lightly gripping it and giving you a few exploratory pumps. “All week.”

Sooin smiles, pecking your lips once more. “There he is.” She straightens up, her hand finding a rhythm in her strokes, and your cock hardens at her touch. “Guess a woman’s touch makes you fold quick, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sooin,” you laugh, a hand coming down to squeeze her thigh. “I can feel you dripping through your panties, you know.”

“Blame a girl for finally being able to fuck her roommie again, why doncha.” Her words make you the last time you two fooled around. 

“I don’t remember that.” You do. Of course you do. It was a drunken affair on both your ends because of some party she was attending at her rich best friend’s house on the other side of town. You weren’t even supposed to be there, but someone apparently needed to pick her up. One thing led to another, and you’re waking up on her bed, tangled in her sheets. 

“That’s a shame.” She knows you’re lying. You both acted like strangers for a better part of a month, and the only thing that got things back to normal was yet another party.

Sooin pulls her panties to the side, lining herself up with your dick. Circling her wet folds around your tip, getting you slick with her juices as she slowly plunges down on you. “Here’s a reminder then.”

A deep moan rumbles out of you, head tilting back as her heat begins to wrap around your length. “Jesus, Sooin–” Your grip on her hips grow firmer, your eyes watching her face morph into an expression of such pleasure that the only thing you can do is stare and admire every small microexpression she makes.

“God, I’m going to enjoy this,” Sooin sighs, eyes fluttering shut for a moment when she nearly bottoms out on your shaft, her walls hugging you so fucking tightly. “Sit back and enjoy, yeah?”

She takes a minute to get used to you filling her, let you stretch her out and leave you simmering in her heat. Doing these little rolls of her hips that gets you twitching inside of her, moans coming out of the both of you. “Missed this filling me up so fucking well–”

“So you did just want to get laid,” you tease, taking your hands off her momentarily to push them underneath her shirt, wanting to feel her skin instead of fabric. “Could’ve just asked.”

A scoff escapes her, her fingers giving your scalp a quick tug. “Excuse me for not wanting to get in between you and that Chaewon chick–”

“Sooin, nothing happened.” Her questioning look makes you repeat your words.

“Uh huh.” She presses her weight down on you, bottoming out and taking your entire length. You let out a groan, eyes closing at the sheer pressure of her cunt taking you. Another tug of your hair gets you quickly opening them back up. “And I didn’t watch you mope around the day after.”

“What? No–” You shake your head, confused to where the hell she was trying to take this conversation. You would think she would prefer that you focus on her considering your balls deep in her cunt, and yet Sooin continues to surprise you. “She was just a fling, okay? Nothing else happened.”

And she was. You met her at a party, you two had sex, you went your separate ways. You moping around the day after was because even after getting laid, it didn’t change the fact that you flunked your exam before it. It’s a miracle you managed to tell her all of that while her pussy pulses around you, her grinding on your cock making you stutter your words.

Fingers tap on your neck, her gaze narrowing at your explanation. “So you don’t have feelings for her?” She slowly begins to bounce on your lap, and the insanity of what’s happening right now is starting to get to you. Interrogated about some girl while getting fucked by your—well, an important girl is something to cross off the list.

“Sooin, we fucked. That’s it.” You squeeze her hips, biting your lip at the sensation of Sooin clenching around you. “Can we pl–please go back to focusing on this?”

She doesn’t answer you. At least, not verbally. Her rhythm goes faster, harder, fucking herself on you like she’s chasing her own high. Her weight presses down on you, pulling herself close to your chest, her breath hot in your ear as her moans consume your senses. 

“You fucking focus,” she mutters, her hold on you tightening, ass dropping down on your lap. She’s insatiable, so much more different than the last time. Frantic in how she rides that you can barely hold on with your life. “Just–sit still, stay hard, and make me cum you son of a–”

It’s sending you to the edge fast, barely being able to hang on. Even when you’re trying to hold off and fight back against what your body is demanding you to do. Sooin's increasingly erratic movements; bouncing and grinding and fucking herself on your cock until all you can think of is filling her with your load.

“Don’t think I can, Swim.” It comes out shaky from you, amidst all Sooin’s moans and skin against skin hitting against each other. Arms wrap around her waist, pulling her in and saying her name. Sooin, Sooin, Sooin please—

“Go ahead.” Her words are a shot to the brain, an unraveling of your entire nervous system and turning a singular thought into reality.

“Cum inside me.”

It’s stupid how quickly you crumble at those words. Your mouth finds her neck, biting down gently as your cock unloads inside her. Each spurt comes with a content moan from Sooin, singing straight into your ears. Euphoria consumes your senses, nipping and marking her neck as your eyes threaten to roll back from the pleasure.

“That’s it,” she coos, her grip vice-like around you, each throb of your cock filling her cunt full of your load. She puts her entire weight on you, unable to leave her warm embrace as you try to fuck your load deeper into her. “Fucking needed this–”

Sooin bites her lip, savoring the entire thing, basking in the afterglow of it all. The grin on her face tells you exactly how much she’s enjoyed it, and you can only imagine what else you’ll be looking at for the rest of the week.

“So,” she starts, lips finding your cheek to leave a gentle little peck. “Coffee?”

You chuckle, licking the spot where you’ve left a red mark on her neck. “Sure, Sooin.” Watch her slowly pull away, your cock leaving her walls and letting the cum that you’ve dumped inside her to spill down to the floor.

Neither of you do anything to clean it up right now, considering—

“Coffee sounds great.”

—

You don’t see Sooin until the late afternoon, coming back to your apartment after a day of finally doing her turn to do the groceries. You would’ve tagged along if not for the fact that you had to do the laundry this week around, and pair it up with helping her stock the cupboard full of what she bought and you’re sinking down on the couch.

“I don’t think we needed that much for this week,” you complain, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Buying almost double of what you two normally get makes you wonder where the hell she got enough cash to buy that, but her reply gets you to scoff in disbelief.

“Supermarket had a sale,” she grunts, sliding down next to you, head on your lap as a makeshift pillow. “Thought it’d be smart to buy as much as I can.”

“Your wallet agree with that?”

“Nope.” She pops the syllable, taking out her phone, tapping away at the screen. “Not like my wallet can’t handle it. At least we won’t have to worry about things here for a while.”

A while is an understatement. She bought enough for you both to stop buying any essentials for a month. And while you know she can afford much more than that, you had to convince her that you're not going to freeload off her in your own place.

Because for all the oddest reasons, the fact that she has fuck you money to spend yet only splurges it on things she likes is such an odd combination. Exactly how she ended up taking your guest room instead of getting her own place.

You remember her words clear as day. Too expensive and high maintenance. Which is, again, a weird thing to say when she can pay people to handle it for her, but she says it's for her own good more than anything. Gotta learn to be independent some day, might as well be now, she said. 

“Look at you, being a responsible adult,” you tease, finger reaching down to poke her cheek. She immediately swats it away with a roll of her eyes.

“Fuck off,” she chuckles, eyes never straying from her phone. “We’ve been needing to stock up on all that stuff anyway.”

“I don’t think we needed that much instant ramen though.” Your gaze flicks to the stack of it by the counter. “Seriously, that might be a little too much.”

“To you, maybe,” she says, turning her phone horizontally. “I’ll be eating some too, you know.”

“You mean all of it?” The light jam of her elbow to your ribs gets you laughing.

The conversation ends there, and the only thing left to fill the empty silence are the shooting that comes from her phone and whatever it is that you’ve decided to watch on the TV. It stays like that for a while, and your boredom continues to grow at each passing second, each passing commercial, each movement of Sooin’s head on your lap—

The thought of asking her to, you don’t know, do something to her sounds inane. Breakfast’s events come flooding your memories, and as much as you want to do the same thing to her, you want to test the waters first.

Your arm comes to rest at her stomach, playing with the hem of her top. It gets her to flinch in surprise, gaze flickering up to you.

“What are you doing?” There’s a knowing glint in her eyes; one that tells you that an answer doesn’t need to be told, when she already has an idea of what you want. An eyebrow raises when you slowly drag your fingers upward.

“Nothing,” you say, resting your palm on one of her breasts, covered in layers of fabric. Your eyes are still watching the television—some old cartoon about a cat and mouse—while your fingers play around her chest. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Sooin lets out a scoff, biting her lip to stop the grin on her face as she comes back to her phone. “Do what you want.” 

Well, alright then.

Your hands wander; kneading her breasts with light squeezes, running your hands through the curves of her body. They eventually find themselves pushing under her top, wanting to feel the smooth expanse of her tummy up to her tits.

She doesn’t make a single complaint throughout, allowing all this to happen. When you run up and down her body, all she does is let out these hums. When your fingers pull her bra down so that you can play around with her nipples, her legs squirm and push together. 

And when you ask if you can use her mouth, she hits you back with another question:

“Are you asking or telling?”

A quick tug of your drawstrings, a little repositioning of Sooin’s head as you take your cock out, already at half mast, and pointing it to her mouth, tongue out and waiting. “I’ll be quick,” you say, a laughable lie as you know you’re going to be taking your sweet time with her.

She does fuck all about it, keeping on with her game as your hand rests on her hair as you thrust languidly into her wet mouth. Your shaft growing to full length the longer you stay inside her throat, and she shifts to get into a more comfortable position. As comfortable as she can get, having a cock in her mouth while her hands are busy playing.

Her cheek bulges, her throat takes you deep, her tongue flattens under your length. Yet her eyes never stray from her phone, hearing the sounds of combos being hit and encouraging cheers from her phone. She mutters words you barely understand, and as much as you want to pull out and ask, she hasn't told you to stop.

That only gets you to push it further, a firmer grasp on her head to drive your hips forward. Spit begins to accumulate around her mouth, dripping down to coat you; a sound akin to a whine vibrates around your shaft as her focus on the game breaks.

Her head fights back against your pushes for a moment, your grip relaxing to let her talk. “Let me finish this match first,” she mutters before her lips meet your tip, wrapping around you and keeping you in her mouth.

It’s absurd, how warm her mouth is. Managing to get you squirming without moving an inch, only the sliding of her tongue up and down the tip of your cock. Tongue swirling and cheeks hollowing gets your thighs flexing from the sheer pressure that she’s inflicting upon you. Your fingers come back resting on her hair, gripping her dark locks, wanting—needing to take back control.

So you do. Hands start to push and pull her around your cock, and she’s spluttering; fingers stumbling around her phone, causing it to fall down to the couch. They find your thighs, steadying herself as she manages to fall down to her knees, using her mouth for the sinful pleasure that she offers. Even with the spittle that starts to fall down her chin, the glare that her eyes are piercing you with, and the slight whine she makes as you so rudely interrupt her game, she makes no movement to stop you.

Hell, it feels like she’s leaning into it. Decency thrown out the window as more drool comes to coat your cock, bobbing her head faster than the pace you’ve set. The annoyance in her eyes fading away for this hunger that you’ve caused. 

And you relish in it. Your hips thrust up just as her head comes down, your moans and praises of her lips meshing with the dirty noises that she creates, pushing you further down to your end.

“Sooin–” Your head leans back, hissing in a breath when you make her take you deep, throat convulsing around you. The sheer suction makes you weak, your thighs shaking, the grip on her head loosening. Sooin takes it as a chance to pull away, and you’re already missing the warmth of her lips around you.

“Don’t tell me when,” she says, stroking you with both hands and all that spit on your length makes it feel all so much better than it should. “Just cum in my mouth whenever, alright?”

Sooin takes you back in, and it’s taking everything in your power not to cum right then and there. Her enthusiasm is starting to take control, shining in her eyes and in her actions when her pace grows feral. The squelching and sucking grows insistent, getting your legs to lock up and grow rigid around her frame.

Your hands can’t stop themselves from taking hold of her hair, your breath ragged as you thrust into her mouth. Wanting some semblance of dictating when you inevitably let your load flood her, you take the reins back from her and start to pound away at her tight, wet throat.

Stopping has left your mind; the only thing that needs to be done is feed her your cum, using her mouth as she wants you to—as much as you can for the whole thing. And that single realization gets you to emptying your seed straight into the back of Sooin’s throat.

Each single pump of your hips elicits a moan from you, her hums at every pulse of your cock vibrating around your length. She takes every shot of your cum without complaint, milking you for everything you’re worth. Swallowing it all, even when some manage to spill over, leaking down her lips as the remains of your load begin to tide over.

Sooin makes a slow journey upward, releasing you with a wet pop. “Someone was pent up,” she teases, swiping what she couldn’t swallow off her chin and thumbing it into her waiting mouth. “You made me lose my game, by the way.”

“Yeah, well,” you breathe out, watching her run her tongue across your length, cleaning up any spit and seed that’s coating your length. “Pretty sure you can win the rank back easy.”

Her eyes roll, shaking her head at you with a smile. “Sure, I can.” She taps your cock against her swollen lips, giving the head a chaste kiss. “Can I go back to playing, or do you still need me here?”

“You and your games, Sooin.” Nodding at her with a chuckle, she gives you a few taps on your thigh before she rises up from the floor. Walking away from you for the moment to wash her hands, she comes right back to lay her head on your lap, phone in her hand and continuing her game.

As if she’s ready for you to do the same thing all over again.

The next two games she played resulted in her getting a day ban from going idle too much on ranked games. You tell yourself it wasn’t your fault that it happened.

Not at all.

—

The kiddies gloves come off after that, and the both of you decided to take full advantage of the situation you’ve ended up in. Your reluctance to follow through with this whole free use bet slash arrangement’s faded, and now every waking hour or so is spent with your cock inside of Sooin in some way, shape, or form.

You were eating dinner when Sooin got on her knees to blow you under the table, making sustenance a forgotten necessity in favor of the carnal pleasures of bending her over the table and railing a load into cunt instead.

She’d be in the shower sometime after, and she’s trying to ignore the fact that you jumped in with her, wedging your cock in between her thighs. Lathering her hair up with shampoo as you thrust between the heavenly flesh that she’s blessed with. Painting the shower wall with your cum just as she starts to soap herself up, and you join her in taking a shower after.

Can’t say you two didn’t take an hour in there, considering she wanted a round getting pounded. You’re surprised that you still had hot water by the end of it.

Her bed’s been shared by the both of you by the time you two were heading to bed, Sooin making you remember just how good of a lay she was by wringing a load out of you, the view of her ass rippling as she rides you making her achieve her goal embarrassingly quickly.

And you get her back by waking her up that morning with gentle kisses planted across her neck, your hands roaming around her body and ending up between her legs, two fingers knuckle deep inside her. Getting the sheets wet and ruined by the end of it, and you two end up complaining about who’s gonna do the laundry for it (you will).

The second day was infinitely worse than the first one, when breakfast became brunch due to Sooin wanting you on your knees, eating her out as an alternative to the morning coffee you two normally make. It ends up with the two of you swapping places, using her throat and coating her face with your cum at the end of it.

In reality, it ended when she was fucking herself on your cock right next to where your coffee was brewing, back arched and bucking back against you. It left the both of you tired, and how brunch was the only thing that made the both of you pause.

Absolute fucking degenerates, and it’s only been day two out of seven.

Which was why you invited Sooin out to pay her back for everything she bought by taking her to the mall and—

“Anything I want?” She doesn’t believe you when those words come out of her mouth. Not with how ‘frugal’ you are, or however she puts it when all you actually do is build up your savings. 

Excuse you for being a responsible adult.

“Within reason,” you correct, hands on your hips, stern face and all. “I’m not as rich as you are, Miss Bottega Veneta.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves you off, already turning around and walking away from you. “Come on, I know just the place where I can mooch off you.”

“Please don’t tell me it actually is Bottega Veneta.” You can hear your bank account crying out in protest inside your wallet. Quickly catching up to her, you two walk to the elevator. “I literally can’t afford that type of thing.”

“Relax,” Sooin laughs, pressing the up button. Your eyes glance up to the top, where the arrow lights up. “We can check out the department store first. I can probably get something in your budget, you stingy fuck.”

The elevator dings open, conveniently empty. “I’m not stingy,” you refute, entering the elevator first, finger pressing the fourth floor while Sooin follows suit, leaning back against the wall. “I’m trying to budget things. You know, like any adult would?”

“Oh come on–” She’s rolling her eyes at you with a grin. “We’re in college. We can afford to not be adults sometimes.”

“You can,” you argue, hands in your pockets, turning to face her. “I’m on a scholarship and you’re rich enough to probably buy this mall.”

“Let’s not go that far.” Her tone makes you think otherwise, because for all you know she actually could right this second. Another ding rings out, and the elevator doors swing open to your floor. “Come on–” She’s hooking her arm around yours. “Let’s go, Mister Sugar Daddy.”

“What the fuck did you just call me–”

The next hour consisted of you following Sooin around, browsing through the numerous bits and bobbles, clothes and accessories, doodads and thingy-ma-jigs that get her attention. Started off with checking out a new set of tableware (which was maybe needed), to a new TV (definitely not needed), whatever new phone just released (“Sooin, you just bought a new one.”).

You end up by the mattresses, where Sooin jokingly said about buying a king size so that you two can actually fit in the bed and then some. As to which you replied by asking her how the fuck you’ll fit the damn bed into either of your rooms.

And when you start walking towards the clothing section, the oddest combination of dread and excitement settle in your body. Not because you were scared of what Sooin would choose to try out (seeing her in a bikini would be a dream come true for you) but of what she would try to pull with you knowing the bet.

Because you just know she’s going to pull some shit that might get the both of you kicked out the store and the mall. 

So when she picks out a few clothes and heads to the fitting room to try them out, it’s no surprise when you get pulled into one of the stalls when no one was watching. You almost let out a yelp but her hand covering your mouth muffles the noise.

Sooin shushes you, a finger on her lips, waiting for you to show some semblance of relaxing before pulling away to close the door behind her. Hanging up the clothes on the wall rack, you were about to ask her the most obvious question on the planet, yet she speaks before you do.

“You know why I pulled you in here,” she states, pulling her jacket off and adding it to the rest of the clothes that she might not ever try out.

“In public?” Because of course you have to ask the second most obvious question.

“We have a room that can be locked and it’s big enough for two,” she answers, pushing you down to the small little chair tucked away in the corner. “Private enough for me.” She’s on her knees, fingers making quick work of your belt buckle and your zipper. One quick tug and she has your cock in her hands, at half mast and lazily stroking you with a sensual smile and a raise of her brow. “Relax, I picked the furthest room for a reason.”

“Couldn’t wait for us to get home before we do this?” It’s not a complaint so much as it is an observation. Your hands are already moving to weave through her locks when she takes you in her mouth, cock slowly growing harder in her mouth. 

“We can do it quick,” she mutters, almost inaudible when her lips stay attached to you. “‘Sides, ever wanted to see ourselves fuck?”

Your eyes glance towards the wall, glass ordaining and reflecting you both; Sooin blowing you zealously, that smoky look she gives you through the mirror making you throb in her mouth. Scoffing and shaking your head, a grin begins forming in your features. “Fuck it.” You nod to the wall. “Up against the mirror, Swim.”

Sooin grins, standing up and turning around to face the mirror. Her hands rest on the wall, chest flush against it as she pushes her ass back against you, the shorts she has on pulled down to her ankles along with her underwear to show that beautiful, beautiful fit ass of hers that are paired with her toned legs that you’re wishing would be wrapped around your head again.

Oh, well. Much important matters at hand right now, such as rubbing your tip against her dripping folds. It gets her wiggling her ass back at you, Sooin’s heated gaze through the mirror telling you to hurry the fuck up and dick her down.

You’re pushing in, warm, wet heat enveloping your every inch and a soft moan escaping her lips. Letting yourself be taken away into the tight vice-lip grip she has on you until you bottom out against her the plush cushion of her ass. 

Allowing yourself to take your time with her, even for just a small moment, you pull back, taking inch by inch of your shaft out of her until the very last possible moment where you could ram back in, and gasps and grunts begin filling the small space.

She grows louder first, the dirty curses and quiet gasps that can no longer be contained make you thrust faster, pound her harder until the sounds of your skin hitting hers begin to join. And even with the danger of getting caught, her eyes continue to plead with you.

More.

Your grip on her waist tightens, and you’re hammering into her without a care in the world. The sounds no longer matter to you, nor do the dangers of someone unlocking that door and finding you both. 

The only thing that’s important to you is to have Sooin leaving this room satisfied and possibly unable to walk, and you’re damn well going to make sure that happens. 

You reach out, a palm moving to cover her mouth as your strokes become faster, angling yourself higher to deep that spot that gets Sooin to fall apart in your arms. And you feel the change happen; her moans become loud whines, arm gripping up to yours in an attempt to hold herself together.

Yet you don’t want that. What you want is for her to become undone and flooding your cock with her juices, so you lean in close. Hot breath tickling her ear as you whisper those wants of yours and making them into reality.

She’s quivering in your grip, her eyes shutting tight as your words start to dirty her already filthy mind. “Fuck–” Her voice comes out muffled in your palm as you continue to spout out for her to cum on your cock, to make her wet the floor with how much she’d be squirting all over you. 

It does a number on you too, when you feel her walls clench around you so fucking tight that every thrust is a battle of your willpower. She spurs you on, driving you forward into this animalistic urge to rut into her cunt until you spill your cum inside her.

And when her eyes snap open, you can see the need clouding them. The shrill scream that comes out of her is barely contained by your hand covering them, and she’s trembling in your arms, tightening up around your cock that the next thrust in sends you straight spiralling into your orgasm.

Each messy thrust you make spills more of your load inside her, her own dripping down her leg as you trap her between yourself and the wall. You’re leaving pecks on her neck as you fuck your cum inside her, taking your palm away from her mouth, her satisfied sighs music to your ears.

“That was–” You take a deep breath, inhaling her scent; the post-sex smell of her skin that’s bundled with the powdery notes of her perfume calming you down. “Fuck.”

“That’s what we did, yeah.” Her hand comes up to scratch the back of your head, massaging your scalp. “Still think that bet was a mistake?”

“I think we’re a little past that, Swim.” You gently remove yourself from her, and white starts to drip down her legs. “What you might want to ask yourself is if you still want to try those clothes.”

“Nah.” She pushes herself off the wall, fingers coming down to take a dollop of your cum. “Did you have to cum so much?” Even with her complaint, she’s taking it into her mouth for a taste. “Now my panties are gonna be ruined.”

You’re tucking yourself back into your trousers back up, shrugging at her. “Wonder who I have to blame for that,” you say, and that incites a chuckle out of Sooin.

“Right, my bad for wanting a quickie,” she replies, pulling her underwear and shorts back up. “I’ll be sure to tell you to cum down my throat next time so we don’t mess up more of my clothes.”

She gently shoves you away, shooing you off the stall first with a playful smirk. “Head back to the mattresses, I know what I want to get.”

“Sooin, we don’t have space for a bed.”

“Yeah, we do. We’ll just throw away our old ones.”

—

Depending on how you look at it, things either got better or worse the longer the week went on.

Nothing productive has happened inside your apartment the moment you two managed to fit a King size bed into your room, and if there was, it wasn’t for long once one of you got hold of the other.

Getting woken up every morning by her wet mouth enveloping your flaccid length, throating you until you blow a load straight down her stomach or being awake enough to pull her up and get her riding you in bed has become a daily occurrence.

Your breakfasts, lunches, and dinners all end up a messy affair, with her getting you to eat her out or you getting her on her knees after eating. Which oftentimes lead to someone getting bent over or fucked on the chair. 

And don’t even get started on when it happens before you two eat. That only gets you even hungrier for food, and even more starved to continue fucking after.

The risque and riskier kinks start happening, when she gets you to plow her right in front of the apartment window, not a care in the world whether anyone sees or not. And you get right back when you get her to suck you off in the apartment stairwell after grabbing dinner outside for once.

“You know that there’s a camera watching us, right?” she asks, not a hint of concern in her face as she follows you to the letter, knees hitting the floor and hands playing with the button of your pants.

“The same camera that we’ve been telling the landlord’s broken?” Your hands pull her hair into a makeshift ponytail. “Yeah, I know.” And you’re fucking her face until you paint her pretty face in streaks of white.

Sooin’s uncaring of it in the end, your cum dripping down her face as you walk back up the steps, onto your floor and into your apartment. The sight has you immensely fucked in the head, and that gets her fucked somewhere in the apartment again.

You two just do it anywhere, everywhere. Not a single place in your apartment is unsullied, a single area in your apartment building untouched. The rooftop, the parking lot, the fucking lobby—you’re not even sure how you managed to get away with that without getting caught.

You’re sure Sooin finds ways to, of course.

The pair of you keep on going and going and going, the days blurring by full of the filthiest sex you’ve ever had in your entire life. Your dick has never felt more thankful while simultaneously begging you to take a fucking break because really, when are you not fucking Sooin nowadays?

It’s second nature at this point. Wake up, fuck, eat, fuck, take a nap, fuck, do some chores, fuck, sleep—it’s a whole process that runs on either one of you telling the other how they want to get laid, where she wants your load, why you’re asking her how foldable she is or the like. 

There aren't even any sort of verbal cues anymore. Simply walk up to the other and do what sort of debauchery in mind, finish and go back to whatever it was you were doing.

That last part might need some work, considering neither of you can successfully do that.

Jerk off to her face while she’s playing another game on her phone and watch the cum splatter all over her cheek, stain her hair, have it drip down her phone and all she’ll get angry about is the last bit because she lost her game, that stress released by having her bouncing on top of you until she cums.

Sooin on the phone with one of her friends (you can’t be sure whether it’s Anna or Gawon) when she spots you walking out of your room one morning, gesturing for you to get between her legs and eat her out. You’re amazed at how composed she sounded all throughout, especially when you turn her legs into jelly at the end and the most she’s ever let out was a scream that she disguised by saying that there was a mosquito in the room.

Fucking her in an alleyway on the way home from having lunch at the local ramen shop, the sun in the air adding the high of getting caught up a notch. Getting her on her knees to swallow your load right before you two would’ve gotten caught by some random passerby.

Her getting back at you with the magical treat of her mouth, sucking you off while you drove home. Almost ended in a disaster if you hadn't pulled over in time, another batch of your cum sent straight into her gullet.

Can't go an hour go by without one of you getting handsy, and it's like an average day for you now. Part of your daily life, constantly having sex with her, being readily available to fuck and get fucked.

And to think you were against this whole thing at the start.

So when the last day comes by and you’ve fucked another load into her while she did the dishes, you’re left asking:

“What happens when we wake up tomorrow?”

Sooin pauses, blinks, shrugs. “Dunno,” she answers all casual-like. “What do you want to happen?”

It’s unfair how she leaves the ball in your court. Like she wants to hear your answer before she commits to hers, pretending to not care when she doesn’t bother to even look at you, her attention on the television playing some movie.

“Well,” you ponder, pursing your lips in thought. “We’re either gonna keep fucking or we go back to not fucking.”

“That’d be a shame.” She points the remote to the TV.

Your head turns toward her. “What would?”

“Not fucking.” The channel swaps. “We should keep it going.”

“What?” It’s the fact that she looks so unbothered that’s making you question how serious she is. You sit up straighter, entire chest tilting toward her now. “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her knuckles rest on the side of her head. “We’d probably need to stop with the random quickies when the semester starts, and it’s not like we can’t go back to not fucking with the amount of sex we’ve had the entire week.”

Your jaw hangs low, unsure of what to say. Thanks Sooin, that’s such a good idea. Maybe we should also put a label on us too? Sounds like such an insane thing to pull, and you’ve grown quiet to the point that Sooin takes a glance at you.

“You don’t gotta say anything.” She nudges you with her elbow. “It’s a good thing we got going. Long as you’re good, I’m good.”

“And that makes us, what–” You shake your head. “Fuck buddies?”

She laughs. Says sure, it’s not like she’ll be looking for anyone else when she’s got you. Long as you don’t go looking for no Chaewon’s or Chaeyoung’s or whatever name they got she’ll be a-okay.

And you’re scoffing, smiling and agreeing to the whole thing with a kiss to her cheek; getting her to roll her eyes at you and give you another, harder nudge with her elbow.

“Okay, man,” she chuckles. “The kiss was a bit much.”

“Oh come on–” you let out a laugh. “You can take my cum on your face but you draw the line with a kiss on the cheek?”

“Well, when you put it like that–” Sooin lands her gaze on you, smile playing on her lips, mischief in her eyes. “It does sound a little stupid, doesn’t it?”

She closes the distance between you, pressing her lips against yours for a quick kiss. “Happy?”

“Yeah, Swim.” You tap your finger between your lips. “Maybe one more for good measure?”

A shove. “Don’t push it, asshole.” A beat passes. Her hands fumble around your sweatpants.

“We can do one more round for the road.”

—

When the morn comes around after a late night of getting Sooin to ruin the bedsheets again (you’ve discovered that she’s a squirter when you pound her ass up, face down), you wake up to a Sooin-less bed, and that alone gets you up and about. Spot her eating a sandwich with some strawberry jam filling, fighting to stay awake as she stares at her laptop.

Greet her a good morning and sit down next to her on the couch. “What’s got you up so early?”

“Gotta get my schedule sorted out,” she mumbles, taking another bite of her bread. “Why didn’t you tell me we already could?”

“I did.” You slide down the sofa, getting more comfortable. “Like two days ago.” You’re not about to tell her that you reminded her of it while she was getting fucked on top of the laundry machine, of course.

You know when your life is on the line.

She lets out a groan, complaining about her classes being so early, getting the shitty professors and the shitty schedule and all you can think about are her luscious thighs peeking underneath your shirt she has on.

Reaching out, fingers resting on the soft skin, caressing upwards to feel more; all to be stopped with a slap on the wrist.

“Not now, dude,” she says, her hand coming back to slide a finger across the touchpad. “I really want a decent schedule for next semester.”

You blink. Your brain catching up to what you’re body is doing and you remember:

Right. Bet’s over, no more fucking for the fun of it and all the shenanigans that it entails (shame, you’ll miss it immensely). It’ll be a smooth transition (it won’t, you’re already suffering withdrawals not being balls deep inside her right now) from not having sex all the time.)

“Alright, alright,” you relent, taking a glance at the kitchen counter. “Want some coffee?”

“Please,” she replies, making you groggily stand up to make two cups. She stops you with a glance and your name, making you turn back to her.

“Fuck me when I’m done with this?”

You chuckle, roll your eyes and wave a hand in the air.

I have still not decided if I should move or stay, or keep using both as I'm very inactive right now due to school shit. I can't promise I'll stick to a decision because there might be a time that I'll stick to finding employment and have no spare hours for writing. That is why I'm working really hard on my last commission; with the time they're overdue I felt the need to make the quality and length past $12. I want to finish it so I can focus on college, something I didn't have the resources to focus on due to unforeseen issues.

HOWEVER, whatever my decision will be, I hope it will be treated with respect as the decisions of other writers should have been. At the end of the day, it is up to readers if they will still read our stories or not. But it is important to remember that they, as writers, also have the choice to write and post on the platforms they want to, whether it is tumblr or fanprose.

That is the beauty of interacting with a community: unlike school, work and real life in general, you have the power to choose. You also have it in you to ultimately respect said decisions.

The community should always be founded in respect. We respect the idols writers like to post whether or not they are our biases. We respect the genres and kinks in these stories even if we might not be personally into them. We respect the writing style of each author although we have our own preferences.

Recently, we are losing that kind of respect that made me love this community so much. Please keep in mind that behind every blog is a human being who is capable of doing what they want with their own responsibilities. Smut writing and reading should be fun. You and I do not have authority over anyone.

The waitress took the small cloth hanging off her shoulder and wrapped it around her hand, protecting her palm from the blistering heat from the clay cover as she lifted it.

The heavy smell of curried spice and coconutty seafood wafted into Minju’s nose, and her mouth started to water in anticipation of her own order.

She looked at the clock on the wall and stared at the seconds hand that was twirling around the numbers. Then she looked back at the mother who was now stirring the claypot of seafood curry in a similar manner to the ticking of the clock.

12:36 p.m.

“Where's my food…” Minju muttered under her breath as she tried to wave for the waitress again, but she darted to another table behind and gave a couple their order, completely ‘ignoring’ her as she wallowed herself in the busyness of the lunch crowd.

12:43 p.m.

“I only have seventeen minutes left,” Minju mumbled as her lunch break inched towards finality. She tapped her feet impatiently and waved her air-stabbed-fork at a waiter, which he finally gave her a merciful response, pumping his palm out and asked her to wait as he attended to a lady asking for a refill of orange juice.

But he never came.

12:50 p.m.

Minju couldn’t wait anymore.

“Excuse me!” she shouted, her voice thundering across the layered conversations of people chatting and clinking of metal utensils on porcelain plates.

Two waitresses, four waiters, a cashier stared at her, along with thirty-seven pairs of eyes of staff-stealing customers and the hollow pupils of a ghost of silence.

The silence enacted by the ghost was broken by a waiter.

“Yes?”

Minju took in a deep breath and exhaled her forty-three minutes worth of displeasure.

“I’ve been waiting for my food since—”

She pointed at the clock.

“—12:07 p.m.! People who had arrived after me got their food. Where's mine?”

Her finger arced horizontally towards a couple by the diner’s door.

“They came in ten minutes ago, and they're now halfway through their chicken cutlet fried rice and spicy dumpling noodles. Where's mine?”

“M-Maybe they're still cook—”

“Oh don't you give me that excuse,” Minju shot back in irritance. “I only ordered a simple plain rice with a some beef stew, because that's your speciality, but apparently I was just served with a special dose of ignorance and negligence! Now I’m left with what, seven minutes until my lunch break ends, and considering that it takes five minutes to walk back, don’t I only have two minutes left to eat?”

Minju’s face flushed red, wheezing from anger.

“Can you even bring me my food in two minutes?”

“W-We’re sor—”

“Whatever, I’m leaving.”

Minju stood up and grabbed her bag, stomping out of the diner. She frowned at the sweltering heat outside that served nothing apart from giving her welling irritation a huge dose of sweat.

Sighing in defeat, her heart cried at the despair of spending the rest of her day with an empty stomach as she turned to walk back—

“Miss!”

A shout sounded from the alleyway beside the diner.

A young man in a chef attire covered by an apron appeared into view, his name printed on the barely shiny tag stuck on the left of his chest.

“What?” Minju asked in faux annoyance, peering at his name tag. “Are you going to give me my food right now, Mister… Theo?”

“Yes,” he bowed, holding out a paper bag. “It seemed that the waitress that took your order had forgotten to key them into the ordering system. While the manager has reprimanded her, I still think that it is our fault for not showing you attention despite your constant calls for assistance.”

Minju looked at the man who had his head still facing the ground, flustered by the situation.

“I didn't mean for you to apo—”

“No,” he raised his body, looking at her. “It’s not much, but I managed to sneakily put together something for you. Please don't go hungry, it's not a nice feeling.”

He gave another small bow and turned, heading back into the diner.

“Hey!” Minju called out to him. “T-Thanks!”

“Please don't blacklist us?” he chuckled and waved with a smile. “I hope to see you back here!”

He disappeared into the diner.

Minju looked into the bag. It held a small metal tin. The top was transparent and she could see rice tucked neatly to one half, along with three to four assorted dishes randomly squeezed into the other half.

Looks like she'd have to come back and return the metal tin.

🌸 🌸 🌸

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know?”

“But I want to,” he said, letting go of the lunch box. “Besides, you say that, but your hands are saying otherwise.”

Minju giggled and popped the box’s lid open.

“Well, I can’t let your efforts go to waste, right?” she remarked, removing the chopsticks fastened on the underside of the lid. “And it’s not like I can resist what you always prepare for me. It’s always a treat and an honour even to taste the delicacies of a two-starred royal family’s head chef.”

“Two stars? The only stars I have are the stars I see when I dream of you at night,” he stood up and ruffled her hair. “I’m just a sous chef at a random cheap ass diner who can’t even afford ingredients of minimal quali—”

“Shush.”

“—If I have even one of the two stars that you think I hav—”

“Theo!”

“—I’d throw it across the sky and wish for endless money so that I can cook you the nicest food every day.”

Minju sighed and grabbed on to his arm, pulling him back onto the bench.

“Can you stop lamenting yourself for one second?”

Theo chuckled and leaned back onto the bench’s back rest, squinting at the glowing clouds covering the sun behind.

“You know I am always thinking about you,” he said, poking her cheek with his finger.

“And why aren’t you my boyfriend yet?”

Theo cleared his throat and looked at the imaginary watch on his wrist.

“Aren’t you gonna eat? Time’s ticking.”

Minju pouted and slumped her shoulders, but the moment she lifted the metal lunch box, her annoyance faded. She looked at the food inside — hand cut noodles tossed with a slightly spicy ginger scallion chill oil, topped with a poached egg and meatless numbing spicy tofu stew on the side. She stuck her chopsticks in and loosened the flat noodles slightly before twirling them around the two mini metal poles like spaghetti on the prongs of a fork.

Theo watched Minju put the noodle spiral into her mouth, watching her chew softly with bated breath.

“How is it?”

Minju hummed softly, eyebrows furrowing and lifting in irregular patterns as though they were conductor sticks, waving as they directed the orchestra of flavour explosions in her mouth.

“It’s alright,” she said.

“Alright…” Theo mumbled, his face dropping slightly at the lack of reaction he desired.

Minju’s pupils snaked to the corner of her eyes, glancing at his dejected expression.

“You’re such an easy person to tease~” she laughed, already twirling another mouthful of noodles with her chopsticks. “Why would this only be alright? I could eat it all day everyday.”

Once the noodle spiral was done, she poked a cube of tofu drenched in the numbing tofu sauce, completing her self-made noodle skewer.

“Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you not going to eat again?”

“Seeing you eat makes me full,” Theo said. “Besides, you know what they say about cooks. They don’t eat what they cook.”

Minju stabbed the yolk of the poached egg and let the golden goo flow over the noodles.

“Why though?”

“Hmmm… maybe it’s because we’re already constantly dealing with food? At some point it just feels like it’s not enjoyable anymore. Job fatigue or something like that.”

Minju set the lunch box down and looked at Theo. His eyes were weary from onion chopping, shoulders heavy from wok tossing, and his fingers were calloused from constant heat exposure and never-ending hand washing.

He looked exhausted.

But yet, his voice still carried a tone of mellow and content serenity as he closed his eyes and soaked his skin with the rays of the spring sun.

Minju picked up and held on to her chopsticks tightly, making another noodle-tofu skewer before putting it into her mouth. Then she made another as she chewed.

“Mr Theo.”

His eyes shot open at her call.

“W-What’s with the sudden formality?”

Minju stabbed the skewer towards him but stopped it right before his mouth.

“Eat.”

“What? No! That’s your share.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry, really.”

Minju’s eyes narrowed.

“If you’re not going to eat, I’m never meeting you again.”

Theo’s eyes darted to from her face to the chopsticks, then back to her slitted eyes.

“Okay, okay,” he said, opening his mouth in defeat.

Minju stuffed the food into his mouth which he reluctantly closed his lips, pulling the noodles and tofu off the chopsticks with a slide.

“How is it?” Minju asked, watching Theo chew eagerly as if trying to make it a point to her that he was in fact eating.

“It’s good,” he said. “The flavours are well balanced, and it isn’t too spicy, which is what you always like.”

Minju listened and picked up another piece of tofu with the chopsticks, putting it in her mouth.

“So, if you already know the answer, why did you ask me earlier?”

“I—”

Minju sighed and rested the chopsticks back into the lunchbox. She raised her hand and readied her fingers onto Theo’s forehead, giving him a hard flick.

“Ow!” Theo exclaimed, rubbing the redness that was already starting to form on the skin between his eyes.

“You. Should. Take. Care. Of. Your. Self.” Minju frowned and scolded, her fingers already preparing for another flick.

“Alright, alright! I promise,” Theo murmured in defeat.

“I don’t trust you.”

“I swear!”

“No,” Minju said. She picked the lunchbox back up and passed it to Theo. “Half. Let’s share.”

“But I made that for you…”

“Share,” she insisted. “Blame it on yourself. Who asked you to not take care of yourself and only focus on me? Do you think it would make me feel good if you fainted from hunger?”

She pushed the box into his hands and looked at him, her expression softening slightly.

“Theo.”

“Yes?”

“Those chopsticks contain my saliva.”

“…And?”

Minju turned her head away from him, her cheeks blazing red.

“And that was my first indirect kiss.”

The moment those words left her mouth, she stood and picked up her handbag, running away in shyness.

“Wh—”

Theo held on to the lunchbox, dumbfounded at Minju’s words. He raised his fingers and touched his lips, his mind wandering off into a dream in broad daylight.

“First… kiss…”

His cheeks flushed red.

Watching Minju running off into the distance, Theo gave a shout at the top of his lungs.

“See you tomorrow!”

Minju stopped behind a blooming cherry tree farther away. She placed a hand over her chest.

A strange warmth.

She turned back and looked at him.

Theo was still sitting on the bench, smiling as he finally continued to eat the lunch she had forced him to share.

Minju smiled without realizing it.

Then she turned and continued home.

☀️ ☀️ ☀️

She opened the doors to their house.

“You sure this is going to work?” Minju asked as she walked in.

“Do you not trust me?” he replied, carrying a carton filled with popsicle sleeves into the room from behind her.

“I do, but I don’t trust myself…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m equally as clueless. But I’m sure it’ll be fine? We have the recipe from your mom, and it's summer. I’m sure they’ll sell like hotcakes.”

“I sure hope so…” Minju muttered. “So what do we do first?”

He picked up the recipe that Minju had left on the kitchen counter and read it.

“We’ll need some heavy cream, condensed milk and vanille extract,” he said. “We’ll just need to errrr… mix them all together as fast as we can and freeze it.”

Minju took out the ingredients as he read them off the list, and reached for a large bowl and whisk.

“So, how much?” she asked.

“That, is a very good question,” he said. “I have no idea. There aren't any numbers the recipe. You sure you didn't miss them out when copying?”

Minju frowned and took the paper from him.

“Copy? This was the exact piece of paper I tore from my mother's cookbook.”

He stared at her and gave an awkward laugh.

“Well… I guess we have much to worry about then.”

“Why?” Minju asked. “We could just delay the opening, right? Right until we get the right ice cream formula?”

“I… spent all our money on a no refund loan of the shop cart for a week. There are no allowable changes to the rental period, so if we don't even break even during this coming week, we're goners.”

“And the rental starts tomorrow?”

“Yep,” he said, giving an awkward smile.

Minju laughed and picked up the whisk, her other hand grabbing on to the scissors.

“Well, looks like we don't have much of a choice. Let's just try our best.”

He nodded and took the scissors from her, opening the pack of heavy cream. Emptying the entire packet into the bowl, he slid it to Minju, who started whisking as fast as she could. Meanwhile, he took a can opener and opened several small metal cans, the soft grinding sound of metal on metal filling the air. Pulling their lids up, he pushed them over and poured the condensed milk into bowl while Minju mixed.

“Say, why did you choose a cart with no refund option?”

Looking at how her vigorous whisking had started to slow down, he took the whisk from her and started stirring.

“I just thought that if we're already going to be spending our precious money, we might as well get the best cart possible.”

The heavy cream was starting to foam from the agitation as he stirred, the mixture slowly turning into a thick creamy paste.

“I just didn't expect that the recipe would have no numbers…” he mumbled.

“I’m not even mad at you, so why are you feeling down?” Minju asked. “Plus, it's partly my fault as well. I should have checked beforehand.”

“Oh well,” he sighed, scooping up the paste with the whisk. The paste flowed off the gaps between the thin metal, and he repeated this motion several times as he evaluated the mixture with uncertainty.

“I think that's enough? It looks like melted ice cream already.”

“How long does it take to freeze them?” Minju asked.

“About six hours? At least that's what I've heard from my friends.”

“Right, so we won't know how it’ll turn out until midnight. Whatever, we ball. Let's start making the different flavours.”

He nodded and opened a bottle of vanilla extract, giving the mixture a generous dose of black liquid gold.

“So, what did you get?” he asked.

Minju pulled out a bag of groceries and put them on the table, before taking out the smaller bags inside.

“Strawberries, mangoes, grapes, chocolate chips, rice puffs.”

“Praise the King! You’ve even got chocolate rice?”

He picked up the bag of colourful rice, shaking it excitedly.

“That's a good choice! Kids will definitely love it.”

Minju and him began splitting the mixture into different batches, each one for a different flavour.

They chopped the strawberries and mangoes into bite-sized chunks, mixing them into each batch. Once they gave the batch another good mix, they began pouring the thick viscous liquid into the popsicle sleeves.

“There we go, strawberry flavoured popsicles done,” Minju said, looking at the thirty or so sticks lying on the kitchen counter. “Into the freezer they go.”

He smiled and gathered them on a tray, bringing them to the freezer. They continued to finish up the rest of the popsicles, and by the time they were done, it was already close to dinner time. A good two hundred popsicles were all stuffed into the freezer, and they both stared at the numerous colourful sticks that was barely hardening before closing the refrigerator door.

It was now time to wait.

“I'm starving…” Minju complained.

“Shall we head out for dinner?” he asked.

“It's so hot outside though… I’m so sweaty. Let's just order in.”

He nodded and picked up a communicator, calling the nearest restaurant.

“What did you get?” Minju asked.

“Some spicy noodles and spicy tofu stew. We gotta combat the heat with more heat. Sweat it all out.”

“You always know what I like without me telling you,” Minju grinned. “Oh, I did buy some watermelon, shall we make some punch? I remember that we have some soda that is expiring soon.”

“Sure,” he nodded. Taking the quarter cut watermelon from the grocery bag, he began chopping the red flesh into cubes, throwing them into a fancy crystal bowl.

Minju grabbed four cans of soda and emptied them into the bowl, not before tossing the remaining leftover strawberries and mangoes into the bowl and gave it a good mix with a ladle.

“I could be a chef,” she boasted, giving the punch a small nod of approval after stealing a sip for a taste test.

“It's just fruit in soda,” he chuckled, scooping the punch into two glasses. He stuck a straw and an ice cream spoon in both glasses and topped it with some leftover mint leaves that had been sitting in the chiller for a week.

“Let's drink while we wait,” he said, walking towards the courtyard.

He took a seat on the wooden bench and Minju promptly joined him, settling by his side. She leaned back slightly and perched her body with one of her hands, the other holding on to her precious watermelon punch. Her body was flushed from the summer heat and glossy from sweat, but she paid the unpleasant feeling no mind while she sipped on the cooling fruity beverage.

“I love spending time with you like this,” she said. “I don't know why, but it feels like I’ve done this with you before. Countless times. Well, maybe not exactly the same, but yeah, if you get what I mean.”

He grabbed on to her hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“Maybe it's just your dreams? You do mumble in your sleep quite often.”

Minju sat forward and scooped a watermelon chunk into her mouth.

“Hmm… maybe. Anyway, it's not like it's anything bad. Probably déjà vu or something.”

Right then, a mini disc floated into their courtyard, a plastic bag hanging off it. It slowly descended, setting the bag down before flying off.

Their dinner had arrived.

He walked over and picked up the bag, bringing it back to the wooden bench. Untying the knot, he took out two metal tins before passing one to Minju. She opened it and took a whiff at the noodles within.

“They smell awesome~” she hummed.

He popped open the last container filled with spicy tofu stew and placed it between both of them, before running to the kitchen to fetch a sharing spoon.

"Let's eat,” he said.

The two of them chatted over dinner, but it was mostly Minju just listening to him talk. There was no end to the way he took care of her. One moment he was scooping a ladle full of vegetables and tofu for her, the other he was running back to the kitchen to refill her empty glass with more watermelon punch.

“Hey, y’know, what if we don't manage to even earn back enough to cover the rental?” Minju asked, slurping another mouthful of spicy noodles. “Or even sell half of the popsicles?”

He set his food down and reached his hand forward, wiping the beads of sweat that was flowing down her cheek. Sweat from both the summer heat and spicy food.

“We try again,” he said. “Summer’s just barely started after all. We could take the opportunity of the coming week to test our recipes.”

“But we don't really have any more money,” Minju mumbled, finishing up her last mouthful of food. Her lips were swollen from the spice, and she was desperately trying to “unswollen” it through her watermelon potion.

“You don't want anymore?” he asked, pointing at the remaining food.

“I'm full~”

He picked up the bowl of tofu stew that was almost empty and ate directly from it.

“I am an advocate of positive thinking. I refuse to believe that we can't sell any ice cream at all. How bad can it be?”

“I don't know?” Minju chuckled, laying down on the wooden bench, a palm placed over her belly that was full from dinner. “You know, there's this quote the King always says.”

“The one about some law or something?”

“Yea, he named it after himself, calling it King Cole’s Law, saying Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”

“Weren't there rumours that he stole the quote from a guy named Murphy?” he asked as he finished all the remaining food before picking up his glass of punch and sipped from it.

“Well, a lady named Miss Rumour whispered in my ears when I was shopping at the market, saying that there isn't a guy name Murphy anymore after he made noise about plagiarism. Miss Rumour speculated that he was offed.”

“Wow,” he said, leaning forward to poke her belly, telling her she'd get fat if she lied down immediately after dinner. “Oh well, no one can go against the King after all. Anything can be considered as treason if it displeases him. Anything else you heard from… Miss Rumour?”

“A few, but as I said, they're all baseless claims. There's one about a failed attempt to summon an evil god, and another about a brewing war with the heretics. There's even one about the launch of an anti-hair loss shampoo that's said to make a bald man grow half a metre of hair overnight!”

He laughed at the ridiculous stories that Minju spewed.

“Say…”

He looked at her with a puzzled expression.

“Yes, my dear Minju?”

“I don't know why, I'm always getting the feeling of people leaving me, or maybe me leaving people.”

She sat up and stirred her almost empty cup with the long spoon, stabbing and crushing the watermelon chunks within into chunks.

“What's gotten into you?” he asked, inching forward to rub his hand on her sweaty forehead, brushing the sweat off her wet and soaked hair. “Has the heat gotten to your head? You want to take a shower?”

Minju stared into his eyes, looking at his shining pupils, a million thoughts seemingly running through her mind.

“Caelan,” she called.

“Yes?”

Then her lips parted to ask him a question softly.

“Will you ever leave me?”

🍂 🍂 🍂

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

He looked at her who had set down her knife and fork, staring at him with an unquantifiable sadness in her eyes.

“When?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, but there was a subtle crack inside that could never escape Minju.

“Tomorrow.”

He put down his fork and picked up the glass of water from the side, bringing it towards his mouth as the liquid inside shook and rippled with trepidation.

“Then I guess we should make the most of our time left together.”

Minju nodded and stood up, walking to his side. She grabbed on to his hand and pulled him upwards, leading him out of the dining room. He followed her quietly, watching her guide him down the hallway, past the countless windows that showed the setting golden sun. The leaves of the trees were orange-red, signifying the fading warmth of summer as the world around senesced into cool and chilly conditions.

Just like his relationship with her.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asked, stopping in the middle of their walk.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she said, stopping to turn and face him. “I know that you’ll worry because you always worry, and I didn’t want our remaining time spent together to be full of nothing but worry.”

She looked down at his hands and gripped it firmly.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked at her in the eyes. He thought of the times where they were inseparable. One time he was going out for a run with her, another she joined him as he tended to the shrubs and bushes in the courtyard.

He was always smiling.

And she was always smiling.

“I love it when you smile,” he said softly. “And I love it even more because you make me smile.”

Minju looked at him, her cheeks raising gently, face beaming into a wider grin.

“Then let’s keep on smiling.”

She pulled him into her embrace and hugged him tight, and he squeezed her even tighter.

“Shall we?” Minju said. “I don’t want to forget you.”

“Will you ever forget me?” he asked.

Minju let go and pulled his hand again, tugging him down the hallway, right into their room. The moment he entered, he was swirled with a tender force, and the next thing he knew, his back was met with the soft cushions of their mattress. Silky soft hair hung down her face as she looked at him in the eyes, her soft yet firm hands planted on either side of his head.

“Minju…” he muttered, his eyes drunk with desire.

“Today’s the last day I’ll be called by my name,” she whispered, her lips lowering onto his. Her breath was hot against his, and she could feel herself losing the little control she had left. “Tomorrow, I’ll only be known as Commander.”

Minju pressed her forehead against his, tears welling up in her eyes.

“So please… call my name like it’s the last time.”

She pressed her lips onto his, kissing him with all her love.

The love she gave to him. The love she had for him. And the love she had reserved for him.

Her heart wrenched with every passing second. She cupped his face as her tongue drove deep, drinking in his sadness and resentment at the world that stole them from each other. Their breaths drew short amidst the kiss, but neither of them wanted to let go of each other.

After what seemed like an eternity, he pushed her off and flipped her onto the bed, his body now mounting hers.

“Minju.”

She looked at him with glassy eyes. Her face was no longer pristine from the make out and her hair was in a mess, random strands splayed across the soft cushions, but neither of them cared.

“My dear,” she mumbled, blushing at the way he was staring at her.

“Minju.”

He reached towards the buttons on her dress and began loosening it.

“Minju.”

Each time he called her name, he removed a button. He made his way down, releasing her soft mounds from constriction, exposing the deep valley of her chest, airing the smooth and milky skin of her navel. He gently grabbed onto her sleeves and pulled them downwards, releasing her satin-soft, velvety skin that was supple as he undressed her entirely.

He took a look at her.

One look. Rays from the sun of the golden hour humbly graced her skin, casting their radiance on her.

A second look. An aura of shyness emanating out from the iron-willed goddess as she covered her breasts in embarrassment.

A third look. The forbidden warmth that was pulsing out from her core, one that was set to replace the dying summer heat.

He took many more looks at her, carving the memory of her beauty, her gaze, her breath, her smell… the memory of her into his mind.

“How long will you be gone?” he muttered, latching his mouth onto her earlobes, nibbling it softly.

“As long as it needs to be,” she grunted, shivers sent down her spine.

“When will you be back?” he asked, biting on her nape.

“As soon as I am done,” she moaned, her hands wrapping around his back.

“When will I see you again?” he growled, suckling one nipple as he kneaded the soft flesh of her other breast.

“When the war ends,” she cried, back arching off the bed from the incomprehensible pleasure.

He removed his clothes and tossed them to the side. They were now both naked and bare, bodies pulsing with the wanting heat and need for each other.

“You’re so hard,” she hummed, wrapping her fingers around his length. “Much harder than ever.”

He shivered as she gave him a few small strokes, drinking in the pleasure that he will probably never get to feel anymore. Kissing down her belly, he breathed at her snatch, before taking in a deep whiff of her addictive scent.

“You’re so wet,” he grunted, giving her wetness a long, drawn-out lick. “So sweet.”

Pressing his lips forward, he gave her folds a few rubs, making out with her pussy as he drank the nectar that was dispensing from within.

“I could drink this all day,” he mumbled with muffled groans, “but that’s not what we need right now.”

Lifting his body, he lined up the tip of his hardness and rubbed it up and down, mixing his leaking devotion with her craving wetness. He pushed in slowly, revelling in the parting of her folds, watching her eyes flutter and close in pleasure as he split her apart.

“I need you, Minju,” he declared, pressing his length further into her core. He felt her walls ripple and quiver around him, moulding into a sheath that was perfect for the shape of his cock. “And you need this. You need me.”

Minju hugged him close and nodded with desperation, feeling how he stretched her raw.

“Yes, only you. Always you.”

Once he was fully embedded in her, he leaned down to give her a deep, torrid kiss. At the same time, he lifted his hips and drew out his cock, feeling how her pussy squeezed and pulled, refusing to let him go.

But he forced it out.

Slam.

He plunged back in.

Minju yelped in pleasure, biting softly on to his lips, drawing out a drop of blood that she tasted with fervour. She felt his hard tip smash into her deepest spots, feeling the impact shock joy out into her bloodstream.

He pulled out again.

“More—”

Slam.

And more he delivered.

He pulled and pushed, withdrew and enter, unsheathed and sheathed.

He fucked her hard. He fucked her with ferocity. He fucked her with desperation.

He fucked her.

She took his cock. She took his pounding. She took his hammering.

She took him.

Each plunge into her depths made her cry out in euphoria, and each slide into her walls sent her towards nirvana. The bed was shaking as if an earthquake of unimaginable magnitude was tremoring throughout the plates of the world, but it was incomparable to the brewing disaster welling up in both her mind and core.

She was close.

Each pump of his cock into her wanton pussy sent her hurtling towards the edge. The edge which made her eyes roll and flipped her world upside-down. The edge which she wished would never disappear. The edge which she wanted to savour for the rest of her life.

“Minju.”

Her eyes flicked into focus as she answered his call.

“Minju.”

Her mouth parted and her throat dried.

“Minju.”

Her body trembled and shook, toes curling into unloosened arcs.

“Minju. Minju. Minju.”

He pumped into her with increasing intensity, pounding his fucks into her like his life depended on it. He watched her soul phase in and out of Styx, each easing pull making her faint, each crushing strike jolting her from unconsciousness.

She was close.

“Come for me, Minju.”

Right at that moment, she shattered on his command. She squealed and writhed as he continued pumping into her throughout her orgasm, her wetness exploding out to coat his length in warm tidal waves. Squelches filled the room and sex rivers soaked into the sheets as her orgasm waned, but he did not stop pumping.

Her eyelids were barely open, half-lidded from the pleasure that had swallowed her whole, but she could not faint, not before he filled her full. She cupped his face with both her hands and looked into his eyes, imprinting the look of his unending love and looming sadness that was drawn all over his face.

“Come for me, Trevor.”

He grunted and groaned and roared and moaned, unleashing waves after waves of come, filling her pussy with whiteness. She wrung the seed out of him, devouring it all with voracious hunger, making sure to not let a single drop go to waste.

After what seemed like eternity, he collapsed on the bed beside her and looked at the ceiling above, muttering softly.

“Please don't die.”

❄️ ❄️ ❄️

He was dead.

The tombstone carved with the words of solemnity.

The best colleague. The loveliest husband. The kindest father.

Minju stood up and set the white lily on the grave. She looked at the snow that covered the stone slab, watching the falling powder of chill that was sprinkling all over her flower. Soon it will be buried underneath all the other countless white lilies, yellow chrysanthemums and pale pink roses.

Just like how life that had ended was buried by brown snow.

She walked out of the graveyard with swollen eyes, trembling hands that were streaked with tears and snot. She shuffled through snow that reached half of her shin, wading through the white, powdered river that was filled by the punishing winter cold.

She opened the door to her house.

The warmer was already turned on and the soft glow of light from within offered her some solace from the pale white dusk outside.

She took off her boots and chucked them to the side to let the snow melt and dry, before settling into the warm, pillowy couch with her legs curled and tucked into her chest.

She stared at the ticking clock on the coffee table, watching time pass as if it were an infinite resource, except that it wasn't.

Infinite in relation to everything else unaffected by time, finite in relation to everything affected by time.

Life.

“Hey.”

A soft voice came from behind her.

She turned and looked at him, her sadness slightly fading into a soft, lethargic smile.

“Crestet,” she muttered, watching him settling into couch beside her.

“How are you feeling?”

She drew in a deep breath and leaned on his shoulder.

“It's ironic isn't it? He was such a good man. Friendly, doting, loving… he didn't deserve to die so young.”

Crestet hummed in approval and took her hand, rubbing the her palm with his calloused fingers.

“I was just thinking, life is such a fleeting thing. One moment you're working your hardest, trying your best to live life to the fullest, doing everything you can to make life better. The next? You could be struck by lightning. Killed in a car accident. Maybe choke on a fishball and die. Or like him, chosen to meet Death himself with a heart attack as the invitation.”

Crestet listened intently, absorbing all the sadness and frustration that Minju spewed.

She talked about her friend's life, how he had been closely supporting him from when they were childhood friends, how he had gave her both anger and happiness as a wonderful companion when they were playing at the woods, when they were mugging books for exams, when they were drinking their frustrations out from the overbearing boss.

Then she stopped.

She looked at her fingers.

“You know, I dream a lot.”

“I dreamt of a man named Theo who brought me lunch everyday despite being just a sous chef.”

“I dreamt of a man named Caelan who made ice cream popsicles together with me.”

“I dreamt of receiving love from Trevor who gave me his all despite me leaving for war.”

“I dreamt of Gary who shook and carried me out of a bar when I was drunk, tucking me safely into my bed even though I vomited all over him.”

“I dreamt of Marx who shielded me from the torrential rain with his only raincoat which got him drenched and subsequently sick with a high fever.”

Minju played with her hand, fiddling with the imaginary pen that was nested between the gaps of her fingers.

“I dreamt of many things. But everytime I try to remember his face, nothing comes up.”

She took a deep breath.

“Every dream ends right before I remember his face.”

She turned and looked at him.

“Every single one of them made me feel the way you made me feel.”

“I’m confused. I’m lost. I don't know what's going on with me.”

Minju started to cry.

“Are you angry?”

Crestet stared into her eyes and simply smiled at her.

“Were you happy in those dreams?”

Minju nodded.

“Are you happy right now?”

Her lips wavered at the question, but an answer came out immediately.

“Yes.”

The man leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Asa lowers her shoulders just a little, but it does so much more than a subtle movement should ever have the power to do. Now isn’t that the understatement that underpins it all. Fine details and mildly-reserved seduction cooked into the drop of a shoulder, the hike of a leg, the tilt of her hips. It’s Asa’s modus operandi, and you’re her favourite victim.

“Not like you ever cook.”

Avoiding the questions. Gaslighting. This woman has a game to play, and you’re part of it. If you were ever unwilling, you would be dragged, kicking and screaming, into it.

You are never unwilling.

"I baked you a cake."

"Yeah, well, I'm a little distracted here."

"What's distracting you?"

"Oh I don't know... Maybe my girlfriend? Up on the counter? Ass in the air and back arched, wearing some little black leather shorts?"

"Just eat the damn cake."

"I'm thinking about it."

"Yeah?" Asa shoots you a sly smile, biting on one of those long black nails in a way that communicates an opening into a mind you're all too familiar with. Devilish looks with a sinful mind - there's always something in there. "Well, I know you're a messy eater; hope you plan on cleaning up once you're finished. There's a lot of cream filling inside."

Yep, that’s something, alright.

She's doing that thing again - tugging on the little invisible string around your heart, forcing it to thump faster. You swallow thickly. You're walking closer, focusing on her lips as she speaks again.

"And, well, it is your birthday..."

Your birthday. You're too distracted by the fact she's pressing her chest to the counter, deepening the arch of her back even further and lying her face against the smooth surface. Her cute cheek squashed against the marble, dark eyelashes fluttering upwards as she looks at you through them. The way she's wiggling her hips slightly, back and forth, in those tight shorts...

"My birthday," you echo her words.

She's sliding her hand over her thigh now, fingertips pressing into the pale skin. She grips, and she squeezes and fuck -

"Mhm," she's smiling, "so you're allowed to have your...cake. Indulge a little. Eat it up."

Those catty eyes are trained on you as she presses her hand further down. You're standing at the counter now, chest heavy and struggling with each breath. A figurative growl from somewhere deep inside you as you catch her wrist, pulling it away from where it's getting dangerously close to her crotch.

"Let me." You tell her, taking in yet another shaky breath. "Let me...enjoy it how I want to."

Her eyes widen with excitement as she pushes her hips back and, fuck, that’s too hot. "That's the spirit, birthday boy. Do what you want."

"You're really the best girlfriend," you begin to tug the shorts from her hips, watching her skin rise with goosebumps as your fingertips brush over her - subtle things. "You know that?"

"Yeah, well." Asa bites her lower lip for a moment before letting it slip free. "I love spoiling you."

You pull the tight fabric over her ass and the soft flesh spills out, plump and fucking perfect.

"Your ass..." You can't help it. You have to grip it. You drag your fingertips across her skin. It's so perfectly smooth and inviting and...

Her throat rumbles with a laugh. "You act like you've never seen it before."

You dive in without thinking, lips immediately pressing to the skin, teeth grazing, tongue sneaking out to get a taste. Her little whimper makes you want more.

"I like it." You tell her against her flesh. You pepper kisses down to her thighs before pulling back. "Every time is like the first time."

"Cringe," she mocks.

"Hey, it's my birthday, remember? You can't be mean to me."

She lifts a brow. You duck your head down again, allowing your teeth to dig into the skin. Her breath hitches. You smile against her, pulling back, watching the way the spot turns a delicate pink colour. You take your time, letting your hands wander her ass, watching the way her flesh reacts. You slide your palm down her thigh, and she rolls her hips, trying to chase the touch.

"Please..." Asa's breathless, her voice filled with want, "just... eat the cake already." Her tone is playful, but there is something about the edge that makes you think she's really trying to hold back. That she wants you more than she's letting on.

"It looks so pretty." Your fingers move, sliding over her bare pussy, just peeking through the gap at the top of her thighs. You prod your fingertips inside, finding her wet already. Of course she is. Then there's the moan.

Asa's moans - you could wax lyrical about them. You could write sonnets and songs and poetry about them. You want to record them sometimes, just so you can listen back whenever you want, but then you remember just how easy it is to elicit new ones. There's always something so playful about them, even when they're low and gravelly. It's like she's laughing a little as she moans, like she's having so much damn fun.

You place a hand on each cheek. Your birthday cake, in all its glory, is laid out on the counter for you. You lean in, dragging your tongue up from her slit and resting your face between those pert little cheeks.

Fuck, she's sweet - sweeter than the cake you're ignoring, and she smells so good. Her whole body just has this way of making you want to bury your face into any part of her that you can and just melt away into her.

You're tasting her sinful little hole, ass pressed back against your face, and her moans are growing louder. You're swirling your tongue against her. Her fingers grip at the edge of the counter, and she's pushing back more and more.

Eating her ass is one of your favourite things in the world. In part because of her reaction, which is always perfect, and partly because of her taste. The way she wriggles and tries to control it and can't help but just give in to the pleasure of it all. You're rock hard already, and your cock is pressing against your pants.

You pull back, taking a moment to grip her cheeks and watch them spread, spitting on her hole, watching the way her body shivers. You press your thumb to it, and it succumbs to the pressure, swallowing it whole.

Her moans are endless, and she's trying to roll her hips, to fuck back against your finger. You work your thumb inside, and she reacts in all those dirty little ways you can never forget. Her whole body is shivering, and it's honestly the hottest thing you've ever seen in your life (and Asa has given you a whole catalogue to choose from).

"Oh my god," her voice is strained, "please, just... My ass... Oh..."

You have to bite back your laugh, simply because you can't help but find her so endearing. Her cheeks are flushed, and you know if you could see her face it would be bright red. Her hair is damp at the temples with sweat. You move your thumb in and out of her slowly.

"Please what, babe?" You ask.

She's burying her face into the marble; it’s a ridiculous thing to try, but this girl is so used to being face down in the bed that muscle memory kicks in when the brain goes to mush. "Don't make me say it."

You use your free hand to smack her ass, just once. She whimpers. "Say it."

"No!" She huffs. There's a moment of silence where you keep fucking her with your thumb. You hear her suck her teeth. Finally, she relents. "Eat my ass and make me cum. Please."

You let out a knowing laugh. "Good girl."

You're not sure what you enjoy more: making her cum or making her beg. You lean in again - another taste. Her back arches beautifully. Your cock is aching. You work your mouth against her over and over.

You press your middle finger against her cunt, sliding it inside with no resistance. She's gripping it as her wetness leaks down your hand. The moans are getting out of control, her body shuddering and jerking. You feel her tighten around your finger.

"Already?" you ask, and she does not like that.

Asa pushes her face up and off the counter, her whole body trembling. "You're just... fucking good."

That makes you grin. You press your finger deeper, curling it in her, and she's practically screeching now, and despite the description, it’s a blessing to hear. You keep your mouth buried against her asshole, fucking her with your finger, picking up speed. Your cock is straining in your pants, your balls aching. You can't wait to slide your dick into her, which is utterly relatable.

"Oh my god," she's panting hard, her fingers straining where she grips the counter, "oh my god, oh my god... Yes, right there, right fucking there! Don't stop, don't stop..."

It's when she starts cumming that you start lapping up all the cream, sucking her into your mouth. Her pussy is pulsing around your finger. You hear her hit the counter with a dull thud, and it's followed by her hitting her open palm against it repeatedly.

"So good," her voice is a breathy whine, "so, so good."

You keep moving your finger inside her until the fluttering stops, her whole body relaxing into the counter. You pull back and look at the mess you've made. A sheen of sweat on her skin. Her cheeks red from the way you've so roughly spread them.

"Happy birthday to me," you say, as you unbutton your pants.

There's a little chuckle from Asa. She turns her head, her eyes slightly glazed. "That good, huh?"

"You have no idea," you take your cock out, sighing with relief, "can't wait to sink into you."

She's smiling. "My favourite part."

On the flight back home, you heard someone say, ‘True wealth is mental health.’ Great, you’re poor twice now; poor in every way possible. How can you protect your peace when there’s a naked woman on your couch?

Not just any naked woman.

Tsuki.

Who you’re not sure is even human in the first place. The one haunting your dreams and ruining your sleep and making you question whether sanity was ever really an option.

She’s reading the same book; she turns a page. Doesn’t even look up.

“Welcome home, Aki-kun.”

You close the door, nothing gentle about how you did it. The frame rattles. Something falls off your bookshelf. Your neighbors definitely heard the slam.

“You’re responsible for this.”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Doesn’t even look up from the book. “Yes, that’s all me.”

“You sent me to her. You introduced me to her family, to her father, to her. You set this whole thing up!” The words coming out of you get louder and less yours.

“She’s an opportunity.” Now her eyes are locked on yours; dark, cruel, flat, and amused. “I gave you the perfect woman, Aki-kun. Her father’s blessing, a cute little future—” Her voice doesn’t rise. “—and you can’t hold any of it; because some part of you never left this room—” She tilts her head, and the corner of her mouth curls into a smirk so evil it makes your skin crawl. “—What you did with her was your choice. In the end, you chose me.”

“My choice?” You’re laughing now, almost as sinister as the one she lets out; blood starting to boil. “You orchestrated everything. Made me crave you, then introduced me to her. Let her fly me to Seoul. Let me have a peek into her life and then let me fall—” You can’t say it. Can’t say that you let yourself fall for Eunbi; that she looked at you like you were actually worth something. Like you were a person and not a toy.

“Orchestrated, huh?” Tsuki sets the book down, then stands. She moves like clothes are an afterthought for lesser beings. “Yes. I orchestrated everything. You’re fucking welcome.”

“I’m welcome?” WELCOME?!

“Thanks to me, you had a week of genuine human warmth. You felt something. Right? Convinced yourself you could have a normal life with her.”

She’s walking toward you now, each step more deliberate than the other. Her fingers trail along the back of your couch, a smile starting to creep in. “And yet you’re back here, with me. Exactly where you were always going to end up.”

You swear the air turns razor-thin. Hard to breathe, harder to think; every inhibition you’ve got starts loosening at the knot. Time stands still and the cold creeps in from somewhere it has no business coming from.

“That’s not…”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” She stops inches away, close enough to touch. Her hand finds your chest. Presses flat. “Tell me you didn’t think about me the whole time you were with her—” Her fingers tapping your chest in a rhythm that might make sense if you know Morse code. “—tell me you didn’t see my face when you closed your eyes and fucked her.”

You don’t say anything. 

“Knew it.” Her fingers curl into your shirt. “Now. Are you going to just stand there and be angry? Or are you going to—”

Everything you couldn’t say finds its way haphazardly to her mouth. Teeth, breath, and the blind desperation of wanting to hurt and hold her simultaneously.

Romance out of the window; this was just unadulterated lust and fury. Weeks of frustration and denial and wanting something you couldn’t have and finally, fucking finally, taking it.

Your hands aggressively fist in her hair, pulling her head back. She gasps, the first real sound you’ve gotten from her, and you swallow it, kiss her harder, deeper, angrier, and more desperate, and you’re done waiting. You’re done having things ripped away from you.

“Yes,” she breathes heavily against your mouth. “That’s fucking it,” a quick, sinister laugh escapes her before going back in, “take what you want Aki-kun.”

You shove her toward the couch. She goes willingly, too willingly, and some part of you knows this is exactly what she wanted, but you’re past caring. Emotions are high now; you understand that, but you let it take over you anyway because fuck it. Fuck everything that’s happened recently.

“Your cock’s been throbbing for this,” she says as you push her down onto the cushions. “Haven’t you? All damn week. While you were fucking that Kwon bitch with huge tits.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Aww, did I strike a chord, Aki-kun?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

You don’t make it to the bedroom. She’s on her back, legs wrapped around your waist, and you’re inside her, pumping her brains out before your brain catches up to what your body is doing.

She’s wet. Soaked, actually. She was waiting for this. It should feel like triumph; it doesn’t. It just makes you angrier.

“You fucking planned this too, huh?” You thrust hard enough to make her gasp.

“All of it, Akihiro. The whole goddamn week.” (That cannot be; you refuse to believe she has control over everything that’s happening.)

“Then none of it was real?” you manage. “Not one choice? Not one?”

“I gave you options.” Her nails rake down your back. You feel your skin slightly peel away. “Now stop talking and fuck me like you mean it.”

“You gave me Eunbi, so I’d want more.” Another thrust. Her back arches. “So I’d come back desperate more than ever.”

“You’re smart. Is it working?” She smirks then pulls you deeper with her legs. “Come on, Aki-kun. Fuck me harder. Show me what you decided you wanted.”

You give her harder, crueller, everything you can’t put into words translated to chaotic motion. And she consumes it. Consumes all of you, moaning low and sweet; encouraging the very thing you meant as punishment,  until you can’t tell anymore whether you’re hurting her or worshipping her, or whether she’s let you do both on purpose.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes~ That’s it. Lose control, Akihiro.” Her tone is ragged but still somehow commanding. “Take what’s yours. You’ve been aching for this for weeks. Stop thinking and just, fuck me.”

You do. You pound into her like you’re trying to break something, and she meets every thrust, her hips rising to meet yours, her hands pulling you closer. (You’re starting to wonder how all of this aggression doesn’t even slightly affect her.)

“God, your cock feels so good inside me,” she gasps. “So deep, don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop.”

She cums hard. Her whole body seizes around you, her soaked velvety walls clenching so tight you can barely move. You fuck her through it, watching her face contort with pleasure.

“More,” she pants before she’s even finished shaking. “I want more, Akihiro! I want you to cum inside me. Like how you spilled it all for Eunbi.”

“Shut up!”

“That’s what you want, right?!” She pulls your face down aggressively to hers. Kisses you deep and filthy. “To fill me up. This is what I was keeping from you. Now you have it. It’s all yours. Don’t let it slip away now.”

That’s it. Those last few words did it for you. You cum. It rips through you like violence. You empty your seed inside her, filling her up, and she makes an almost satisfied sound. Almost. Her laugh aroused and breathless; laced with corrupt darkness.

When you’re finally done, gasping, she runs her fingers through your hair.

“Good boy~” she croons, like she’s praising a dog that finally learned the trick. “Keep it up.”

You should feel satisfied. You should feel triumphant. You finally got what you’ve been desperate for.

And then: nothing. What’s left is hollow that keeps widening. You feel it pulling at the center of you, dragging down every meaning you ever chased, until there’s just the dark, the quiet, the nothingness… You or the lack of you.

“We’re not done,” you hear yourself say.

“No?”

“Not even close.”

Her smile widens. “Then let’s continue. Show me what you’ve got.”

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

You finally end up in the bedroom for round two. You’re rougher, angrier, and she takes everything you give her while whispering encouragement like a demon perched on your shoulder while the angel’s on a paid vacation somewhere, and the return ticket hasn’t been booked yet.

You empty in her again and next thing you know you’re starting round three in the shower. Water running cold by the end. Her back against the cool tile. Your hands leaving marks on her hips. (That seems to heal back easily after a while. You don’t really process it right now, but you’re sure it’s happening)

By round four, you’re back on the bed, but something has shifted.

She’s on top now. Straddling you, grinding slow and deliberate, controlling the pace completely. And you realize, maybe for the first time, that she’s been in control the entire session.

Every moan, every gasp, every whisper of encouragement, she was directing you; conducting you like a fucking orchestra, and you feel like you’re just not at her tempo. Earlier, you definitely were rushing, and now she’s just dragging it out.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, rolling her hips. “I can see it in your face.”

“I’m thinking about how you’ve been playing me all night.”

“Have I?” She leans down, presses her lips to your ear. “Or have I just been giving you permission?”

“Same fucking thing Tsuki.”

“Is it?” She straightens up. Starts riding you faster. “You seem pretty satisfied for someone who’s been played.”

You grab her hips. Try to set the tempo. She lets you, or seems to; you’re unsure at this point.

“I think it’s about time we talk business,” she says, even as she grinds down on you. “You need to formalize the consulting work. An LLC to give you proper structure.”

“Seriously. You’re talking business right now?” you say. The whiplash of it throws you off her rhythm; LLCs and retainers while she’s riding you senseless into the mattress.

“The Kwon retainer alone—fuck—justifies incorporation.” She’s panting now, losing some of that perfect composure. “I’ll handle the administrative work. Client outreach. The things you’re too proud to do.”

“That makes you my assistant.”

“No Aki-kun. That makes me your partner.” Her rhythm falters slightly. Just for a second. “In all the ways that matter.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her hips keep moving, but there’s something different in her expression. You can’t seem to explain it; it’s something you haven’t seen before from Tsuki.

“I get to watch what happens next,” she finally says. But it sounds less certain than before.

You pull her down. Kiss her. And for just a moment, just a fraction of a second, she kisses you back like she means it; then she catches herself. Sits back up. Resumes her rhythm.

“Cum for me,” she says. “One more time.”

You do. And this time, as you empty yourself inside her, you could swear you see something crack behind those flat dark eyes.

Something that looks almost like genuine emotions.

But then it’s gone, and she’s climbing off you, and the moment passes.

“Sign the paperwork,” she says, already walking toward the bathroom. “It’s already in your email.”

And it’s like your body just gave up on you, fatigue finally catching up. You pass out.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

She’s gone when you wake up.

You sign the papers. That’s who you are now: a man who signs anything Tsuki, a woman who appeared out of nowhere, tells you to. Also maybe because you’ve thought about doing this anyway. Even without her.

The business account gets set up the same week. “Hinode Consulting” feels too simple, but Tsuki insists. You want them to remember your name.

She handles everything. Client inquiries route through her. Meetings get scheduled with terrifying efficiency. Emails go out under her signature, and people respond like they’ve known her for years.

You stop asking how she does it. You’re not sure you want to know.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Two Months Pass

You can make a million excuses, or you can begin making a million yen. That’s your mantra now. The Kwon retainer leads to more work. Minjun refers you to families with “complicated situations,” his word for situations that will probably involve at least one cousin nobody talks about.

Each case is a puzzle, and you’re starting to get really good at puzzles. Well, you always have been. (You also know that the most glaring puzzle you haven’t solved is working across you.)

Tsuki’s more involved in everything you do now: She’s in the office, at the meeting, on the other end of your phone at all hours. It’s been a while since you two had any action. There hasn’t been any opportunity. Not after that night.

You’re too busy; exhaustion finds you first before you even think of doing anything else that’s not work. You’re too focused on building something that doesn’t feel empty.

Amidst all this, she tries.

Late one night, you’re reviewing the Park case files. Another dumb son, textbook embezzling. Pattern laid out clear as day, but sloppy execution. You have all the proof you need. The question is what to do with it.

Tsuki appears in your doorway. You don’t know how long she’s been watching.

“You could finish this in a snap,” she says.

“I’m finishing it my way, the right way.”

“The son is stealing from his own family. You have documentation. You could—”

“Blackmail him? Threaten to expose him unless he signs over his shares?” You don’t look up from your laptop. “I’ll present the evidence to the family board. They’ll make the decision. They’re smart, they’ll pass the right amount of judgment.”

“But that’s so fucking slow and boring, Aki-kun~”

“It’s the right thing to do. I won’t have it any other way.”

She crosses to your desk. Moves around behind you. Her hands find your shoulders, start kneading the tension there.

“You work too hard Aki-kun,” she murmurs. “How about I help you relax a bit?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re tense.” Her hands slide down your chest. “I can feel it. When was the last time you took a break?”

“Tsuki—”

“Shh.” She spins your chair around. Sinks to her knees in front of you. “Just let me take care of you.”

Before you can respond, she’s unbuckling your belt. She pulls your cock out, takes you into her mouth.

Her technique, mind-numbingly excellent as usual. Her mouth is warm and wet and knows exactly what it’s doing. She takes you deep, swallows around you, looks up at you with those dark eyes. Your cock slides in and out of her tight mouth like it’s made to consume it.

“The son was obviously embezzling,” you say.

She pauses. Pulls back just enough to speak. “What?”

“This Park case. The son is an obvious bozo: Three shell companies, redirected payments, creative accounting that would have worked if he hadn’t gotten greedy.” You lay it all out, accounting for what you found, like listing out groceries on a normal Tuesday.

She stares at you. Then, almost despite herself, she laughs.

“You’re discussing the case while I’m—”

“You did it first, you know? Talking business during sex. I’m just returning the favor.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?”

She takes you back in her mouth, deeper into her throat. Takes you in so aggressively; trying to shut you up, the only way she knows is reliable. You let her try. 

You talk anyway.

“I’m going to present the evidence to the family board. The father will handle the son. That’s how these families work. They clean their own messes.”

She moans around you. The vibration is… something.

“It’ll take longer than blackmailing the dumbass. At least I’m not skipping necessary steps.”

Her pace picks up; she’s working hard now. You eventually climax, and she swallows all of it. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Feel better?” she asks.

“Sure.”

She pauses. “That didn’t sound convincing.” She definitely was not expecting that.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” She stands. Straightens her clothes with precise but annoyed movements. “I just gave you—”

“A technically excellent blowjob. Yep, thank you very much.”

She looks at you for a long moment. You can’t read her face. Well, you don’t really care at this point.

“You’re different,” she says finally. “Since Seoul.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You turn back to your laptop. “I have work to do.”

She leaves without another word.

You stare at the screen; the numbers start to blur.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

You fall asleep at your desk one night. Week three of a restructuring. You don’t remember closing the laptop. You don’t remember anything between the third paragraph of an engagement letter and the moment your face hit the keyboard.

Next thing you know, you’re in your bed, all tucked in and the blackout curtain drawn. You’re not quite sure how you got here, but you’re sure there’s no way you can just sleepwalk from your office to your room.

You rub your eyes and turn. She’s at the window, back to you. Black hair against the glass. You can see her in the reflection. Not her face, just the outline of her.

“Tsuki?”

She doesn’t turn. She just goes still in a way that isn’t human, and then she’s not at the window anymore. You blink, and the doorway is empty. The hallway is empty.

You fall back asleep before you can think about what happened.

Hours later you wake up. Your sheets smell like rain. The apartment is exactly as you left it. The laptop’s at your desk. The engagement letter is still on the screen.

You don’t mention it. She doesn’t either. (Surprisingly, you were able to complete eight hours of sleep. You didn’t think you still had that in you to be able to let yourself rest for that long.)

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

A new client arrives as a folder on a Tuesday.

Tsuki appears in your office with a colored folder, indicating she considers it important. She sets it on your desk; perches on the edge, close enough that her thigh brushes your arm.

“We’ve got a new opportunity waiting to be seized,” she says. Her fingers trail across the folder. “This one is par-ti-cu-lar-ly interesting, Aki-kun.”

“Interesting how?”

“Well, let’s just say this is the kind of case that gets you acknowledged and builds your reputation.” She leans closer. “Or destroys it to rubble.”

“You’re really selling it.”

“I’m giving you much-needed context.” Her hands find your shoulder, squeezes. “Jang Wonyoung: Influencer who is blowing up globally. A fucking bombshell; exactly your type Aki-kun. Three hundred million followers across platforms. And a network that rivals Eunbi.”

“I don’t care for influencers.”

“You don’t care about anything that isn’t a balance sheet Aki-kun.” Her thumb traces small circles on your neck. “What you need to know: She built her brand from scratch. Started young, went viral, turned a phone camera into a media empire. Sponsorship deals, product lines, TV guestings, and international campaigns.”

“And?”

“And her management got greedy~” Tsuki slides off the desk. Moves behind you. Her hands find your shoulders again, kneading gently. “When the global offers started coming in, they started skimming. Advances taken in her name, contracts she never signed; By the time she figured it out, she was personally liable for millions in unfulfilled commitments.”

“That’s easily fraud, clear as day.”

“That’s showbusiness for you.” Her lips brush your ear. “She needs someone to untangle the mess. Document the misconduct. Help put her former management behind bars.”

“Why me? Doesn’t she have her own lawyers or accountants?”

“Get this: Local firms turned her down. Too messy. Too public. And her management has eyes on the whole industry that could catch her snooping around and stop it in its tracks before it gains any momentum.” Her hands slide down your chest. “You’re her last optio—” She suddenly cuts herself. “—you’re her only option.”

“You booked the flight already, didn’t you?”

“Tomorrow morning, 8 AM.” She’s in front of you now. Leaning against your desk. “Seoul. Three days minimum, but obviously you can stay longer.”

“And if I say no?”

“You won’t.” That almost-smile of hers. “You never do.”

She’s right, it’s incredibly frustrating how right she is.

“There’s another way to handle this, by the way,” she says, voice dropping. “Will save you quite a lot of time.”

“What do you have?”

“Her former CEO has a gambling problem. The type to spend and lose their children’s school funds in a night. One of the partners has a mistress his wife pays him to keep. Another owes money to dangerous people who deal with crime that’s borderline terrorism.” She tilts her head. “Pressure points, Aki-kun. Press them, and they immediately fold.”

You consider it; for longer than you should. All extremely tempting threads to pull.

“I’ll look at the case first,” you say finally. “Figure out what’s actually possible.”

“And if what’s possible is slow and painful?”

“Then I’ll just have to ride through it.”

Her smile widens. “Interesting~”

She leaves you with the folder. You open it and start flicking through the pages. The numbers are a mess. The path in figuring out these shell companies is maze-like. This could take months. (Or a few hours if you ever decide to use whatever Tsuki gives you.)

You push the thought away for now. 

You need more information from the victim herself.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

You’re back in Seoul.

You book the hotel this time around. Look for something further than those luxurious apartments you stayed in before—too many memories of wine and silk pajamas.

You text Eunbi anyway from the taxi (because you’re a simp). Been putting it off for weeks, but being back in her city makes it impossible to ignore the urge.

You: Hey… I’m in Seoul

You: Wanna grab drinks when you’re free?

Eunbi: Unfortunately, not this week, major acquisition closing.

Eunbi: What brings you here?

You: New client in a… complicated situation 😮‍💨

Eunbi: When isn’t it complicated with you?

Eunbi: If you need anything…

Eunbi: My network is available. (Edited)

You: Thank you, might take you up on that.

Eunbi: How are you? Have you figured your shit out yet?

You: Working on it

Eunbi: Please work faster…

Eunbi: (Unsent Message.)

You weren’t able to catch a glimpse of what that unsent message was. The conversation died down after that.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Jang Wonyoung’s apartment is in Gangnam. Nothing quite like it: Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, steel beams, and security systems tighter than most countries’ airports.

You disguise yourself as an old man so observers around won’t bat an eye. Finally, your navy suit came in handy. She opens the door herself.

Three words perfectly describe Wonyoung: Legs. Endless legs. You’ve seen her face on twelve billboards on the cab ride here. Face card that recalibrates algorithms and creates trends just by existing. She’s wearing a silk robe that definitely has more threads than your whole closet, and she’s looking at you like a delivery guy who promised 30 minutes and took 30 days.

“You’re that Japanese consultant.”

“Hinode Akihiro.” You offer your hand; she ignores it. Brat.

“I know who you are.” She doesn’t move from the doorway. “Your assistant was very thorough with the briefing materials.”

“She usually is.”

“She’s also very…” Wonyoung pauses. Searches for the word. “Present. Even on the phone.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Mhmm.” She steps back, finally. Gestures you to come inside. “Well? Come in. Let’s see if you’re worth my time.”

The apartment is expensive but highly impersonal. High-end furniture, no photographs, white and gray all around. It looks like a hotel suite someone forgot to check out of.

Wonyoung drapes herself across a white leather sofa. Doesn’t offer you a seat. Rude.

“So.” She examines her nails. “Hurry up. Convince me.”

“Convince you of what?”

“That you’re not another waste of my time. That you can actually do something about the people who stole from me.” She looks up. “I’ve had three firms already come here. They all said the same boring thing: too complicated, too high-profile, too risky, blah-blah-blah~. Are you going to say the same thing? Say it now so we don’t dilly dally, and I can show you the door out.”

“I haven’t looked at the documents yet.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To get the documents and to formally meet you.”

“And?” She’s still examining you. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re testing me. I’m not here to waste anyone’s time; you’ve been tested enough by people who recently disappointed you.”

Her mood flickers, expression finally showing a hint of interest.

“Ok, you got me. Sit down, Hinode-san. I’ll get the files.”

She moves through the apartment like someone who knows what she looks like from three angles at all times. She returns with boxes of folders that would make most accountants vomit blood. (Good thing you’re not like most accountants).

“Three years of contracts,” she says, dropping them in front of you: “Sponsorship deals, product lines, appearance fees; and somewhere in there, evidence that my management stole everything I built and worked hard for.”

You open the first folder, skim through the first few pages.

“They said these were investments,” she continues, “financial avenues to build my brand and expand my portfolio. Every time I asked questions, they showed me charts going up. Told me multiple times: Trust us, Wonyoung. We know what we’re doing.”

“When did you start figuring it out?”

“When a sponsor I’ve never talked to before tried suing me for breach of contract. For a deal I never signed.” She’s not showing it, but her words quiver from anger. “That’s when I started looking at the actual numbers, the signatures. The actual…” She stops, takes a long breath. “They forged my name on thirty-seven contracts, took advances worth millions; spent it on god knows what while I smiled for cameras and built the thing they were dismantling.”

“Where are they now?”

“Somewhere without extradition.” Her hands clench briefly—then release. “Living very comfortably on money that should have been mine.”

“And you want them to pay.”

“I want them to suffer, Hinode-san.” She meets your eyes. “Can you help me with that?”

“Finding the fraud and building the case—that, I can do. But actually getting them locked up? That’s the legal team’s job; a team I simply don’t have.”

“But you know people who do?”

Then it clicks: You think about Eunbi, her network; what she offered over text.

“Maybe. Let me look at the files first.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s how I do things. I can’t promise anything until I know what I’m working with.”

She studies you for a long moment. Her expression shifts; it softens, almost.

“Most people just tell me what I want to hear,” she says. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t.”

She unfolds from the sofa, languid. The robe moves with her like it’s part of her skin. She sits up enough that her eyes are level with yours, then holds your gaze. Gulp.

“Give me three days.”

“And if you can’t find anything?”

“Then I’ll tell you that too.”

She nods slowly. “Okay, Hinode-san. Three days.” She stands, her robe shifts again, revealing a bit more than what you feel is comfortable. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t.”

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Well, she’s fucked.

The files are a disaster. You’re a fucking disappointment, caffeined up, and nothing to show for.

You spend two days drowning in shell companies and redirected payments. Every time you think you’ve found a thread, it disappears into another maze of offshore accounts and creative bookkeeping.

On day two, you stop with a Caymans entity in front of you and realize you’ve seen this before. 

Two years ago: A senior partner at Ishikawa asked you to help structure something for a client. Tax optimization, he said; looks straightforward. You drew it up because he was a senior partner and you wanted the partner vote (that was one of your most crucial mistakes). The particular fuck up is still currently on the Federal investigation’s whiteboard. 

A few weeks ago, you told Kwon Minjun about it while sitting in his office in Seoul, looking at his glass case of masks. It was the first time you’d ever said it out loud and now you’re looking at a reflection of the past mess you were involved in.

You stare at the Caymans entity in front of you; even the font and formatting is the same. You should have asked harder questions (naiveté won, and you didn’t). Now you’re untangling someone else’s version of what you helped build.

Tsuki’s still pestering you with messages.

般若: hey aki-kun! hows it going?

般若: your new client is hot as well, right?

般若: found anything useful yet?

般若: remember, there are faster ways~

She keeps sending documents too: Bank records that shouldn’t be accessible without proper paperwork, uncatalogued photographs of signatures that look nothing like Wonyoung’s, information that would be a goldmine if you didn’t have to ask where it came from and how she obtained them.

You: How the hell do you even have this?

般若: I have my ways~

What?

般若: you don’t need to know Aki-kun.

You use some of it: The parts that could have come from legitimate sources, the rest you file away. Tempting.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

It’s day three and you’re running out of time and options.

With bloodshot eyes and your fourth cup of 7/11 coffee. You finally find the signature discrepancy at 2 AM. A contract from eighteen months ago with Wonyoung’s name at the bottom. Except it’s not her signature.

Her actual signature has a distinctive loop in the W. You’ve seen it a dozen times now across legitimate documents—this one’s missing the loop. Pressure is wrong, and the stroke patterns are inconsistent.

You pull three more contracts and compare them; same bad handwriting pretending to be hers. It’s not proof, not by itself, but it’s a crack (and cracks can be loosened). 

Finally a proper lead so you instinctively call Eunbi.

“Hinode-san. Do you know what time it is?” she answers.

“It’s late, I know. Sorry, but I need a favor.”

A few seconds of silence. “Of course, what do you need?”

“Legal connections: a team who specializes in fraud prosecution, and someone who knows how to build a case that sticks.”

“This is for Wonyoung’s case? The influencer that your assistant mentioned?”

“She mentioned…” You rub your eyes. “...she contacts you?” 

“Yes. So, what’s your progress?”

“I found something: Forged signatures, at least four contracts, probably more. But I need help turning it into something prosecutors can use.”

“I know the right person for this.” A pause. “This is really what you called about? Not to see me?”

“I wanted to see you. You said you were busy.”

“I am busy. But I would have made time if you’d pushed.”

“I didn’t want to push.”

“I know. That’s the problem.” She sighs. “I’ll send you her name in the morning.”

“Thank you, Eunbi.”

“Don’t thank me. Just...” She trails off; “Be careful, Akihiro. Whatever you’re caught up in (your assistant, this case, all of it), be careful. Something feels wrong, and I can’t put my finger on what. Don’t do things you normally wouldn’t do.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No. You’re always thorough—not the same thing.” She hangs up before you can respond.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Another week passes

Eunbi’s contacts are good, better than that, actually—they’re fucking phenomenal. A team built to turn the tide in any financial case. With enough ammo, this team could win any legal war.

But this isn’t enough; this case needs more.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Day eight

You’ve traced the shell companies to Singapore, a dead end. The accounts were closed six months ago, funds already transferred somewhere else.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Day nine

More samples, more analysis, more legal mumbo jumbo that even your sober self is starting to feel out of your depth with. The forensic accountant wants originals, not scans. The originals are in Macau with the CEO who stole them. Fuck.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Day ten

You’re running out of options. Tsuki texts at 2 AM.

般若: Aki-kun, don’t forget~ I have shortcuts.

般若: One phone call and this is over. Case closed!

You stare at your laptop. At the maze of dead ends and closed doors.

One phone call.

It would work. You know it would work. People like Wonyoung’s former CEO have weaknesses: gambling, women, shady deals, and marks of a terrible person. Apply pressure to the right spot, and they all come tumbling down.

般若: I can make the call for you, if you prefer. No need for you to get your hands dirty.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard—head starting to hurt. Doors feel like they’re closing down, locking you up to only one path, but then…

Figure out your ghost.

You put your phone down and return to perusing the documents. There has to be another way. You just need to look hard enough.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Day eleven

Day 11 @ 1:47 AM

Wonyoung: HEY! are you up?

Wonyoung: dont nswer

Wonyoung: ofc you are

Wonyoung: just wasnted sum1 to listne

Wonyoung: i think i just had a pnic attack

Wonyoung: could breathe for like 40mins

Wonyoung: heh. I dont even remember which cabineeet this bottle came from

Wonyoung: anywaaaaay

Wonyoung: im a little drunk

You: Are okay? Is anyone with you?

Wonyoung: doooont worry

Wonyoung: Im in my apprtmentasd

Wonyoung: Im aloooone

Wonyoung: ok maybe im not okaaay but im ok

Wonyoung: you know? you know what it means.

Wonyoung: yourfe not dumb

Wonyoung: and youre kinda hawt for an accountant you know?

You: Ok. Drink some water, wash up, and get some sleep Wonyoung.

Wonyoung: buuuuuuuuuut daaaddddyy

Wonyoung: bitch how do yoooou unsend that

Wonyoung: anyways

Wonyoung: dont tell anyone that

Wonyoung: about not being okaaay

You: I wont dont worry

Wonyoung: good boooy. gooood accountant-san. youure hot and you follow directions well

Wonyoung: good

Wonyoung: gooooood

Two minutes of silence. You’re trying to type up some response. She’s being vulnerable, drunk, and stupid. She probably doesn’t mean anything she’s saying right now. You’re in the middle of finishing your thought when she—

Wonyoung: had 3 sponsors at dinner asking if i was ok you know?

Wonyoung: I smiled and their faces smiled back

Wonyoung: Pffft i know we were all just being fake concerned about each other in that room

Wonyoung: I like you accountant-san

Wonyoung: I know that you know im not okay but you dont ask me in frnt of people anyways

Wonyoung: ty i appreciate u for that

Wonyoung: looks like your busy

Wonyoung: I wont disturb you anymore hinode-san but go to sleep soon oka??????

You stare at the screen. Don’t respond.

Sleep never came. You go back to the documents. The whole conversation, if you can even call it that, still sits in the back of your head the rest of the night. The kind of conversation that usually doesn’t happen between clients.

Day twelve

Wonyoung texts you.

Wonyoung: How’s it going? I’m losing my mind here.

You: Still working…

You: These things take time you know?

Wonyoung: I know. I just…

Wonyoung: I want it to be over.

You: Soon

Wonyoung: YA! You promise? 

Wonyoung: Getting impatient over here!

Wonyoung: I’m paying you a shit-ton of money, and nothing is getting done!

You don’t respond. You don’t have time for this brat. You can’t promise anything anyway. But that night, going through the files for the hundredth time, you find it.

You find it in the sneakiest place where most scandals live: In the email metadata.

Wonyoung’s management used a shared email system. Corporate accounts, corporate servers. When they forged contracts, they sent copies to each other: bragging, coordinating, covering tracks, and being overall sneaky little rats. The emails were deleted, but the metadata remained. (Actual buffoons—of course, their egos got the best of them).

It’s got it all: Time stamps, IP addresses, a digital trail that leads directly to three specific people on three specific dates.

You call Eunbi’s prosecutor contact.

“I have something,” you reveal as if your life depended on it (it kinda does, or else that brat is going to harass you again over the phone). “It proves who forged the contracts, when, and where.”

“How did you find this?”

“The server logs.”

“Aren’t those wiped out?”

“They deleted the emails but forgot about the system logs.” You unconsciously let out a smile. “People tend to forget the system logs.”

“This is... this is actually usable!” She sounds impressed. “This, combined with the signature analysis and the financial trail. This is a case.”

“Enough to file?”

“Enough to file and win. This is incredibly solid, good job Hinode-san!” A pause. “Where the hell did you learn to investigate like this?”

“Twelve years of digging through digital crevices and reading footnotes.”

The case builds from there; each piece connecting to the next—puzzle pieces finally coming together. 

This is it. This is finally it.

Amidst all that, Tsuki keeps offering shortcuts.

般若: I found photographs. The CEO drunk and naked at a gambling den in Busan.

般若: The CFO’s mistress has debts

般若: She would talk for the right price.

般若: There are faster more effective ways, Aki-kun.

You ignore all of it because you have what you need.

While your client Wonyoung is… well… Wonyoung.

“This is taking forever,” she complains during your fifth meeting. She’s draped across her couch, wine in hand, wearing something that probably qualifies as a dress but only technically. Fabric that reflects light and reveals almost everything at a proper angle. Basically, something one shouldn’t be wearing in front of their accountant. “I’m not paying you to fucking laze around.”

“Complex fraud takes time to build.”

“I’m paying you to make it not take time!”

“You’re paying me to do it right.”

“I could have hired someone who does it fast and right.”

“No way in hell. That’s why I’m here.”

She glares at you. Then, despite herself, laughs.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I bet your assistant tells you that all the time.”

You think about Tsuki and her looming presence.

“She has her own peculiar ways of letting me know.”

Wonyoung watches you over the rim of her glass. Doesn’t drink, just watches.

“The worst part,” she says, “is I keep waiting to see if you’ll smile. You don’t, by the way. Not really, not with that face of yours.”

“I smile—sometimes.”

“At your laptop, when you see numbers. But not at people.”

“You’re a person, have I not let out a single smile in front of you, ever?”

“Mhmm.” She drains the wine. Sets the glass down with more deliberation than it needs and moves on. “You know she’s weird, right? Your assistant?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like... really weird. Her manner of speaking, where she seems to know things she shouldn’t.” Wonyoung tilts her head. “I’ve never met her in person. I don’t want to. Two phone calls and I already feel like she knows everything about me.”

“She probably does.”

“That’s not comforting, Hinode-san.” A pause. “The way she describes how you act. I thought about it for two days.”

“How did she say it?”

“Like she knew exactly everything you’ll say and do.” She says it matter-of-factly. “Like she has swallowed you whole and tasted you in her mouth for a while. Like a lollipop that lost its flavor from being in her mouth for too long.”

“What a dramatic way of just saying we’re close.”

“I’m an influencer. Dramatics is my job.” She finishes her wine. “Just be careful, Hinode-san. Something about her gives me the creeps, and my instincts about people are usually good.”

“Usually?”

“Well—” She gestures at the folders spread across her coffee table, then rolls her eyes. “—obviously I’ve learned my lesson.”

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

The presentation happens on a Friday.

You’ve assembled everything: Forged signatures, paper trails, and the documentation of all the shell companies. The amount of evidence that stacked up proves you have a case strong enough it makes the prosecutor look at you in awe.

Everyone’s here: The legal team, whatever remains of Wonyoung’s crew, and Tsuki.

She insisted on attending. Said it was important to see the work through. You didn’t argue. Now she’s sitting in the corner of the room, watching, taking notes. 

“This is enough,” the lead attorney says when you finish. He’s gone quiet. “This is more than enough. We can file criminal charges within the week.”

“How did you find all this?” his associate asks. “Three other firms looked at the same documents and gave up.”

“The parts of the crime everyone assumes don’t matter.” You close your laptop. “But that’s only half of it.”

“What’s the other half?”

You consider how much to say. You haven’t really articulated this stuff before; you had no opportunity to.

“People at this level steal in a specific way. They wipe emails because they think those are the only written records. They forge signatures because they think nobody compares. They fly to another country because they think being physically out of reach means being out of consequence of the law.” You shrug. “I wouldn’t really call them careless. They’re confident. The difference matters: carelessness leaves crumbs to follow while confidence leaves accidental blueprints to foil their plans.”

The associate stops writing.

“You don’t break their case by outsmarting them. You simply break it by noticing they only care about the rooms they’re scheming in. The server logs live in a room with the IT guy they were rude to four years ago. They lose track of how many rooms they’ve created because they assume those rooms don’t matter.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I worked for partners like them and unknowingly drafted their criminal architecture. Didn’t even bother checking it.” You don’t say where; don’t have to.

Across the room, Tsuki’s pen pauses, and you meet her eyes. 

“Excellent work, Hinode-san,” she says smooth, unreadable. “Clean and thorough. Exactly what I expected from you.”

But that’s not what her expression says. Her expression says I didn’t expect this at all.

“Thank you,” you reply. “I couldn’t have done it without your... assistance.”

The lawyers don’t notice the pause, Wonyoung does. Her eyes flick between you and Tsuki, calculating something you can’t read.

“Well,” she says finally. “I think this calls for a celebration. Don’t you? A first for our many more upcoming wins.”

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

The celebration starts professional.

Champagne and bliss after endless nights of feeling filipendulous. The lawyers leave around ten, and her crew follows after. Soon it’s just you, Wonyoung, and too many empty bottles.

Tsuki left earlier, saying she had other business. You’re not sure you believe her. (You bet yourself she’s just pissed you were able to actually figure this out on your own way.)

“You did it,” Wonyoung says, on her fourth glass—maybe fifth. She’s less bitchy now. “You actually fucking did it, look at that.”

“We did it. Your trust made the case possible.”

“Don’t be modest, it’s annoying. I was annoying the whole time.” She refills your glass without asking. “Three firms said it couldn’t be done. You did it in three weeks, impressive.”

“Thought your money was being wasted on me?”

“Shut up.” She clinks her glass against yours. “To you, Hinode-san. The only honest man I’ve met in this garbage industry.”

You drink, the whiskey is expensive (everything here is expensive).

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Sure.”

“Your assistant, the creepy one.” She pulls her legs up under her. Totally casual, totally not insinuating anything beyond… a movement. “Are you sleeping with her?”

You don’t answer immediately, your eyes wander around the room, looking at everything but her.

“You are.” She sounds amused. “Or you were. I can tell by the way you avoid the question.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“That’s what men always say.” She sets down her glass. Moves closer to the couch. “Here’s another question: Are you sleeping with the Kwon daughter?”

“That’s—”

“Kwon Eunbi. I looked her up. You worked for her family; it’s how you have that legal team. You keep texting her when you think I’m not watching.” She tilts her head. “Are you?”

“We’re not…”

“But you were.”

“Briefly.”

“And you still have feelings for her.”

You don’t deny it.

“Interesting.” Wonyoung is very close now. Close enough that you can smell her perfume and all the alcohol she’s consumed. “So you’re hung up on one of your past clients, sleeping with another woman who may or may not be human, and now you’re in my apartment getting dangerously drunk.”

“I should probably go.”

“Probably,” Her fingers graze your leg as her whole body slowly inches nearer. “or we could...”

“Wonyoung—”

“I’m not asking for your heart, Hinode-san.” Her hand finds your knee. “I’m only asking for a distraction. One night where I can feel like a person instead of a product. Is that so terrible?”

“You’re a client.”

“So was Eunbi, this isn’t new for you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” She’s closer still. Her lips brush the side of your face. “You did the work, saved my career. Everything else is just... paperwork.”

You should leave. But you’re tired. And drunk. And her hand is warm on your thigh. And there’s an ache inside you that never quite goes away, an emptiness that nothing seems to fill.

Tsuki is in your head, Eunbi is in your head, and Wonyoung is right here… wanting you—offering something simple and uncomplicated.

“Just this once,” you hear yourself say.

“Just this once,” she agrees.

Her perfect lips find yours.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

You haven’t been touched without strings attached in a while. Wonyoung’s strings are at least transparent. That’s definitely an upgrade you can’t pass on.

The sex is messy, drunk, and desperate, and nothing like Tsuki. Wonyoung’s idea of sex is chaos-filled, with never-ending demands. You feel her hand tighten in your collar.

“Come on,” she gasps into your mouth, pulling at your clothes. “I’ve been waiting all week for this.”

“You’ve been—”

“Did you think I was dressing like this for myself?” She laughs, wild and genuine. “Every meeting, every late-night work session, I was wondering what it would take to break the formidable Hinode Akihiro.”

“I never noticed.” 

“Liar.” Your shirt is off now, her slender fingers working on your belt. “You totally noticed. I never unsent those drunk texts for a reason.”

“You’re a client.”

“Never stopped you before. You know what, just shut up. Just—” She kisses you again. Bites your lip hard enough to bruise them. “—fuck me already.”

She steps back a bit, watches your face as she unravels herself. Reaches behind her neck and undoes whatever clasp is holding her dress up. The fabric drops in one smooth motion, dropping like liquid on the floor.

Your eyes wander. Long lines, carved shoulders, ribs visible. A flat stomach with ample tits, high, pert, and meant to fit into any piece of clothing. Her panties matched her dress with a lacy exterior and a silk inner lining, making you crave more. She’s obviously wet with patches forming around her slit.

She catches you taking her in.

“Is this the first time you’re seeing a woman naked Hinode-san?” She steps back into your space; her hands reach for your belt. “Now let’s see you.”

You strip while she watches. Her eyes track your every movement as if you’re performing an act, and she’s required to provide an evaluation after. First your shirt, then your pants. All that’s left is your underwear and the tenting frustration that used to be empty but is now filled with heat due to the blazing hot flame of a woman in front of you. You take that off too, and now you’re fully naked in front of her.

She lies on her bed without breaking eye contact. You watch as she spreads her long, perfect legs.

“Come here.”

You come, and then she wraps her legs around your waist before you’re fully on the bed, then pulls you in. You’re hard against her thigh; she moves until you’re hard against her cunt, still covered by already wet fabric.

“In me, now. Don’t make me ask twice.”

You use your fingers to pull the only barrier between your cock and her needy cunt to the side, then you push in. She’s extremely tight. You realize that due to her profession, this kind of tightness must have come from genuine three-years-without-sex type of desire. She gasps once, sharp, then bites it back.

You start fucking her harder. Her loudness fills the room, and she talks through it the entire time.

“Harder! Yes! Right there—” She outpaces you, breaking your rhythm, and you try to match it, causing you to go harder than usual. “—come on Hinode-san, don’t hold back!”

You struggle to keep up. Weeks without sex and having to deal with the emptiness that consumed you are showing their effects. Wonyoung’s face changes. Her hands leave your shoulders and you don’t immediately register where they’ve gone until—

Both hands meet your face, the sound surprises you more than the impact. Your ears ring, and the room comes back into focus.

“Wake up Hinode-san! Is that all you’ve got?! I expected more from someone who—fuck—okay, that’s more like it—”

You pull out. Pull her legs aside and then strip the rest of her properly this time. She lets you. She spreads her legs again, and like a photoshoot, Wonyoung looks at you like she’s looking at a camera. Her body, just a tad shy of heavenly perfection, built to be seen—performs for you. Her eyes catch yours, and she smiles at an angle meant for her. She adjusts her body to fit better under yours, still directing, still producing, still being the star of this show.

You watch your own body become a paid actor on top of her. You then fuck her harder, exactly how she wants it.

“Look at me.” Her nails dig into your jaw, turn your face towards hers. “When your cock is inside me, you look at me. Only me. Not the bed, not the wall, not whatever you were just looking at. Me.”

Your eyes are now glued to her.

“There he is.” She hooks her ankles behind your back. “There’s the face I’ve been waiting for.”

“Wonyoung—”

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me I’m better than her. Actually, tell me that I’m better than both of them. The Kwon daughter and your creepy little assistant.” Her hips roll up against yours. “You’re still thinking about them right now, I can tell Hinode-san. Stop.”

“I’m not…”

“Yes, you are. Eunbi was here—” she taps your forehead “—for like two seconds. Don’t lie to me, I have a PhD in reading faces. So fix it; confess to me.” She grabs your wrist, then brings your hand to her throat. “Tell me I’m better.”

“You’re—” Your words are starting to slur, unsure of how to continue. “—different.”

“Different?” She laughs, more shocked than offended. “Try harder, Hinode-san. I built a media empire on getting what I want. I am not settling for different.”

You lose it. You thrust harder, and you hear moans and gasps. Then, as if she realized something, she laughs, then she moans, then the moan becomes another laugh, almost delighted with herself.

“That’s better, that’s what I wanted.” Her head tips back against the pillow. “Millions of people crave for me Hinode-san. Millions of people would kill just to get one night with me. And right now, the only thing on this planet you should be thinking about is me. Say it.”

“What?”

“Say my name.”

“Wonyoung.”

“Again!”

You laugh once into her shoulder despite yourself. She laughs back.  Then her hand finds your hair and pulls, and you stop laughing because she’s tightening around you again.

“Say it again, please. Say it loud.”

You say it louder, then she cums violently around you. Her whole body shaking from the pleasure, her moans loud and unembarrassed. Fingers in your hair pull you down to her mouth. Your tongues slithering onto each other, all wet, messy, and raw.

She doesn’t go quiet after, not even a hint of slowing down.

“Don’t you dare stop, I told you I’ve been waiting all week. You’re not done until I am.”

You obviously don’t stop.

She flips you onto your back without warning, climbs on, and rides you with the same confidence as before. 

Even through the sex-fueled haze, something strikes you. You start noticing her features: Her skin is too good to be uncurated, a scar lives on her knee from something she’s never explained on her socials. A birthmark on her hip looks like a dropped ink spot. A tattoo under her ribs, her PR team probably photoshops out of every campaign.

She is real in every sense of the word; someone who exists, who ages, who bears marks of living, while building a career on being more polished than she is. Her body is a project that she’s proud of.

Tsuki manages to haunt your thoughts anyway; you can’t help it. Even with Wonyoung above you, chasing her own pleasure, you’re thinking about that flat dark eyes and skin without any of these marks and how Tsuki looks at you like she’s always solving an equation.

“You’re somewhere else again.”

You blink. Wonyoung’s slowed down, looking at you, and clearly not amused.

“I’m here.”

“You’re obviously not.” She doesn’t sound hurt. “Fine, come here.” She pulls you up by the neck and kisses you slowly this time. “If you’re going to be fucking me while thinking of another woman, at least make it convincing.”

You try. You give it all you got and match her pace, pistoning yourself into her, now chasing your own release.

“Now. You may cum inside me Hinode-san.”

That does it. It rips through you, and she eyes you for every second of it. Lip caught between her teeth; her eyes on your face while you spill your seed inside her. Thick ropes of cum flood her insides and she feels all of it.

When you collapse next to her, she doesn’t curl into you. She props herself on one elbow and studies you.

“You’re so much sadder than I thought you’d be.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn’t an insult.” She traces a finger down your chest. “I want to know what’s bothering you. Your soul feels so empty, so quiet on the inside.” 

She’s wrong about that. You’re never quiet on the inside, you’re just good at hiding what you really feel. You’ve been trained for twelve years to shut your thoughts and put it through words and numbers on paper.

You don’t answer.

She doesn’t push. Her eyes stay on you.

Eventually, you close your eyes because her watching is more intimate than anything that just happened. 

You fall asleep with her eyes still on you.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Morning arrives with all the subtlety of a hammer.

You wake up to sunlight stabbing your eyeballs and a headache that suggests your brain is trying to escape through your temples. There’s a warm long body next to you. Right. Wonyoung. Last night. The celebration that became something else.

She stirs. Groans. Opens one eye.

“Oh god.”

“Yeah.”

“We…”

“Yeah.”

She sits up slowly. The sheet falls and you’re both still naked. She notices but doesn’t seem to care.

“That happened,” she says.

“It did.”

“I feel like death.”

“Same.”

She laughs; messy, still hungover, and genuine. “Okay. Great. This is fine. We’re adults, right? We got drunk and made questionable decisions. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“For who?”

“People with too much money and too little supervision.” She stretches. You try not to stare at her body: long limbs, elegant lines, the small imperfections that make her real. “How does it feel to have fucked someone like me? I expect you to not be weird about all this, okay?”

“It’s aight and I’m not being weird.”

“You’re still staring at my tits, you know?”

“Well… You’ve got nice tits.”

“Sure, thanks.” But she’s smiling. “Look. Last night was... what it was. Two lonely people being stupid together. Let’s not make it more than that.”

“Agreed.”

“We’re still professional. You’re still my consultant. This never happened.”

“What never happened?”

“Exactly.” She stands. Grabs the robe from where it landed on a chair. “I need coffee. You need coffee. We’re both going to pretend we’re not dying.”

She disappears toward the kitchen, you sit up. Try to make your brain work.

Last night. The celebration. The whiskey. The…

You slept with another client. You thought about Tsuki the entire time. You observed, no, you noticed every way Wonyoung’s body was different from hers. And now you’re sitting in an expensive apartment, hungover and naked, wondering what exactly you’ve become.

Wonyoung returns with two cups of coffee and a wooden box.

“Here.” She hands you a cup. Sits on the edge of the bed. “I want to show you something.”

“What?”

She opens the box. Inside, wrapped in faded silk, is a mask.

Your chest tightens.

A Hannya mask. You’ve been seeing them everywhere lately. Hotel hallways. Minjun’s office. The same face. Horns and teeth and an expression that doesn’t decide whether it’s grieving or about to bite.

“Where did you get that?”

“A friend. She’s Japanese like you. Her name is Naoi Rei. We met at a brand collaboration a few years ago. She’s a designer, does traditional Japanese craftwork for runway. Lives in Tokyo, actually. Her studio’s in Aoyama, not far from your office, if I remember right.” Wonyoung traces the mask’s features. “She gave me this when things started going bad with my management. Said everyone in the industry needs protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“That’s the thing.” Wonyoung looks up. Her expression is strange. Uncertain in a way you haven’t seen before. “I asked her the same thing. And she told me stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Demons. Women who look human but aren’t. Who attach themselves to men at their lowest moments and...” She trails off. “I don’t know. Feed on them, I guess. Make things worse while pretending to help.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s folklore created to scare children.”

“Rei doesn’t think so.” Wonyoung holds up the mask. Studies it. “She says the Kanji for these demons in Japanese are the same as the Buddhist word for wisdom. I don’t have a good grasp of that idea myself. It’s all very vague and deep.”

“Demons and wisdom share a name.”

“Yeah. Rei said that’s the point.” She hands you the mask. “Keep it.”

“I can’t…”

“It’s not a gift. It’s a warning.” She meets your eyes. “Your assistant texts from a weird handle, Hinode-san. I saw it on your phone. And the way she looks at you, the way she knows things she shouldn’t…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what she is. But I don’t think she’s human.”

You look at the mask in your hands. The horns. The teeth. The face of a woman who used to be something else.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re the first person in years who actually helped me without wanting something in return.” She pulls the robe tighter around herself. “And because whatever she is, whatever game she’s playing. I don’t think you know the rules yet.”

You don’t know what to say. So you just sit there, holding a demon’s face in your hands, trying to make sense of things that refuse to make sense.

“Thank Rei for me,” you finally say.

“Thank her yourself. I’ll send you her contact info.” Wonyoung stands. “Now get dressed. I need you to leave so I can die of this hangover in peace.”

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

The flight back to Tokyo takes forever.

Your laptop’s open. You haven’t typed anything in twenty minutes. The search bar’s open. You haven’t searched anything.

You used to read Wikipedia for fun: Try to get from one topic to another by just clicking specific keyword links, but now you’re stumped.

You type: Hannya.

The first result is an odd webpage, you read three sentences and close it. The second is a Noh theater archive. You read one paragraph and close that too.

A woman whose jealousy twisted her into something else. Something that finds men at their lowest moments and stays.

You close the laptop.

You remember the bar. Four months ago. 

You think about the Wonyoung case. Every dead end, she had an answer for. Every door closed, she had a key. You’ve managed this far without ever using her keys, and that somehow surprised her. Like the version of you doing this clean wasn’t the version she’d been planning for.

The Hannya mask is in your bag. You can feel it the way you’d feel a tumor.

Figure out your ghost.

Your phone buzzes.

般若: you’ve been quiet.

般若: how did the celebration go? fucked another client, have you?

般若: I see you’re starting to get curious.

般若: be careful what you dig for, Aki-kun.

般若: some things don’t want to be found.

You put the phone face down on the tray table and stare out the window. 

She knows but she’s been wrong before, once, about you. So maybe she doesn’t know everything.

✦✦✦⟡⟡⟡

Two days later, another message arrives.

You’re at your desk, staring at the Hannya mask you’ve placed where you can see it, when your phone buzzes.

Different number. Different tone.

Hinode-san. Following up. I know you’ve been ignoring my voicemails and emails for the past month. I respect that. I’ve decided to write the piece anyway, to also hopefully get your attention. Private consulting and the ethics of confidential advisory work. I’m interested in how you rebuilt your career after Ishikawa, and whether the rumors about your “unusually efficient” assistant have any substance. Last chance to comment before publication. Forty-eight hours. After that, your silence becomes part of the story.

You read it three times.

You remember her byline. Polaris. Four senior partners in prison and a Bloomberg Asia cover. The kind of work that doesn’t get written by accident.

You think about the voicemails you didn’t return. The coffee invite you ignored. The email you read once in Eunbi’s kitchen and put face-down on the counter.

You don’t want your name in whatever she’s writing.

Someone else has noticed. Someone outside your circle is asking questions about Tsuki.

Your phone buzzes again. The familiar handle.

般若: you received an interesting message.

般若: be careful how you respond, Aki-kun.

般若: some questions are safer left unanswered.

You look at the two messages side by side. The journalist asking questions. Tsuki warning you from answering.

For the first time in months, you feel something other than empty.

You feel curious.

You pick up your phone. Type something short.

You: Kim Jiwoo-ssi. You’ve got my attention.

You send it. Don’t read it back.

Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you open the contact Wonyoung forwarded an hour ago. Naoi Rei: Aoyama, the designer with the masks.

You: Naoi-san. Hinode Akihiro. I’m back in Tokyo. Jang Wonyoung gave me your contact and spoke very highly of you. I’d look forward to meeting if you can spare an hour this week. I have one of your masks. I think we should talk.

You hit send before you can think about why. Your finger lingers on the screen.

Your phone buzzes.

般若: interesting choice~

般若: which one of those messages do you think I’m talking about, Aki-kun?

You don’t respond.

般若: I’ll see you soon.

You pour yourself a bourbon. The glass tastes like the bar four months ago. You don’t finish it.

Your phone buzzes again. A new number. Korean country code.

Hinode-san. I should mention. I don’t write stories I’m not willing to follow into the room.

Look out your window.

You don’t move.

The next buzz is a photo. Your building, taken from across the street. Your floor. Your kitchen light still on. Time-stamped one minute ago.

Apartment 24F. The one with the bourbon poured. I’ll be in your lobby in ten minutes. I brought us coffee. You’re going to want to talk to me, Hinode-san. The piece is already written. I’d rather not file it without giving you a chance to be a person in it instead of a name.

You look at the mask. Look at your phone. Look at the bourbon you didn’t finish.

“Ten minutes, huh?”

The announcement came suddenly about two weeks ago; all programming was interrupted to give way for the President's public address. 15-20 meters in diameter, he said. Somewhere in the Korean Peninsula is where it'll land, scientists claimed. Blast radius, tsunami heights—the rest was scientific jargon you gave zero fucks or had any knowledge about. Most, if not all of Asia will be scourged. Casualties in the hundreds of millions, if not outright billions. Changes in climate lasting centuries. Effects on the world at large: significant.

They said it like you were just a statistic and not a living breathing human being. This was the extinction-level event the wealthy elite dreamed of. This is what Roland Emmerich was creaming his pants making movies about.

You followed the first few hours with piqued interest. Watched men in lab coats explain science and computer models on TV like you were in fifth grade again. Then came the politicians who said nothing, the religious figures—both the earnest ones and the charlatans alike—calling for prayer, for repentance, for something, anything, as if God was waiting for a sufficient number of people to say sorry before deciding to take His chosen up to heaven or redirect a six hundred meter rock out of Earth's orbit. 

Within 48 hours, the networks stopped bothering with experts. There was nothing left to explain, really; the maths were clear and concise. No amount of science can change the fact that a quarter of the world's population was gonna be vaporized, bare minimum, and a third of the earth was gonna be rendered uninhabitable. The only variable left was how those people would spend their final hours. 

This isn't a world where superheroes fall from the sky and save people, nor is it one where Mars is one readily accessible Elon Musk spaceship away. This is real life: cold and cruel, but it’s the world you live in. Sometimes the powers that be hear your prayers, but more often than not, it doesn’t respond. And regardless of what happens, whether you live or die, life goes on. In the future, you'll just be an afterthought lost to time. People will remember the meteor, but not you.

There's no point in fighting. No point in living for tomorrow.

—————

You walk out into the streets of Seoul like it's just another Tuesday.

72 hours till the meteor hits. Less than. With each second, it approaches ever closer. Slowly. Surely. An inevitability. 

The networks added a doomsday clock counting down the hours in real-time. Regular programming continues with the occasional meaningless update, but otherwise, life goes on like normal. At least as normal as it can possibly be during a situation like this.

If it weren't for a big rock shadowing high up in the clouds, you'd think there was some kind of political upheaval—a revolution. Except no; the government has all but given up. They're secure in some underground bunker somewhere, watching, saving their own asses, offering false pretenses to people that are left to their own devices. Most of them at least. They'll wake up to a world without their own blood, a culture mostly scorched by fire and ash, and they'll forget this nation ever existed.

To say that it's loud would be an understatement. Going to the subway station is akin to moving through war-torn trenches.

Smoke permeates through the streets, never fading and constantly unsavory smelling. Stores are either broken through or falling apart. Men in masks rob some poor guy's furniture store to take out a sofa from his shop and set it ablaze in the center. Society has ripped off the band-aid and torn up the social contract. Not to mention the relentless cries of religious men in the corners with their signs calling to repent. It makes the meteor seem like an afterthought.

"Repent!" The preacher yells out as you walk past him on the walkway. "The Kingdom of God is at hand! The Lord will judge the living and the dead!"

You wonder whether the meteor has given him permission to be like this, or he just hangs around here all the time. You can’t quite tell the difference.

Through all this, the subway remains operational. People still have places to go, somewhere to be, even if they are only the few sane ones left. 

The train cars are mostly empty, so much so you can pick whichever seat you want and there would be no objections. A young couple hold each other's hands till their knuckles turn pale white. An elderly woman lugs around a suitcase staring blankly at the floor like she's trying to memorize its pattern. You wonder if you've seen these people before; you wonder if they imagined this is how their lives would end. The thought lingers for only a moment before you put your headphones on and listen to music as the tunnels blur past.

It's amazing, really, how death makes time feel more invaluable. When you're alive and free and have nothing to worry other than overdue bills and expenses, it's easy to forget how quickly it can pass you by, how seasons change, because it's always there. And when it's suddenly cut short, when life expectancy goes from 65 all the way down to 25—you begin to realize how much of it you're wasting away on things that ultimately don't matter.

For one, you haven't called your family in months. They're still texting every now and then, asking how's the experience in Korea, but you haven't responded to any of them other than an emoji here and there. Then there's your friends you've met online; gaming sessions that once took you into the break of dawn hardly last longer than an hour now. And your circle is slowly breaking apart too; relationships, parenthood, career opportunities, war—

Growing up is realizing how lonely it gets in the world. How you're only surviving, not living. They always tell you to work hard, but now it feels pointless. A big rock is about to undo your entire existence—and like 70% of the world's history and culture.

Still, you soldier on. Because this is the only thing you know, and there's comfort in familiarity.

The building looks the same as it always is: gray and dull and in dire need of renovation. The security guard's still there, barely looking up to watch you swipe your badge and nodding.

"Still coming in today?" he asks absentmindedly, returning to his phone, watching some K-drama on his screen. Behind him is a small TV tuned to the news, doomsday clock counting down the time: 71 hours, 54 minutes, 12 seconds. Eleven. Ten.

"Someone has to," you say, which isn't really an answer.

"I guess," he replies, flippantly, shrugging. As you're about to enter the building, he then continues. "My wife wants me to come home. Says we should be together. For the end, you know."

You nod; there's nothing else you can say or do. You hardly talked to this man, other than 'Good morning' and 'See you, take care.' Never asked about his personal life—never knew he even had a wife until now—and it's too late to start. 

"So, will you be going home to her?"

"Probably. I don't know." He says it with a lackadaisical demeanor while watching the show, making you question why he randomly brought it up to begin with.

Nevertheless, you continue and walk to the elevator.

On the 17th floor, the office is almost deserted. A place housing 24 employees, there's only three today, you excluded. Your boss is at his desk by the window overlooking the Han River, answering phone calls like always. He catches you mid call, gestures with his hand, silently mouthing 'one minute' before finishing his conversation over the line and hanging up.

He then motions to the unoccupied chair in front of him. "Take a seat." So you oblige. 

His laptop has the doomsday ticker too: 71 hours, 49 minutes, 28 seconds now. 27. 26. End of the world aside, your boss looks tired. Not the topical acceptance that everything is meaningless and ash and rubble, but more ‘I haven't slept in three days and been making calls that won't change anything’ tired. His tie is loose around the collar; his hair looks grayer than usual. Maybe you haven't been paying this much attention to him.

"You're here," he remarks straight to the point.

"You say it like it's surprising," is your reply, knowing you haven't missed a day since Christmas. Never took a sick leave or paid time off so far in the year. Stayed several overtimes per week too. One of his strongest soldiers, as they would say.

"It is." He then switches tabs on his laptop, now flashing his GMail. "You're one of four people who showed up today. I had 52 employees. Now it's just" —he gestures at the empty desks— "this."

You don't blame anyone; none of this is important in the face of a giant rock headed towards your humble first world country.

"Life goes on," you tell him, shrugging, nonchalant.

"Does it?" he asks, but neither of you really know the answer to that. Nobody does.

He taps his fingers on the keyboard. Mutters something beneath his breath. A prayer, perhaps, followed by a deep, heavy sigh. Adjusting his glasses, he faces you again: "Thank you," he adds, and it sounds genuinely sincere. "for being here. For showing up. I don't know. It's more than what most people are doing."

"It's—just a job," you answer, because there's really no reason for this to be theatrical or melodramatic. Not like he promised you an overdue promotion a year ago or anything.

"It's not. Not anymore," he insists, shaking his head. "But thank you anyway."

After a pause, a moment of awkward silence where your gaze just wanders around, you ask if you can head to your desk, and he lets you go. 

There's still work to do. There's always work to do.

Your office is no larger than a closet, but it's yours. It's a lot bigger when the place feels more quiet than usual. Even tapping your feet seems to produce an echo off the thin walls. And speaking of, one half is plastered with sticky notes, of passwords you should have memorized, of memos and tasks you've completed ages ago. A graduation photo of you with your parents sits in the corner collecting dust, as well as a calendar on the other end you haven't bothered changing in two years.

Then there's the right side of your desk, your mini-shrine of sorts. It started out small and innocuous, like all other interests: a hit song that always played in the streets, a fancam that caught your eye during one of your breaks. Not long after, you fell down the rabbit hole. She was the it-girl of Korea; her face was inescapable no matter where you looked. Billboards, banners, posters—every brand she modeled for was like an endorsement from the heavens itself. Meanwhile her leader was a charismatic performer who had a fun side to her. 

It grew beyond those two. It became twelve. You learned they were groupmates with another dynamic pairing: one whose cute face had a duality of being both sweet and lethal. The other was the steady presence and industry veteran who had her moments of quirkiness. These two pairs became the backbone of their own respective groups. But once upon a time, they were sisters-in-arms. Members who grew under their own leader, their mother figure. 

Then came the rest: a pretty face who always tried her best even though she never wanted to be an idol. A ball of charm that can do anything and would light up the room with her energy. A dancer who pushed herself no matter how difficult it got. A gorgeous actress who knew this was her one and only group. A tiny pocket of sunshine who still kept close with the others every chance she got. A leader took a second chance in Korea when she could have thrived just as much in Japan. And finally, a soulful voice and actress whom the world cried for when she tragically met her demise and broke the hearts of millions.

Each of them became successful, no matter what path they took, but together, they were something magical. These days, they’re just a memory, kept in music, performances, fandom nostalgia, and on the photos plastered on your wall. They haven't released anything new in years. Quietly withdrew from the public eye once they reached 30, or in the case of some, 35. You hope they're fine, wherever they are. After all, the news did say select individuals were being evacuated outside of the President and high-ranking government officials. Culture and history has to be preserved, if that’ll even be a thing.

Death makes you think about a lot of things. Regret mostly. But there's one thing that will bother you the most: the fact that you never saw them together. Live. In-person. Everything else can come second place.

You can only sigh and touch one of the photos—one of their last shots taken as twelve—before turning to your computer and answering emails.

—————

Today's workload is heavier than yesterday's. Not surprising, given what should have been done by a team of around 52 is now being shared by just four people. No one complains, not even you; there's no use when this all is meaningless in two days, anyway.

You process invoices. Update spreadsheets. Spam follow-up emails to clients whose faces you never see and who will never read them. You answer phone calls from people with the exact same sound of surprise that someone actually picked up. 'Business as usual,' you'll say, even during the end of the world, then get to inquiring about orders that will never ship and deliveries that will never arrive.

Rinse and repeat. You've never been more aware of the time, but it truly flies when you're preoccupied with work.

During lunch, you watch a rerun of a film being aired on the TV in the break room. Armageddon because apparently SBS has a dark sense of humor. You're biting down on some dry bread on a tuna sandwich, shaking your head remembering that one bit of Ben Affleck commentary about how it's easier for oil-drillers to become astronauts than to teach astronauts how to drill. That and the movie itself is so bad it's a guilty pleasure. 

Here's the situation now: around 60 or so hours before the meteor hits. You're watching a movie about this exact situation play out, except death is instantaneous, there will be less explosions than what's on screen, and Bruce Willis isn’t going to save you. 

It's absurd. Life is fucking absurd.

—————

The rest of your shift goes by unceremoniously. Your boss leaves at four, shakes your hand and tells you to take care with a sound that's more resigned to the inevitable than actual reassurances. The other employees begin filing out too, quietly taking their belongings before exiting. 

Now you’re left alone again. You can't help but sigh.

Not the one that screams ‘fuck, the world is really ending’ and more akin to your body crying out in anguish after another day at work. The kind where you just want to lie down once you get home, stare at the ceiling, and think about where it all wrong. Probably the moment you wanted to go to Korea; you've come to this conclusion a long time ago.

And maybe that's the real absurdity: the world is ending and you're sighing like it's another Tuesday and you’re caught up during rush hour.

People are out in the streets, doing whatever the fuck they want because nothing will matter soon. Meanwhile you're still here behind these four walls, trying to cling to the last traces of normality because you don't know what life feels like without having to follow a pattern. In your eyes, life is about structure and control, not chaos and spontaneity. A meteor heading for earth is the complete opposite of that worldview.

Before leaving, you take one more glance at your makeshift shrine. Your collection of photocards pinned to the wall from different eras and groups. Your gaze snags on that one picture of them as twelve, and you look at them with a longing that feels too personal. Like they're within reach.

I hope you're okay. Wherever you are, you’re praying mentally. It's hard to find faith when everything around you is collapsing.

You grab your bag, and for whatever reason, you remove the photo from the wall, pocket it in your coat, and head off. Outside, the entrance is desolate; the guard's phone is plugged into the charger, but he's nowhere to be found. You shrug as you walk into the streets, putting on your headphones; it’s your only shield from the violence, noise, and anarchy of it all.

In the distance, the sun begins to set. It might be your last.

The train stops somewhere between Hongdae and Sinchon. Not gently, not a gradual slowing when the operator's being cautious, but rather a sudden lurch, one that almost makes the standing passengers tilt forward and crash onto the floor. 

Delays, when they happen, come few and far between. Usually a door that won't close, a person on the track, sometimes construction or renovation of railroads. These days, however, the conductor says the same thing:

"Attention passengers. Due to civil unrest and blockages on the tracks ahead, this train will proceed no further. All passengers are advised to exit the station and seek alternative transportation. Thank you and we apologize for the inconvenience."

Civil unrest sounds like an understatement for what's basically Korea's adaptation of The Purge. You've had stones and other random objects chucked on the train windows before. You've seen rioters overpower walls of riot shields and toppling police cars. It's only by divine intervention, you conclude, that you haven't been touched by any one of these maniacs. 

Still, no one complains. People simply grab their belongings and keep moving. 

Getting off the platform is its own chaos. The boring kind. Loud and all over the place, but no bodies are being thrown around, and no one is in serious danger. A reminder that you're not alone in this, that even on the cusp of death, life goes on as normal.

Outside the station is a big glaring reminder that some men just want to watch the world burn. Across the street, a convenience store has its windows shattered, groups of thieves running off with whatever food and other supplies they can carry, a fire hydrant with its covers exposed and water endlessly bursting, a car that's upside down and set ablaze because why the fuck not, and the garage wall of some building with the words B.B.S spray painted in what might as well be someone’s blood. Sirens are blasting loudly; you can't tell whether that's police or an ambulance.

You step over a broken umbrella and head the other way.

Your apartment is only 20 minutes from here, maybe less if you take the back alleys. You could walk home in time to catch the evening news. Maybe call up your parents and finally answer back when it's too late. There's also that bottle of wine you've been saving for a special occasion, and there's no better time to open it than now.

Instead, you stride over to the taxi stand, right as an elderly couple climbs into the cab while the cabbie packs their luggage inside the boot. Queuing is nonexistent and the turnaround is quick; the next car pulls up as soon as the last one drives off.

You've got nothing but a sling bag with you. Stepping into the backseat, you give the driver an address you haven't said out loud in years:

"HYBE building, Yongsan district."

Over the rearview mirror, the man's eyes furrow behind his glasses. His hair is thin and gray. His lips quirk; it's the look of a man who's seen some shit. Definitely in his sixties. 

"Are you sure? It's a long way from here. Traffic's bad. Everything is."

"I'm sure," you insist, looking out the window in time to see two masked men beating on some random guy just inches away from your cab. You should feel something—empathy, maybe—but instead, you lean back in your seat and yawn.

The driver shrugs. It's a gesture you're starting to recognize as the universal response to the end of the world. The car revs and pulls away from the curb.

En route to the destination, the streets are clogged with abandoned cars, people walking in the middle of the road, makeshift barricades, overturned trash cans, and piles of burning debris. Probably ran over plenty of dead things, too. Nevertheless, the driver maneuvers around them all with the efficiency and calmness of someone who has been through some shit, worthy of every 5-star review on Über while cursing beneath his breath every time someone jumps in front of the car.

On the right side of the road, a church can be seen with its lights on. A congregation of people assemble as far as outside the entrance doors, singing a worship hymn, their voices raised to the heavens above. They're singing something about being lost and then found. You can hear their collective praise even through the music playing in the car.

"Crazy times," the driver remarks, not directly to you, but to this: the chaos in the streets, the situation above, the world you're currently living in. "I've been driving this road for 15 years. Never seen anything like it."

"Me neither," you say, looking out the window, past the church and seeing a fresh thick layer of smoke rising in the distance. 

"Where are you from?" he then asks. "Originally, I mean."

You pause. Your eyes widen. Then you answer, "Seoul. Moved from Europe around three years ago. Been on a work visa."

"Ah," the driver nods, looking at you through the rearview mirror. "I was born and raised here. I bet your parents must be proud that you work here in Korea, then."

"I don't know about proud," you answer, shaking your head, chuckling, but there's a tinge of underlying bitterness in your tone. "They did help me get here, so I can't really say much."

"Right, right." He nods again, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel as the car stops at a red light. "You know my whole family's here. My wife, my two kids, my mother—she's 83, can you believe it? 83 years old, and this is how she's gonna go. Not in her sleep, not in a hospital. A big fucking rock from space."

He says it like he's still trying to make sense of the fact. Like if he repeats it enough times the absurdity will wear off and something else will take its place. Acceptance or peace, maybe. You're not sure whether those things exist anymore.

"Yeah, well" —you mutter, scratching the back of your ear, stifling a laugh because you can't really comprehend it either— "I didn't think I'd go out like this too. None of us did. But it really do be like that, sometimes."

"What it be?" he snorts, sarcastic, a bit peeved (an understatement). "That we're left to die on our own while our leaders are tucked away safe and sound?"

The mood inside the car changes instantly. The driver goes quiet as he weaves around an abandoned delivery truck occupying two lanes. Then he continues talking. "Those people—the ones who ran—they're the real cowards. The politicians, the CEOs, the celebrities with their private jets and personal escorts. They're no better than us; only richer."

The photo in your coat feels a little heavier now. 

"BTS left, you know that?" he continues, charged with an anger that's genuine, the kind that's been building for days: "They were on the list. Special transport, same as the president's cabinet. Within 48 hours of the announcement. Packed-up and gone. Jimin, Jungkook, all of them. Cowards."

"They're just people," you say, casual, understanding but seeing the world for what it is. "like everyone else."

"Famous people," he corrects. "They could have stayed. Could have—I don't know—said something." He shakes his head, clearly fuming at the idea. "But no. They're on a plane to go wait it out with the rest of the wealthy elite and would rather watch us all die. Meanwhile Son Heung-min—you know who Son is, right?"

Of course you do. Can't talk about football in this country without his name being among the first mentioned, if not outright. Even more than Mbappe or Lamal, hell, even Messi or Ronaldo.

"He was offered a spot. You know what he said? He said no. Said he'd rather die with his people." The driver's voice cracks slightly before returning to normal. "Now that's a man. That's someone who understands what it means to be a Korean."

And to be honest, you don't know how to react. You've accepted this for a long time, even without all the nutjob conspiracy theorists spazzing about it: the government and wealthy elite have a place of their own. Now they can rule the world without the guilt of having blood spilled by their own hands thanks to nature's call.

"So HYBE," he then says, while you're deep in thought. "Why there? You a fan of someone? My daughter's a big ILLIT fan."

You don’t answer; you don't know why exactly, either. There's a couple of groups you liked, and maybe you wanted to give them one final visit, maybe get some signatures that won't mean anything soon. That's if they're still even there, if the place is still functional. Given that company and BTS, with their connections to the government, it wouldn't surprise you if all their artists made it on the list for safe passage. But seeing as the lights are still on as the building is in sight—

"I don't know," is your eventual response. Even if you actually knew the reason, you would have said this anyway. "I just felt like going. Wanting to visit places before I go. I mean—we go."

The driver shrugs again. Doesn't press on any further. "Fair enough."

The cab pulls up to the front entrance of HYBE headquarters. Taller than you previously saw it, or maybe it's just reality warping itself the closer you get to the end. As expected, the front is empty and desolate; no security guards keeping watch, but the lights are on as night begins to fall. Peeking from outside, there's hardly any activity going on inside either. It's a miracle the rioters haven't burned this place to the ground yet.

"That'll be 22,000₩," the driver remarks, putting the car in park and looking over his shoulder. "On the house, though. Consider it a going away present."

You pay  the fare anyway. Add in a few thousand more as a tip, because Lord knows he's gonna need it should he miraculously live past tomorrow. 

Climbing out of the car, the streets here are calmer, peaceful. The air is cooler, less smog and fire. Most of the nearby stores are closed, and in the distance, the Namsan Tower still broadcasts its light show to an audience that's mostly stopped watching.

"You need me to wait?" the driver suddenly asks, drawing your attention. "Might be hard to find another cab out here."

A second scan beyond the glass doors shows you nothing. What once was a living hub for one of the biggest music labels now feels like a desolate paradise. The lights are on but nobody's home.

"No," you tell him. "Think I'll be here for a while."

He doesn't say another word. He quietly drives off, the screech of tires and hum of an engine echoing in your ears being the last thing you hear before the car disappears around the corner and you're left on your own again.

Stepping past the front doors, the entrance is completely unguarded. No security guards either, no sudden ambush out of nowhere. Cameras are everywhere—if they're still even functioning—but this place has seen stranger things walk through its walls. 

The lobby is no better, completely silent and spotless, like the building is holding its breath. No receptionist waits at the front desk; not a soul roaming the halls. Every step you take echoes, bounces off the walls like roaring thunder. If it weren't for an impeding rock, you'd think the rapture already happened and everyone was taken up. A large screen on the far wall plays a loop of music videos and performances from their artist roster; Le sserafim is currently on screen. All five, present and accounted for. It's a reminder of good old days, a time period that you now take for granted. 

For the first time in forever, you can't help but smile.

But watching them has you thinking, until curiosity gets the better of you. It's what led you here to begin with. Might as well capitalize on the opportunity. 

So you help yourself to one of the many unused ID cards behind the front desk and step into an elevator. 

Your first instinct is to go to the 12th floor. The dance studio looked so familiar you could sketch it out with your thoughts, the same room where they perfected their craft and shared laughs, tears, and everything in between. It used to be solely theirs, but you've seen your fair share of labelmates and even their juniors take up shop every now and then. Maybe this is the delusion talking, or simply nostalgia. Whatever it is, it's leading to doing things you've never thought about doing until now. 

Maybe this is just coping with the fact you're dying soon, and you've got a laundry list of things you want to do, but never found the time or opportunity to. After all, you lost your spirit and youth a long time ago and never really found it again. Part of it, you believe, is hiding in here somewhere.

But as you tread carefully upon the halls, you hear something faint. Music. Thumping. Beating, like a heart that keeps going after everything. You take note of this. Close your eyes and feel it through your ears, tracing its source. It's leading you to a narrow corridor, the bass growing louder and louder, until it retreats behind a door with a sheet of paper that simply says FIMMIES written in all capitals. 

The paper looks like it's seen everything too. Clearly worn around the edges, the ink looks faded. Behind the door, the music thumps past the walls and echoes. For a moment, you wonder what could have been: standing in the crowd, cheering, waving your lightstick, singing their songs out and repeating the fanchants—

That's never gonna happen now. Only in your wildest of dreams.

But the music keeps going. Perfect Night plays in the background, and as you reach for the knob, you hesitate. Probably staff or a janitor cleaning whatever's left. Doesn't matter; the world is fucking ending. You've come this far to turn back now.

So you slowly open the door. The echo of its creak goes unnoticed. You peek your head and your eyes widen in complete shock.

They're here. In casual clothes, still practicing, still giving it a hundred percent. But it doesn't feel the same as it was. You see it in the mirrors, the way their smiles look hollow and forced, the way Eunchae is a step behind the others. Even with an audience composed of just themselves, they're trying, because they know they won't ever perform to a crowd ever again. 

Yunjin breaks formation and pauses the song on the phone. She looks at her members with a soft, bittersweet smile. "Alright. We did great. Ten minutes."

Eunchae immediately falls to the ground playfully before sitting down. Kazuha reaches for her water bottle, drinking while stretching her leg like the graceful ballerina she is, posture perfect. There's hardly any makeup on their faces, if at all; just their natural, raw selves. It's not that far off from what you've seen of them on screen. 

Then Yunjin's gaze finds you and snags. You're still a stranger wandering around a building you have no business being in. But there's no fear behind her eyes; only a look of surprise and confusion.

"Hi," she says simply. The others turn around to face you as well. "Are you lost?"

Gulp your throat. Open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You cling to the door like a harness, tighter when the members approach you. They don't look scared at all. You expect them to call security, seize you and hold you hostage until they arrive. Kazuha especially; she looks like she can straight up beat the shit out of you.

None of that. They maintain a careful distance, even as you remain silent. Yunjin gestures with her hands. "Go on. We won't hurt you."

For a moment, you continue to stay quiet. Eventually, you manage to speak: "No, no. I'm in the right place." Your eyes wander around the room, at the lights, at the mirrors, at your reflection, "Front door was open, so—"

You flash the ID card that you took as proof. Kazuha tilts her head, assessing you and the item. She's wearing a simple grey top and some joggers, her hair tied in a ponytail. Seeing her up close, you can see how toned her arms are. That she can, in fact, beat the living shit out of you.

Eunchae laughs. It's a small sound, almost involuntary, like a hiccup. "Security's been gone for days. We're surprised the power's still on."

She says it like it's an everyday occurence. That people have come and gone here like it's part of their pilgrimage.

Your head is sticking out a bit wider now. Your grip on the door has loosened, but you're unsure whether you're allowed to step foot inside or not. The practice room is larger than what you've been allowed to see. Going from one point to the opposite side is about as long as an Olympic swimming pool. 

"Well come on in," Yunjin says. "We were just about to have dinner."

The next ten minutes or so is a quick round of catch-up. Seated in a small circle inside the practice room like friends reconnecting.

You bring them up to speed on how you got here. The details remain mostly the same (still the same day, after all) but you keep the intimate parts unspoken. You say you're a fan (like everyone else, but genuinely), that you felt like visiting because the world is ending, as you do during such a time. That seeing them live was on your list, but that's never happening anytime soon. 

You don't ask much about themselves; you've known their careers, their story, their legacy. Instead, you ask them why. Why are they here. Why are they spending their last days practicing together instead of being home with their families, maybe even finding a way to get to safety.

"We were supposed to go," Yunjin says. "Bang promised us safe passage. Not just us, as in" —she gestures to her members— "but all of HYBE. Said we were like family to him, and that we'd be taken care of."

"But—"

"He didn't," Kazuha sharply cuts in. She sounds flat and dour, like she's stopped fighting and has conceded to her fate. "He took himself and his family and BTS. That's it. The rest of us, we found out the day after. No warning, no explanation. Just—"

She shrugs. Her eyes glaze down to the floor. "Gone. Without a care."

Eunchae, who's been listening and quiet the entire time, adds: "We could have fought it. Gone to the media, made a scene. But what's the point? There's not enough room for everyone. Someone was always going to be left behind."

Your mind recalls what the cab driver said. That the wealthy elite will do anything to save themselves, even if it means throwing trusted confidants under the bus. Nothing new there, but it's nice to have some confirmation. At the end of the day, it's about survival. Nothing personal.

"Then that means," you then say. "the other groups—"

"Not part of that list," Yunjin finishes your sentence. "They all left to be with their families or together. We're the only ones still here, I think."

"In fact, this was supposed to be our last day together," Eunchae chimes in. "We just wanted to practice one more time before we parted ways for good to remember the good times."

"Yeah," Kazuha affirms. "Yunjin's supposed to be flying back to New York tomorrow morning. I'm going back to Amsterdam. And Eunchae's—"

"Gonna have a sleepover with Kyujin and Leeseo," Eunchae completes her member's sentence. She's smiling from ear to ear. You almost forget she's still relatively young compared to the rest.

If there's anything you'll give the end of the world for, it's bringing people together and reconciling. You can't imagine how it feels for these girls, having spent most of their youth and adulthood training, performing, bearing the brunt of needlessly cruel online hate without their loved ones close to them. They'd be lucky if their tours happen to have a stop close to home. But like all other things, none of that matters when everything is destroyed by fire and ash.

"What about you?" Yunjin then asks, turning the question back. "What are you doing?"

To be quite honest, you're not sure. You've resigned yourself to an unceremonious death a long time ago: all alone, no regrets. Mostly. You're not going home to your parents. You sure as hell aren’t hanging out with any of your co-workers, especially your boss. And you definitely aren't gonna make it to those underground bunkers either.

"I don't know.” You've got your hands in the pocket of your pants, unable to face them. "Probably drink. A lot. I've got a bottle of champagne at my place that I haven't opened, and now seems like the perfect time to whip it out."

No one says a word. They simply nod with an understanding that says yes, that's your life, and we're not gonna stop you.

As your hand touches the pocket of your coat, you remember something. When you watched their performances on the large screen downstairs, something felt off, and this was exactly why. The reason you actually came here. Somehow, it never crossed your mind until now. You fish the photocard out of your pocket and show it to them. They lean forward, squinting their eyes at the photo. All three women have a visceral reaction upon recognizing the faces on it. 

Yunjin gasps. "Wait. This is—" 

"Yeah." You're nodding. "I remember now. Why I came here. Because of them. Because of you."

"But—Chaewon and Kkura" —Eunchae interjects— "they're—"

"They're not that far." 

There's this newfound conviction propelling you. Maybe it's because of the people in your photo giving you the drive. Maybe it's just the late kick of adrenaline knowing your time is near, and you're not ready to fall just yet. 

"I'm a Fearnot, that's true," you continue. "But I loved them first. I learned to accept you because of them. And even when you're apart, no matter how far, you're still family. That's what they taught me."

The three girls exchange looks. They're really thinking this through. Hope—maybe. Insanity—definitely.

"Yeah, but" —Kazuha says now— "We don't know—this sounds crazy. Maybe they just want to be—"

"But they also want to see us too. I'm sure of it."

Eunchae shoots you a confused wide eyed stare, her head tilted and arms folded. "Where do we start though?"

You glance at her and remember what she said. Sleepover. The idea immediately bubbles to the surface.

"Starship," you blurt out before you even think about saying it.

"What?" 

"Starship. We should go to the Starship building. Maybe they're still there, having something similar to this. A swan song, if you will." You're smiling as you suggest the notion, because not even the end of the world can keep you from making stupid jokes.

It doesn't register at first. Not immediately. But with Eunchae, the implication clicks not long after:

"Leeseo. You're right.”

"Good idea," Kazuha adds. "I should say goodbye to Rei before I leave Korea. Maybe she'll leave too."

"Alright. Looks like everyone's decided," Yunjin says, having taken up de-facto leadership on behalf of the group. "We're going to the Starship building."

But right when you're about to head off—Kazuha's putting on her jacket, Yunjin unplugging her phone—you also remember you came here on a cab. And the driver that took you is long gone.

"Wait," you suddenly tell them as you're approaching the door. "I don't have a car."

"No worries," Yunjin immediately answers. "I can drive. Took the girls here too. We'll take my car. Surely the streets aren't this bad tonight."

Leaving the HYBE building is a quick, mechanical affair. Turns out people still look after the place; you find a janitor sweeping the floors as you make your way back to the elevator. Looking out the window it's clearly nighttime, with an hour having passed since you came in. Yunjin says they haven't seen a receptionist in three days, nor have they seen any security guard either. When you ask how they can defend themselves, they tap tiny pepper spray canisters latched to their pockets and joke about hiding behind Kazuha when push comes to shove. She scoffs at it, obviously, but the jabs are light and playful. As you reach the basement parking lot, they tell you that Yongsan was one of the more secure places when the riots and chaos happened after the initial announcement, which is why the building was left mostly untouched.

Emphasis on mostly because there's those three letters again etched with spray paint on the side of some abandoned Mercedes. B.B.S. Some kind of doomsday cult, you assume.

You walk past it and to something more conventional, a Hyundai crossover. Yunjin says she borrowed it from her grandmother, that she didn't expect her demise to be from a giant rock too. You take the backseat behind the driver, Kazuha in the passenger side, Eunchae right beside you, and Yunjin in the driver's seat herself.

"Parking's free for employees," she remarks as the engine roars to life. "But I doubt that matters. They smashed up the boom barrier."

That activates the neuron in your brain. It's reflecting on the smirk in the rearview mirror.

"Don't tell me you joined the riots too—"

"Nope. Of course not." You're shaking your head, eyes shut, trying so hard to stifle your laugh as the car sets off. Parking is expensive at your workplace, which prompted that reaction. It's good old-fashioned karma.

—————

Turns out Yunjin was right: the streets are pretty calm in Yongsan. 

Traffic is nonexistent. Hardly any sign of rampage or destruction. For the most part, the chaos was well-contained. You can chalk it up to Chairman Bang and his connections to the government, though, given the number of destroyed riot shields and batons sprawled all over the sidewalks and roads. You see it as one more act of defiance before they knew it was a losing battle and instead of surrendering, they chose to flee.

Can't blame him. If you were the head of a multi-billion dollar enterprise and in charge of the biggest boy group ever, you'd do the same.

But back to the here and now: Yunjin navigates the streets like a veteran, like she's traveled this road over and over. You're accustomed to seeing idols in the passenger seats, being escorted between schedules that driving should be the last thing on their mind. Sometimes you forget they can drive cars too, some even getting behind the wheel of supercars like any other A-lister.

"So," you start, breaking the silence inside the vehicle. No music, unlike in the practice room, and both Kazuha and Eunchae are staring out their sides of the window, deep in thought, tired to engage in conversation. "How'd you learn how to drive?"

You see it in the rearview mirror, the way her eyes suddenly glint, how she swallows her throat. The way she suddenly struggles to focus on the road. Yet she carries on.

"I learned because of Chaewon," she says, as the car blurs past an orange light turning red. "She would drive us during our days-off. She said she liked being in control. Said it made her feel safe."

Mid-conversation, you feel a tug on your hand. Eunchae's placing hers atop yours. You allow it.

"I promised myself I'd learn how to drive," Yunjin continues, her eyes now twinkling with unshed tears. "I wanted to drive her around too, so I could take care of her the same way she did for us. But when I finally got my license, it was too late." 

The city blurs past. It looks different now in the dark. Streetlamps blend in with the fires burning in the distance, while smoke camouflages perfectly in the night. A few cars here, some people on the sidewalk there, a handful of stores still open, the dying breaths of a city soon to be erased off the map. A woman walks her dog. A homeless man sits on a stoop, smoking. A couple kissing against a wall, bodies pressed together like they're trying to become one before the end.

"Chaewon would have fought to be here," she adds. She's openly crying now, tears falling down her face. "She would have—"

Yunjin stops. Swallows. You see her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, turning pale white. Ultimately, she shakes her head and sighs.

"Sakura too. They would have stayed. They would have never left us behind."

You've seen how they cared for each other through thick and thin, in documentaries and in behind the scenes content. You see it in the faces of the girls too: Kazuha's stoic demeanor cracking slightly in the window's reflection, her lips quivering a tad. The way Eunchae holds your hand a little bit tighter. So you remain silent and quietly nod, because there's nothing left to say.

As the road ahead unspools, the drive has shifted into something tensely still. Yunjin's focused on navigating a place she isn't quite familiar with, and the others are too exhausted to speak. Here in Gangnam, the carnage is just as contained as in the Yongsan District, but the atmosphere is no less somber and melancholic. The clubs are closed. There's hardly any people out in the streets. No cause for celebration, no drinking and being merry for the end, not even for the most cynical or nihilistic.

Something catches your eye in the rearview mirror: not from outside, but a reflection that doesn't belong. There's two of you in the backseat—you and Eunchae—but the faces aren't either of yours. They're just the lower halves; no eyes, no noses, just features without an upper half to connect them. But they're so deeply ingrained into your head, you know who they belong to. 

Those plump, pouty lips. The bob cut. The hint of pointy ears. The traces of pink hair. They can't be any more obvious.

Your heart catches. You blink, wipe your eyes, and the next second, they're gone. It's only you, your tired face staring back in the mirror again. 

Eunchae notices. "You okay?" she asks. Her eyes widen with a concern that's almost childlike. For a second, you almost forget she's been there the entire time. That sometimes, she'd be the splitting image of her leader. 

"I'm fine," you say, brushing it off. Exhaustion, most likely. Your brain playing tricks, filling in the gaps you want to see, or don't want to see, you're not sure which, when in reality, you don't want to sound crazy claiming you're seeing ghosts. "Just tired."

She doesn't push on any further. Hardly matters when Yunjin announces that they've reached their destination.

It's still the same Starship building everyone jokes about. The one that resembles a jail cell more than a company headquarters. Despite the long overdue need to move or renovate, this is still their place. At least the paint still smells fresh, but the bar is in hell; that's the only thing they've bothered touching in the last 15 years.

Surprisingly, the entrance has a security guard standing by. He stops all four of you. Asks for names.

"Le sserafim," Yunjin answers on your behalf. "We're here to see IVE. Are they in?"

He studies her for a moment. Then turns to you, Kazuha, and Eunchae. You expect him to ask who you are (you'll lie, say you're just their manager), demand identification, and do his job the way he was trained to. Instead, after a quick, almost lackadaisical scan, he speaks over his radio. Asks if they're inside, and a brief confirmation later, he lets your group through.

"Sixth floor," he says. "They've been there all day."

Stepping inside, the difference between both companies is night and day. The lobby is teeming with life, with faces and names you've vaguely heard about, all probably spending their final day together before parting ways. Jiyu spots you while getting a drink from a vending machine and bows to you and the Fims, who reciprocate the gesture as industry seniors. Same goes for the others you happen to run into: Allen, Minhee, Hyungwon, and Joohoney. You spend five minutes bowing to each idol, letting the girls catch-up with their fellow peers. They all say the same thing: they're here because the CEO wanted all the artists to come in today so they could properly say goodbye. 

But just as you're about to reach the elevator, you hear someone calling from the lounge. Everyone turns around, and Yeonjung rises from a couch to greet the girls. They bow, exchange hugs, and she offers a formal handshake, which you accept. The formalities haven't finished completely when Dayoung comes in out of nowhere to say hello as well.

"Glad to see you're together," Dayoung says to Yunjin specifically, her beam still wide, her energy infectious even during these tumultuous times. "Same as the rest of us."

"Of course," she then replies, her smile small but sincere. "It's what—"

"I know, I know," Dayoung interjects. "It's what they would have wanted too. They would have come rushing down from the practice room if they found out you visited us."

Your hand involuntarily reaches for the photo in your coat. You don't show it, but even through the eyes of people you barely know, their presence is palpable. It makes your heart soar just hearing how loved they are.

"They should be on the sixth floor," Yeonjung chimes in with her sweet, maternal smile. Her stare lingers at you a moment longer than necessary as you finally reach the elevator. "Good luck."

Emerging onto the hallway is a refresher in deja vu. Quiet, hushed, silent. Not surprising; most of their artists are in the lobby. No music plays unlike in the HYBE building. But it's there: the group's designated practice room. The sign taped to the door is freshly written with a clear message: Do Not Disturb in Hangul. Yunjin ignores it and knocks twice. Someone echoes from inside, and she answers them back.

"It's us. We're coming in."

Yunjin pushes the door open.

Inside, four girls are huddled together on the opposite end of the room. Rei spots you and rushes toward Kazuha for a warm bear hug. Likewise, Eunchae and Leeseo meet halfway, walking to each other, exchanging hugs and kisses as well. Yunjin and Liz bow to one another before the junior idol embraces Yunjin too, sobbing on her shirt. 

Meanwhile, Gaeul steadily approaches you. Offers a handshake. You exchange bows.

"We were expecting you," she remarks. Her hair's short again, the one signature cut resembling a bob; it was long two weeks ago, right before the announcement that shook the entire world. "Didn't expect their manager to be—young."

You gulp your throat. She gives you a look that's saying I'm onto you. I'm smarter than you think. You can only smile, keep up the facade, if there even is any.

"Relax. I'm not gonna turn you in," she adds, as if reading your mind. "None of us are." 

Both of you look around and see your respective members falling apart. More than peers, they're also close friends. Bonded by adversity, heartbreak, and triumph, they've seen it all in the industry and came out of the fire unscathed. More than that, it's what their leaders, their veterans, with their wisdom and experience that helped them get this far and thrive.

Seeing them in one room makes you proud. Even though you're a nobody, something about seeing these girls together feels right. Like its destiny. 

Eventually, the tears run dry. Yunjin goes to Gaeul, as leaders and the eldest of their respective groups. They hug too. 

"They would have wanted this," Yunjin whispers against her ear. She's done her crying in the car and has been the emotional rock for the Fims. "They would be so happy we're here. It's just—"

"It's not the same, I know." Gaeul, the perceptive woman she is, captures what everyone's feeling with one simple sentence. "But we're here now. That's what matters."

In the midst of all the reconciliations, they forget that you exist. 

When all the formalities are done, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo all come to you, apologetically bowing and shaking your hand. 

"Sorry," Rei says, cheekily smiling, "Didn't realize they still had—"

"I'm not actually their manager," you casually admit, because there's no point in hiding anymore. It's the end of the world, for God's sake.

"Knew it," Gaeul mutters, to herself mostly. "I mean, we don't really have managers anymore. We said our goodbyes to them the other day."

"But it was his idea to bring us here," Eunchae blurts out, and all of a sudden, you're thrust into the center of their attention.

"That's cute," Leeseo remarks sweetly. "Honestly, it feels like a high school reunion, except" —her tone shifts to something somber— "it's a little bittersweet."

You know what she's alluding to. What all the girls have been repeating over and over for the past hour and more. Beat it over your skull at this point and have it ingrained in hot ink at this point. 

"They would have wanted this," you repeat, echoing the same drawn out sentiment because there's really no other way to put it. 

"So why, then," Liz suddenly speaks. "Why do all this? Why bring us together?"

You give the Fims a glance. Kazuha nods once. So does Yunjin. And then Eunchae. Sighing, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, then show them the photocard. Let the IVE girls see the reason and understand.

"I know I'm not anyone special," you say. "You guys sing, dance, write, make art. You make millions smile on stage and in front of the cameras. I push paper and answer emails and go home to watch your fancams. Rinse and repeat. But when the announcement came, when I knew the world was ending" —you pause, let go of a deep breath— "I thought about you. Not my family, not my future. You."

The room holds its breath. No one speaks. You can hear a pin drop in this stillness. Their heartbeats, even. It's the kind of calm that usually precedes an incoming storm, which feels apt given the immense gravity of the situation that brought you all together.

"I was ready to die, to be honest," you continue. "Already accepted my fate the moment it was announced. But earlier today, I took one last look at my office, saw this picture" —you hold it up for all to see— "and something changed. Maybe I'm not ready to go just yet. Maybe there's still one more thing I have to do. And that's this."

You flip the photo around, staring at the faces that paved the way. Your lips crack, and your expression shifts to something resembling yearning and regret. "I never saw them when they were together. Never saw you guys in the same room or take a photo either. And God, I know you're all friends, it's just—"

You pause. Shake your head. Sniffle. Shed a tear, maybe two. Find your way back. Continue.

"So here we are. I just wanted to see you guys together, even if it's for only an hour. Even if it ultimately doesn't mean anything tomorrow. Maybe I'm just wasting your time, but" —you wipe a stray tear from your eye— "thank you for everything."

They let your words sink in a few moments longer. Then Yunjin is the first to respond:

"You didn't waste our time," she says. She's looking at every person in the room, then you. "We wanted this, too. It's just—we were so caught up in our feelings to remember."

Gaeul nods in agreement. "We've been so focused on ourselves. On the what ifs, the could haves, the should haves. We were so lost on what to do, we forgot who and why we're doing this for."

Eunchae's eyes are twinkling. "We still mean something to people. Even after everything."

"But at least we're here now," Rei concludes. "Because of you. So we should be the ones thanking you."

And again, Kazuha repeats the same mantra, the universal belief that kept you all going: "They would have wanted this. Really."

For a moment, the air in the room shifts to something lighter. For once, there are smiles on faces. Even in this bleak and helpless situation, there's the one thing you cling to no matter how far gone you are: hope.

"So what now?" Leeseo then interjects. And frankly, you're amazed you've made it here without planning a single step. No one has a clue either. Two days might seem like plenty of time, but in the grand scheme of the world ending, it’s as precious as diamond, and it's quickly running out. Impulse can only take you so far.

"I live in Jeju," Liz suddenly remarks, clearing her throat. She'd been the most reserved one in the room, not having spoken even once up until this point. And even when she speaks, it’s low, naturally hushed, kept primarily for herself. "We could go there and watch the end of the world together. I can say goodbye to my family along the way."

Surprisingly, despite your four years in Korea, you've never visited once. Your work basically kept you prisoner in office, and your days off were spent at home overcompensating for your lack of sleep. It's a good idea; riding off to the literal and metaphorical sunset on this planet by the ocean. The scientists did say it was expected to land somewhere in the Korean peninsula, so your end is gonna be swift and painless. Imagine that: a body swallowed up by the sea. No better way to go out.

But then there's the others, as Yunjin points out: "Well, I'm supposed to fly out to New York tomorrow." You can see it in her eyes, the frown on her lips. The conflict, the way her heart wants to be there, but also remembering the family she has at home, the possibility of never seeing them one last time after being away for so long. 

"I'm on one of the last flights to Japan, then Amsterdam," Kazuha says regretfully. "I would love to go, but—"

"And I have family in Nagoya," Rei adds. "This was really supposed to be our last day together."

Hearing them talk about their families back at home has you reminiscing about your own too. You're here because of them, but not in a loving way. It had been a rough falling out, but they never stopped reaching out. The messages eventually became few and far between, but they always looked out for you. Even as simple as 'Hope you're okay' and going out of their way to send extra money when you've covered all your needs, they still loved you til the end. Their last update was about the meteor, obviously, but they kept wondering how you feel and whether or not you'd go home, knowing their last physical image of you was swearing you'd never come back—and you'll more than hold up that promise now.

"That's fine," you say, slightly nodding. You're already conceding in your mind that you'll die alone. This dream was simply that: a dream. It was never a guarantee. "I mean, I'd more than love to go, but I just wanted to see you guys at least once—"

"I'm going," Gaeul interjects. "Already said goodbyes to my family yesterday. I want to be with Jiwonnie. Make sure she's there with someone she loves."

Liz's eyes sparkle and her smile brightens. For a second, you see a glimpse of the old Liz, the performer she is on stage.

Leeseo is resolute. "I'll go too. Eunchae, you're coming right?"

Facing her, Eunchae's eyes widen in shock, completely taken by surprise. "Woah, woah. I haven't gone home yet. Also, what about our sleepover with Kyujin—"

"She can come if you want. I'll let her know about this."

Eunchae can't help but laugh. "Alright, fine. You win, I guess. I'll be there too."

Yunjin and Kazuha smile at their member, elated that their youngest won't be alone. "We're sorry we can't be there," Yunjin says, caressing Eunchae's head, brushing her brown locks. "but they would be so proud knowing you're taking care of each other til the end."

Rei's been on her phone through the conversation, which explains why she's keeping distance, facing the practice room wall. Only now do any of you realize. 

"Rei-chan!" Kazuha calls to her, and she turns around with that cheeky grin.

"Guess what," she says, and her smile is so goddamn infectious, she'd make you believe they found a way to stop the meteor from hitting just now. "Called my parents. They're gonna miss me a lot, but I knew I wasn't letting you all go without me."

Liz runs over to give her an emphatic hug. They've always been so close, so joined to the hip at points. You can imagine Rei playfully arguing over the phone begging to stay, that she wouldn't live without her and vice versa. "Took only seven minutes," she adds, as she lets Liz cry on her shoulder from joy.

So here's the score with all the commotion going on: the IVE girls are staying together, Leeseo has Eunchae tied down, while Yunjin and Kazuha are flying home to their respective countries tomorrow. It was fun while it lasted, these two or so hours. Even if the interactions were brief and emotionally charged, at least you got these two groups together one last time. 

"I guess it's the six of us at least," you remark, including yourself in that list of people heading off to Jeju to watch the sunset over your incoming demise. Deep down, you always wanted to go; you just needed a reason to stick together, no matter how many people would be present. "I can come along too, right?"

"Of course," Leeseo immediately answers, like no is not an option. "You brought us all here. You should be there."

"And we're sorry we might not be there," Yunjin adds, apologetic again. "But they're amazing company. Trust us."

"Rei will keep you up all night," Kazuha jokes, prompting Rei to shoot her a mischievous scowl. Liz randomly blushes. "And if you're ever missing us, just know we'll be there in spirit."

It's the kind of reassurance that harkens back to old days. When they would post on Weverse and on streams to fans needing strength to carry on through hard times. Because even in your final hours, you need a bridge to cross over to the other side safely. They still do, but you could tell the feeling isn't the same; they don't even believe it themselves. Until now. For a moment, they're idols again.

"That's everything settled," Gaeul remarks. The room turns its attention to her. "We'll meet here tomorrow morning or at the HYBE building, whichever feels more convenient—"

"HYBE building," Leeseo interrupts. "I like this place and all, but I don't think we can all fit in the lobby."

No one else speaks up. No one objects. After a moment to ruminate the options, Gaeul opens her mouth again. 

"Since Eunchae's the only Fim joining us, I feel comfortable if we all just met here."

"But—"

"It's okay, Seo." Eunchae cuts Leeseo off. "I know my way around. I can take care of myself."

Leeseo opens her mouth. No words come out, so she closes them again. Hard to believe they're grown now when they were babies not that long ago. You can still see flashes of that in her mannerisms and character.

"We'll meet here at dawn," Gaeul continues. "Tonight, we go home, pack all our belongings, say goodbye to our families if we can. Rest up. Tomorrow's gonna be the longest day ever."

Everyone nods in agreement. Then Yunjin and Kazuha give hugs to each and every single one in the room. Including you.

"Gonna miss you guys a lot," Yunjin would mutter to every person. She's always worn her heart on her sleeve, so you know genuine emotion is felt in every word, every tight embrace. You hardly know each other (you literally just met two hours ago), yet she hugs you like you've been best friends for a lifetime. Maybe in the next one.

On the other hand, Kazuha is calm and stoic. Doesn't show her true self much, with or without cameras. She smiles. Laughs. Reacts. She's never been one to let loose, always disciplined in her intuition. Nevertheless, the care is there, that maternal instinct kicking in when she hugs everyone, with you last.

"You've done us a great favor bringing us together," she whispers in your ear. "Now they won't be alone."

"Never been. They always had you."

"And we had them to guide us," she replies back. There's an ache in how she refers to them. The ones who would be proud and would make the initiative to gather them all. "I wish we thought of this sooner."

"Not late," you say. "It's not too late."

Minutes later, you all emerge from the practice room with a newfound confidence, one that feels rare given what's to come. The lobby is still packed, but you become the center of attention. The girls give their farewell bows and waves to the idols waiting, chatting it up in the lounge. Yeonjung stops Gaeul for a quick exchange while the rest of you go on ahead. No one asks where you're going or why. And as you pass by the desk, the receptionist is watching some variety show on her phone, but at the edge of the screen, the doomsday clock is still ticking, counting down, a slow inevitability.

Less than two days remain.

—————

Sleep never comes that night.

You've had your restless nights. It's been a habit as far back as college. Instead of research and work, however, you've been thinking about them. Those girls. The ones who made your life tolerable even in the smallest of ways: their music, personalities, performances, and everything in between. You may not have known them much, if at all, but their existence has defined you. And wonder what could have been. The fact you've gotten the seven of them together is a miracle in its own right, how much more the rest.

But that's for another lifetime. The inky blackness of night gives away for royal blue, the incoming sunrise. You haven't packed even a single thing since you got home. There's only less than 40 hours left, and the biggest day of your lives is looming ever closer.

No time to worry about that. You do your usual morning routine: shower, breakfast, then pack. A backpack with your essentials, three sets of clothing changes, grooming kit, and the bottle of unopened champagne is all you're bringing. The last time you remember carrying this much was when you first arrived in Korea. Now it's come full circle.

Before you leave, you do two more things: pocket the photo you took from the office in your jacket—the very reason for all this—and blow out the candle set in front of a second personal shrine, this time encompassing a whole shelf. You'll miss the albums, the photocards, the polaroids, the memories embedded in them. And despite letting them go, you don't regret a single purchase or a single cent.

With that, you take a deep breath and step out of your house for the last time.

By the time you reach the hill where the Starship building stands, the entrance is already packed.

They've been waiting a good 15 to 20 minutes, Gaeul says. The rest of the girls are there, as expected: Rei, Liz, Leeseo, and Eunchae. The plan is this: you'll take a ferry to Jeju, because all flights within and out of Korea have already been taken, and the world is shutting down tomorrow.

You greet one another warmly, with hugs and kisses than bows now. The first thing you notice is how much luggage each of them are carrying in comparison to your solitary backpack. Three to four bags for each person, like they're embarking on a world tour instead of watching the world end. 

The next is Rei and Liz wearing matching brown hoodies. "Christmas gift," Rei would comment, and she'd reveal they were shocked and laughed when they found out they gifted each other the exact same thing for their secret santa. It brought them even closer that day, and you can tell by how they’re glued to the hip.

Then you turn to Leeseo and Eunchae. Just the two of them instead of three like what they've been talking about the previous night. "Kyujin had a change of heart. She wanted to be with her members," Eunchae would answer, and you wonder if this was inspired by what happened yesterday. You can see the vision: a majority of these groups, bonded by hardship and success, spending their final day together like this.

Just then, you hear the rumble of an engine. Followed by another. Actually, there's three of them pulling up to the hill.

"Our ride's here," Gaeul remarks, standing up from the stairsteps. Three identical black vans await, enough to seat your group three times over. The passenger door to the first one opens, and everyone smiles from ear to ear. 

You can't help yourself either, because Yunjin steps forward with her arms wide open. 

"How's my favorite people in the world?" she asks energetically, and God, you missed that bubbly energy so bad. Not just on stage or in front of cameras, but in general.

"Yunjin, I thought you were—" 

"I couldn't help myself. I said my goodbyes over the phone last night," she cuts you off, putting a hand on your shoulder as she walks into a spree of hugs from the girls, especially Eunchae. "There was a lot of crying and pleading, especially with Rachel, but they were more than willing to let me go. So here we are."

"We?"

From the second van, Kazuha emerges quietly, waving hello at everyone, but with no less fanfare. The group, as you know it, is officially complete. 

"You can thank Yunjin for this," she simply says, laidback and composed as usual. "She crashed mid-call while I was bidding farewell to my family."

"No I didn't," Yunjin playfully denies. "You were 10 seconds away from hanging up."

"But you still crashed my call."

"Did not."

"Did."

They go back and forth a few times, while the rest of you can only laugh along. It's all in playful jest, but it still doesn't answer why there's three vans. You understand that two are needed to accommodate you all, separating you into your respective groups with your luggage, but a third seems unnecessary. 

So Yunjin explains it on the walk to the van, and it's rather simple: "All our camping stuff! Tents, foldable chairs, everything to make our last day on earth not as miserable." 

"I'm surprised you're not driving," Eunchae remarks to Yunjin as you head for the vans. The drivers come out from their seats to assist with the many, many bags. 

"I would have driven us into a ditch. Eventually," she quips back, drawing another round of laughs. 

—————

You get to the port faster than expected.

The chaos has all but completely died. It's like the remaining people that haven't fully accepted the inevitable are finally coming to terms with their fate. Fires are petering out, most if not all non-essential stores are closed, and the mood is just dour all around. It doesn't help that the weather feels like it wants to break your spirit: cloudy skies, roaring thunder, the occasional drizzle—this eerie atmosphere leaves shivers even on the most resolute of souls.

Nevertheless, you make it onboard the first ferry to Jeju. You slept through the drive there, so you're woken up by the sound of horns blaring and the waters crashing against the shore. One of the last normal places on earth, you reckon, there's this stillness keeping everything afloat. Even with all the shouting and noise, that serenity holds it all together. Because for every shout by a driver, there's a man reading his Bible. For every crying infant being comforted by their mother, there's a couple holding hands on the ship's deck. For every dog bark, there's the flap of seagull wings.

And then there's you: for every tired, drained soul is another smiling widely through their grief. People who've resigned to their fate and are making the most of their time left, like the diagnosis is terminal. Here, the rain has stopped. The skies remain gray, but patches of blue, hints of the sun, begin shining through.

Two hours, the captain said. Two hours before you reach Jeju, your final resting place. And from what you've seen, there's not a lot of better, greener places to die on.

While the girls catch up with one another downstairs, you find yourself leaning on the railing alone. The last 24 hours or so haven't felt real yet. You're really here, on a boat headed to Jeju alongside the idols you loved. You're doing things you never thought you'd have a chance to do, living beyond your mundane four walls and monotonous weekday routine. All it took was the end of the world for it to happen. 

You don't notice Liz creeping up beside you, breaking away from the pack. Her hair is being tossed around by the wind, almost concealing her face.

"Hey," she mumbles against you, almost muted by the waters. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, keeping your tone low, tilting your head in her direction but averting your gaze. "So—you get to go home. Be with family. For the end."

She nods, then shakes her head. Lets out a pained chuckle. "Sure. But I'll be with you, and them. I won't stay, just passing by to say my goodbyes to everyone."

"Right, right."

You watch the waves down below. Trace the trail the ferry makes as it cruises forward. No animal surfaces from the waters; it’s just the sea streaming backward. Meanwhile, Liz keeps her gaze straight, at the vast ocean ahead. Endless cloudy skies, endless ocean. The mainland is long gone from view; none of you will ever step foot in it again.

"When you moved from Jeju, as a trainee," you then start, after a few minutes of quiet reflection, You're facing Liz now, and she meets you halfway. "What was it like? How was—adjusting to the city?"

She doesn't speak. Not right away. That's how she normally is: reserved and withdrawn, careful when to talk and with her choice of words. "It was rough. I wasn't familiar with, well—everything. I took a big risk going out there alone. I'd get lost to and from the building, my accent was rough, and I'd get weird looks from anyone because I wasn't so used to everything. It was—brutal. I thought if I wasn't gonna get cut for my looks, it was definitely because I showed up late especially during those first two months."

In a way, your first year isn't far off from her experience. You didn't speak the language and had to use a translator more often than not. You didn't know cars were right-hand drive. You broke so many traditional customs and rules that it was a miracle you weren’t put into prison. It took you a year to read and write in basic Korean, but you eventually adjusted.

"But," she continues, "the girls helped me out so much." Her gaze flicks to the stairs, pertaining to the girls on the lower deck. "They were so kind, so patient. They took me in as one of their own." She then looks up at the sky, stares for a while as the sun slowly parts through the clouds, then down at the ocean. "Especially Yujin and Wonyoung. They taught me everything as idols."

"Right," you say, and you think about how fast they must have grown up. They were the youngest back then, the ones cared for and coddled by everyone else, only to turn around a few months later to become those maternal figures for girls not that far off in age from them. Wonyoung especially, with how the media and spotlight has been far more critical towards every little thing she does. They must have carried wisdom beyond their years.

"The one thing I cherish the most was what they said to me before our last evaluation, right as we were getting ready to debut," she adds, and you can see her features crack up remembering in real time. "was that I should always be myself. No matter if people hated me or not. They said that true fans would see through everything and like me for who I am. It's been my mantra ever since."

Your gaze flicks to the vast ocean ahead. Jeju is beginning to rise above the horizon. Seeing this, Liz walks away, but you call to her before she reaches the stairs.

"Jiwon."

She turns around. Faces you eye to eye. Your heart races. You're nervous, but not out of love; this isn't a confession.

"I'm sure they're proud of you," you say. "Proud you stayed true to yourself."

She doesn't react. Doesn't say a word back. Rather, she continues walking and heads down the stairs, but as she disappears, you can see a trace of a smile forming on her lips. 

One step out of the ferry is enough to inform you that the difference between Jeju and the mainland is night and day. The air you breathe is fresher, the grass is greener, and the world is quieter, but in a peaceful, serene way. You can hardly tell the end of the world is happening if you lived here.

Liz finds you waiting outside. The vans are still inside the ferry, waiting to disembark. Some families are reuniting here, hugging those who have chosen to return home and spend their final hours with their loved ones. One look in her eyes says it all: she wishes she could have been back on a better day.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she says, and it's sincere enough to break through her reserved nature. "For saying that. For saying I'm still–me."

Your mouth opens instinctively, but only air comes out. You were never the best at listening or giving responses, but it's your connection to those girls that you can meet halfway and relate.

"O-of course," you manage, and your brain is glitching trying to find the right words to say. "But I'm just a guy who only knew you cause of them–"

"And you accepted us, too. Right?" Liz cuts you off gently. Hand on your shoulder, she knows where you're coming from.

You can only nod. Of course you did. Loved them the same way as those girls. They're an extension of their legacy, their lineage. 

She's walking away again. You hear the blare from one of the vans. Her smile is wider now, a glimpse of the old Liz. "Come on. Family's expecting a huge party. They've prepared lunch for us."

The road to Liz's house is long and winding. Remote, as with most of the places in Jeju, considering the rent's cheaper but there’s not a lot of people living here. Eventually, tarmac gives away to a mile long stretch of gravel, sandwiched by never-ending fields extending outward. Your driver remarks that essentials haven't been shipped here in almost a week, and for good reason. No point in trying to save lives when you're near the Earth's demolition zone, but given how abundant the harvest looks, they don't seem to have a problem at least.

As the convoy approaches a house nestled on a hill, a makeshift Welcome Home Jiwon banner hangs by the front door. Hero's welcome, Leeseo would say, and even though Liz laughs and it's in good nature, that bittersweet undertone lingers. You can't imagine being her: the last two homecomings being both under the worst circumstances. 

You step out first. Liz follows after you, then the rest of the IVE members. Yunjin emerges from the passenger seat of the second van. The other two stay in their respective vehicles for now. As the wind blows the bottom edges of the banner, no one is stepping out to greet your party.

As the girls turn to Liz, she calls out: "Mom. Dad. I'm home."

And for a few seconds, no one answers back. Then the front door swings open, and out comes her younger brother.

"Noona! You really came!" He comes rushing down the stairs screaming and runs hugging his sister. He doesn't seem to acknowledge your existence, or her friends and traveling companions for that matter. Nevertheless, everyone steps back and gives them their moment. "It's been a while!"

She smiles. "Only been two months," she corrects, met by a playful slap on her cheek in retaliation. 

"Two months too long," he says, and they share a laugh. Warm, pleasant, wholesome. And even though they've already said their goodbyes, you imagine these other girls would rather be with their own families than spending their last day here.

As the Kim siblings finish hugging, their mother steps out, her smile inviting. "Welcome home, Jiwonnie." Then her gaze flicks to the rest of you, finding you first. "And to you as well. Thank you for bringing her home to us."

You bow first, leading the rest. Your smile is small, your presence carefully contained. 

"Come on in," she then says, stepping back into the house with an inviting gesture of her hand. "We prepared lunch for everyone."

Inside, the house feels quite lived in. The paint on the walls looks fresh, the place already smelling of cooked meat and other food. Liz's brother has already run to the kitchen helping out Mr. Kim with the last of the meals. You hear the ping of an oven, something simmering on the pan. The girls carefully take their seats in the living room while you wander around aimlessly. 

Your gaze flicks on a table with framed memories of Liz throughout time: her as a preschooler, in third grade, a solo pic inside the Starship building when she was a trainee, and most recent of all, with her fellow members not that long ago (give or take a few years). They visited here at some point, probably a few times.

Yujin and Wonyoung are smiling widely in the picture, you observe. Their eyes look so bright, like they see their futures ahead of them. Can't help but smile too, even if it's not the real thing.

"That was not long after we all renewed our contracts," Gaeul suddenly mumbles, having stepped beside you while you were deep in thought. "I thought we had forever, but–" 

She shakes her head, her tone shifting to something somber. Her lips are moving, but nothing comes out, only air. The look on her face tells you everything you know: regret.

"I don't know why she went," she mutters, mainly to herself, but you can hear her. "I should have told her not to–"

"It wasn't your fault," you kindly say. Your hand on her shoulder, she's holding the photo now, a little too tight for comfort. "Was just–bad luck. They wouldn't have known. None of you did."

Her hands are trembling, soon followed by the rest of her body. She looks like she's ready to crumble anytime. Leeseo sees this and walks over to her to give her a hug, and Gaeul immediately lets go: she sobs on her shoulder and into her embrace. 

Liz, helping her family the entire time, is on your other side. "She's never been able to forgive herself for it," she remarks, sympathetic. "Come on. Lunch is ready."

The distribution is split into three rounds, since it can only seat ten. The family isn't used to such a large party, but there's more than enough food and drink to go around for even thirds. It's quite the last supper. 

Against your wishes, they invite you to take first, followed by the IVE members, then the Fimmies. Liz's family eats last; they sit around the table, while you scramble throughout the living room for lunch. Gaeul stays in front of the photo, while Leeseo and Rei hover close by her side. Yunjin's talking with someone over the phone, and Eunchae and Kazuha sit by you in the guest area, eating quietly.

"We were so surprised when it happened," Kazuha mumbles between chomps. "We all did. It was so sudden."

You definitely know. It was everywhere for a whole week. While you were busy maintaining your nine to five, the world was moving too fast to keep up. And while this incident brought most of Korea to their knees, you were still sleeping under that metaphorical rock.

Eunchae nods in agreement. "When Sakura and Chaewon heard of it, I never saw them cry this much and weep so loud."

Of course they did. They'd be the first people to throw themselves into the fire to keep the rest of the girls warm. The others too, but they'd all be fighting to see who'd keep them safe instead. When it happened, the rest would fall, and ultimately they did. Little did anyone know that was the beginning of a domino effect.

And all you can do is just eat quietly, reflecting on what could have been.

An hour and a half later, the party is ready to hit the road again. Liz got their blessing and approval to be with you for the end of the world, and though it pains the family, it's her heart's desire, and they're more than willing to let her go one last time.

The Kim family gives Liz one final hug. Mrs. Kim is crying. Mr. Kim is steady, but on the verge of falling apart too. Her younger brother is holding her tightly, refusing to let go.

"If somehow, we ever survive this," he mumbles against her hair, "Then I don't want you to leave us ever again. You understand me?"

Liz is crying too, but she softly laughs. "You bet."

You don't see any of this. Only hearing the commotion, as you're using the bathroom. Washing your slick face, you stare at your reflection. Blink a few times. They're sharing hearty laughs outside now, exchanging promises to see each other in the next life, but their voices gradually die down. Your ears start ringing. 

They're talking.

"I miss them too," someone says. The voice is distinctly feminine.

"They'll be alright," another answers. This one too, is also feminine. They're quite clear, in fact. Reverberating in your ears. Like they're in the room with you right now.

So you look around. Nothing. Just you. But you can still hear them clearly.

"So glad they're together," the first girl says. "Glad they didn't forget about each other. And us."

The other woman makes a satisfied hum. And then they fade out, like this was some kind of fatigue-induced dream.

You're still looking around, trying to find where they went. Nothing. 

"Hey!" Mr. Kim calls out from the living room, grounding you back to reality. "You have somewhere to be."

Your eyes glaze back at the bathroom door; your legs are so wobbly, you end up leaning. "I'll be out in a bit."

Here's what you'll do when you step out: you won't tell them what you were hearing. There's no feasible way to make it sound sense, even though your outrageous idea has brought you all together. And while they've heard crazier things at the end of the world, none of them hit quite as close to home as this. Some thoughts are best kept secret and left unspoken.

So the dust you were taken from, and so will you be dust when you return. That's a verse you remember when you were young and still had faith.

But right now, all you see is green. An endless land of green. 

Completely untouched by man, Jeju's cliffs rise up to the edge of the island. The seas are a lifetime below, its waves crashing violently along the rock formations and the bluff. Otherwise, it's the most serene place you've ever been in. If there was ever a final frontier on Earth, this was it: it's no Tower of Babel, but it's the closest you'll get to touching heaven.

After a moment to soak in the fresh air, you all get to unpacking. Unfurling tents, laying out food, spreading out jackets, unfolding chairs, taking photos, saving their final memories. Wood is as common as oxygen here, perfect for the fire you'll light up at night. Even out here, high up in the hills of Jeju, reception remains strong; someone has their phone on the news, keeping track of the doomsday clock. 28 hours left, the trackers say, and it's gonna time perfectly with the last sunset this world will ever see.

Hours pass. The bright blueness of day gives way to sunset’s orange, and you see the asteroid now: brighter than any other star, small but rapidly approaching. No one's brought a telescope, but you all will see up close and personal soon anyway. 

24 hours remain, the tracker reads on Google. You're standing alone on the edge of the cliffs, atop a small hill that makes you feel closer to God than ever before. Ahead the ocean stretches out endlessly, bleeding orange against the waters. Soon, it'll be red and black and melted away. As the sun sets on the horizon, sinking for its next rotation, the winds are becoming breezier and colder. 

This feeling of being closer to God–you feel them here too. You've got no evidence other than your gut, your instinct telling you this. The same intuition that made you look twice on your office wall, prompted you to take that photo, brought you to the HYBE building–it's all been building to this. Like it's a part of some divine scheme. 

Look to your right and the camp several levels below is all but completely finished. The bonfire is starting, the place is lit up by portable lanterns and the girls are specks of dust from your view. Someone's waving at you from that distance; no shit, you don't know who it is.

That's your signal to head back down and return. But before you do, there's one more thing:

The photo's been pocketed in your pants the entire time. You pull it out and hold it on the cliff. It was taken at a place similar to this: sunset background, their hands raised to the sky, with their final days looming around the corner too. The parallels couldn't be any more eerie. 

And a new thought comes up: how did they feel around that time. How they embraced their final days knowing it was about to end. Did they beg. Did they plead. Did they accept their fate. They definitely cried, though. How many times, you don't know.

That was a lifetime ago, yet with the meteor approaching, it feels like it was only yesterday.

—————

This group circle hearkens back to your last days in college. 

It was a spiritual retreat before graduation, a two day respite from your internship and other commitments to reflect on the past four years. The night ended like this too: each person coming forward to share their memories, their grievances, and everything in between. No stone was left unturned, no darkness left hidden in the light. You don't remember much other than being closed off from everyone else, that your only regret was not being more sociable, but in the time between that and now, hardly that part has changed. 

The fire's smoke reaches up to the inky night sky, crackling and spitting. All of you–eight to be exact–sit around the campfire. Some in folded chairs, others on the grass, and the rest on blankets or jackets. Coffee's being passed around as the evening chill settles comfortably throughout the area. Lanterns and portable lights make everyone's faces somewhat visible.

No one speaks. No one's taken up the presiding role. At least not yet.

22 hours, says the ticker, and it's being reported that only 5000 or so people have been granted passage to the top secret bunkers to live on after the meteor hits. World leaders, a handful of celebrities, and billionaires who bought their way in, obviously. But there's no point in protesting; it's tucked somewhere unknown, off radar, and they don't give two shits about what happens to everyone now.

"So," Yunjin starts, and she can hardly be heard, barely carried by the wind. "Since it's our last night together, I think, we should all share stories." Her gaze flicks left and right, by the members beside her and the friends made along the way. "Anyone wanna go first?"

She's met by silence. It’s neither awkward nor tense. The kind that's usually reserved for students when asked about a lecture they should be paying attention to, but instead drift off from. Good effort, though, you think to yourself. She's always been the social butterfly, the most outgoing of the bunch.

"Alright. Guess I'll have a go," she continues, almost muttering to herself, trying to laugh the cringe away. Doesn't quite reach it. Then she breathes. Hands clasped together, she stares at the fire for a moment, then tilts forward. 

"As you all know, me, Chaewon, and Nako go all the way back," Yunjin starts, her face lit by the fire. "You know how competitive it gets at times, especially when it’s on national television. I wanted to prove myself to the people, because I knew I could be great. Chaewon let me. Nako let me too, even though she was the one that was really meant for the part, and I can't thank her enough. There was no argument from anyone. But then–people thought I was greedy. Selfish for wanting to take the vocal role. But it was because of them I got to shine, even if I ultimately didn't make it onto the final lineup. Then, geez, as fate would have it, we'd end up in the same group together a few years later."

She laughs. Smiles at the thought. It's genuine, warm. "She was meant to be a leader. She sees the best in people and she makes them believe in themselves. I count myself so goddamn lucky to be Chaewon's teammate, but more importantly, as a friend." Looking to her members beside her, she nudges them closer. "We all are. So kind, so gracious, and so pure of heart." She sighs. Blinks. A pair of tears fall from her eyes. "Wherever you are Chaewon, just know we wish you were here with us. Because you would be."

Kazuha speaks up next. She sounds almost quiet, as if restraining herself. "When I first arrived in Korea, I didn't speak the language. I mean, I knew some of the basics–hello, goodbye, thank you, where is the bathroom–but I couldn't hold a conversation with anyone. I couldn't even order food without having to point at pictures. I felt helpless."

Her smile is just as small as Yunjin's, sad and bittersweet. "Then came the low point. I was scolded by the choreographer during training for not keeping up with the others, because I couldn't understand what she was saying."

She shifts in her seat, crossing her leg as she gazes into the fire. "I cried in my room that night. It was the worst I felt about myself since I began learning ballet. It had only been a month, but I thought about quitting already. Maybe this wasn't for me, I thought to myself. Then Sakura came into my room, knocking on my door. She sat by me and said, 'It's hard isn't it? Being somewhere new. Becoming someone new,' and I said yes. And you know the part that got me? She told me she did it three times. The first in Japan, then in Korea, and then—with me."

Her gaze flicks toward Yunjin and Eunchae. They're smiling wide, so she can't help but grin seeing them too. "With us. We hadn't debuted yet, not even close. But she spoke like it was happening the next day. Like we were already past the hardest part."

Kazuha holds her hands close to her heart. "She never got impatient. Never made me feel stupid. Between practices, she'd help me get accustomed to the language. She'd speak on my behalf whenever I wanted to express myself until I was ready to do it on my own. And even after I became fluent, I never stopped learning from her. If not for her, I wouldn't have become an idol. If not for her, I wouldn't be here with you guys. She's the reason I can speak here today, and be proud of how far I’ve come. I just wish I could tell her that. I had so many chances, but I never did. Not really. Not in a way that matters."

Eunchae's wiping a tear from her eye before she takes the floor. "They're all sisters and mother figures to me. Chaewon, Sakura, Yunjin, Zuha—you all took care of me. Protected me. Made sure I couldn't be swallowed by the system completely."

She pauses. Swallows her throat. 

"I was so young when I joined. Too young now that I think about it. I didn't really know what I was doing; I just followed my heart and wanted to dance. I didn't know who I was, but they did. They took me in and loved me, and because of them, I grew into someone I can be proud of."

Her voice cracks at the end of her last sentence. Leeseo instinctively reaches out and holds her hand. Yunjin puts a comforting hand on her back.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without them," she whispers. "I just hope we can be together, even in the next life."

Yunjin then pulls her into an impassioned hug. Kazuha reaches over to rest a hand on her knee. As close as Leeseo is to her, she lets them have their moment. The whole group does.

Gaeul speaks up next. Low and steady, it’s the kind of tone used to holding things together. "Yujin and I were the oldest, so naturally, the leadership role came down to the both of us. Then she ended up getting chosen, much to the shock of everyone else." She faces her members, who nod once in agreement. "You were there. I still remember that day. We just wrapped up the jacket shoot for our debut, and they announced it three days before our last evaluation."

"Wonyoung was especially sad," Liz quietly remarks. "She wasn't gonna be the maknae like before."

"Yeah, and that's exactly why we all were," she answers. "She essentially had to mature overnight. But that night, she came up to me and said, 'Unnie, I need you. I need someone older, someone wiser, someone who can hold me up when I crumble.' And to be honest, when I heard of it, I didn't think I was the right person for the job. She had more experience in the industry, and so did Wonyoung, so I felt that she was more qualified. But then it clicked: she was still young. She was still a teenager trying to figure things out, and she needed someone to reassure her she'd be okay. So I did. I became the person she can confide in, whenever she doubted herself, even when she worried about everyone else."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "She would have wanted to be here. She would have loved to see us all together. I'm sorry I couldn't fulfill that promise to the end. I'm sorry I couldn't be by her side, and the one time I wasn't, I paid the ultimate price."

Rei mutters something to Kazuha. Her lips are concealed behind her hand. They're exchanging smiles. Some laughs, too. Then she puts her hand down.

"When I came to Korea the first time, I was lonely. Not homesick, exactly; I missed Japan, but I knew I wanted to be here. I knew this was where I belonged. But I didn't have anyone: no friends, no family, no one who understood what I was going through."

She turns to face Liz, and their hands find each other.

"Then these girls took me in. They didn't care that I was the first Japanese trainee the company recruited; in fact, they learned Japanese so they could communicate with me. They made me feel at home, even when I was so far away. They helped me get accustomed to Korea, and I couldn't thank them enough. For that, I have no regrets. None."

They lean on each other's heads. Rei smiles at Liz, and she blushes in response. She lets go of her hand to speak next:

"I grew up on this island. It's beautiful, but it's small. Isolated. I hardly had friends to play with or have lifelong bonds with. Seoul was mostly what I saw on the TV and in pictures, so it became my dream to see the bright lights and the big city. And when I got there, I was—terrified. People were hostile to my accent. I got lost so often. I didn't know anything except I was a girl from Jeju who was in over her head."

Her gaze flicks to Gaeul beside Rei, then Leeseo next to Eunchae. There's two spots where they should be seated in, but instead is an unoccupied void that can't be filled.

"They welcomed me. All of them. They loved me the way I am. It didn't matter that I wasn't polished or perfect, or that I was so clumsy and arrived late to practices; they helped me find my way. They made Seoul feel like a second home." Liz covers her mouth, nearly reaching up to her eyes. When she talks again, the words come out almost inaudible. "I don't know if I ever told them that. I don't know if they knew how much they meant to me, but I hope they did. I hope they knew."

Leeseo's been waiting for her turn patiently and quietly. When she takes the floor, she sounds smaller than the rest, but no less steady:

"My unnies were my mentors. They taught me everything: how to dance, sing, act in front of cameras. Being everything an idol should be, basically." She pauses. Grins. It's quite the contrast compared to the otherwise solemn atmosphere and previous melancholic testimonies of the others. "It helps when one of those members is Jang Wonyoung, and the other is An Yujin. They were so perfect for us—and each other."

Everyone smiles. Warm, genuine, bright. Some much needed levity in the space.

"But they also taught me how to be brave," she continues. Her energy is dimmed just slightly, but still sincere. "How to keep going even when I was scared. How to smile even when I wanted to cry."

She looks at the fire, then at Eunchae, before staring up at the sky.

"I'm still learning. I'm still scared. But I'm here. And I'm not alone. And it's because of them. I hope I can be that person for someone the same way they did for me."

The fire has burned low. The logs are crumbling at the edges. Its warmth feels softer now, more gentle. Everyone has told their stories, shared fond memories, poured out regrets, and everything in between.

"Now then," Yunjin says, presiding once again. Her gaze flicks to you, seated across the fire, and everyone else follows suit. She doesn't press on any further, letting you decide whether you want to take the floor. And after some thoughtful consideration, your lips curve in the shape of a smile.

Of course you pull the photo out. It's like your personal gun at this point. They can barely make out the figures even with the fire, but the faces on it are too familiar, too recognizable to matter. The implication is right there.

"I was there from the beginning. Way before that," you say, holding the photo, scanning it front and back. "Since Produce 48. So yeah, I saw your performance of Into the New World," you add, staring directly at Yunjin. "I watched the show every single week. I had my picks. Argued with strangers online about who deserve to make it. I had my favorites; everyone did. And when the final lineup was announced, it" -you swallow- "wasn't what I wanted."

Yunjin leans forward. Kazuha's face shifts. Everyone waits with bated breath. 

"Not gonna lie, some of my picks didn't make it," you continue, averting your gaze, looking down on the ground. "And those that took their place—I didn't understand. I was angry. Disappointed. I almost didn't follow the group at all."

You're holding the photo with both hands, staring into each member's eyes, remembering the qualities that captured your heart. "And when they debuted. I watched their debut stage, and" —the words die gradually on your tongue— "I don't know how to explain it. I just—fell in love. Not just with my picks, but all of them. The way they danced, the way their voices sounded, their music—it's like they've been brought together not by some committee or public vote, but through divine intervention. Like they were a team of destiny."

The fire crackles. You pause to catch your breath. Your glance shoots upward to the sky, at the smoke rising to the heavens. "Then the whole voting scandal came out, and everything fell apart. People wanted their heads. Said they shouldn't exist, that their legacy was a fraud. And maybe that's true, knowing what we know now, but those girls didn't deserve any of the hate. They didn't choose any of that. They simply—showed up and worked hard. Most important of all, they loved what they were doing, and they loved each other. They made something beautiful, even if the foundations were flawed from the start."

Somehow, through it all, you don't cry. You remains steadfast. Probably because you’ve done your weeping a long time ago. Or you lost your ability to feel. Maybe both. Around you, they're intently watching, crying, listening. You feel jealous for these girls; not only because they got to be closer to them than you could ever dream of, but for exactly that: the fact they have a living, breathing soul. 

Nevertheless, you carry on: "I supported them through everything. The highs, the lows, the record breaking pandemic year, the eventual disbandment. I waited for their solo debuts, their new groups, their new careers. I watched Yena transform into a three-dimensional entertainer, Yuri, Hyewon, and Minju become award-winning actresses, Eunbi turn into a festival legend, Chaeyeon competing in every dance show imaginable because her love for dancing is just that insatiable, Nako establishing herself in Japan while occasionally dipping in Korea every now and then—"

With each name, your smile grows marginally wider. With every acknowledgment of their legacy, your face becomes brighter. 

"And don't even get me started on you girls," you add. You're looking at them one by one: Yunjin, Kazuha, Eunchae, Gaeul, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo, and the rest who aren't there but present in spirit—the long-term impact they left on not just you, but on K-pop in general. "I don't really need to say much, because you're living proof of their influence on the industry."

Their responses are all over the place, but in a positive way. Liz covers her face with her hands. Rei smiles through her eyes. Eunchae's eyes glisten. Yunjin has this proud, affirming look on her lips. Kazuha nods once. Gaeul simply looks away. 

"But," you continue, looking at that photo again. "it's not the same, you know? Not the same without them. Without all of them. When they were together, they were—a constellation. A family. And I know; I know they've moved on. They have these new careers, new lives, new people to love and take care of. And I did too. I accepted you guys the same way they did. But some part of me kept waiting, kept hoping, kept wishing that somehow, someday, I'd get to see them reunited again, even just once. I.O.I did it; why can't they? And that opportunity never came."

You look up to the sky once more. The smoke is dying down. The fire is on the verge of burning out. The sky is clear, countless stars twinkling far above. Soak every second you have left to see the night.

"Then the world started ending. At first, I was just ready to die. Honestly, I prayed the meteor would come sooner than later. I didn't really see any reason in hoping or living any further. But, as I was about to clock out of work, I thought of them. I remembered this photo." You hold it up for all to see, even in the near dark. "And I thought, if I'm going to die, I want to do one more thing. Even if it was impossible, I wanted to see them one more time. So instead of going home, I went to HYBE, and then" —you gesture with your free hand— "here we are."

You take the deepest breath of your life. The fire pops. Someone's sniffling, another is sobbing. 

"They would have wanted this," Gaeul quietly remarks. "Yujin would have wanted us to be together. I know she would have done the same."

"They're here," Yunjin says. She looks around at the circle, something she'll never get tired of. "In a way. We're representing them by being here."

Kazuha reaches across the fire and takes your hand. Warm, but gentle. "Thank you. For remembering them. For remembering us."

"I think this was the best idea," Liz adds. "We're not alone when tomorrow comes, because we have each other."

The atmosphere in the circle shifts to something lighter. The fire has all but completely fizzled out, reduced to faint embers. Eunchae rips open a bag of marshmallows; Leeseo whines that she should have brought it out when the fire was still stronger. Her complaining becomes irrelevant when she has first dibs, then passes it around the group.

"Okay, now what about comfort songs," Yunjin asks. "What's the one song we're listening to at the end of the world?"

For a moment, everyone thinks about their answers carefully. A surprising struggle, like a pop quiz has been dropped. Eventually, they're given out one by one:

"One Last Time by Ariana Grande," says Liz. "That one also had a meteor apocalypse for the music video. Feels fitting for tomorrow."

"Rebel Heart," Rei follows. "They did say that song gives off disbandment vibes, and well—we are disbanding. Technically."

"Give me Just the Way You Are," Leeseo chimes in. "The Milky song. It always gets me in a good mood no matter how low or scared I'm feeling."

"I guess Bohemian Rhapsody's a good shout," Gaeul comments. "Six minutes, and it's got everything from sentimental to orchestral and even rock. No better last song to go out on."

"I'll do you one better," Yunjin suggests. "All Too Well. The full 10 minutes. At least we can say we were standing at the end of the world when it hits."

"You're only saying that because it's Taylor Swift," Kazuha chides. Yunjin rolls her eyes. 

"Then tell me what song would you listen to, Zuha," she chirps back, playfully elbowing her ribs.

Kazuha grimaces. "Sign of the Times," she answers calmly. "I was rewatching Project Hail Mary last night to cheer myself up after the call." She sighs. "I wish Ryan Gosling was real."

While Yunjin shoots her this conspicuous, disgusted glare, Eunchae casually cuts in: "I wanna say Hot. By, you know" —her eyes flick between her members, blushing— "The last thing I wanna think of when we go is us."

And that leaves only you. You could go for something humorous like It's the End of the World as We Know It, something epic like The Final Countdown (too on the nose), back to comedy like Closing Time, something overtly sentimental like Do You Realize, or downright nihilistic like Creep—

You end up going sentimental. The phone isn't halfway out of your pocket when you press play.

Have you ever seen anything?

Have you ever seen this color?

The smiles come naturally. Of course. Someone may have seen it coming a mile away, but no one cares. The more surprising bit is the song choice more than the artist itself; not any of their titles (especially Panorama), nor their slower ballads, but something happier and more upbeat, and from their debut as well. The reasoning is the same as Leeseo's: it's an instant shot of dopamine regardless of the situation, no matter how you feel at the moment. But one particular line resonates with you even now:

I will always be with you~

And sure, it's one of, if not the most common trope especially in K-pop songs. A promise about a lifetime, when really, it was for only two and a half years. But it doesn't change the lasting impact these girls had on your life, and that's the last thing you want to remember even in your dying moments.

You see Leeseo mouthing the lyrics like she knows this song from heart too. Everyone's bopping their head with the song. The fire's completely gone now, and the evening wind completely takes over. Someone yawns deeply; you don't know who. Suddenly, Kazuha rises from her seat and stretches her arms. 

"I'm clocking out," she groans out mid yawn, walking over to her tent. She doesn't look fazed at all; if anything, it's another day for her. Another notch on a schedule that's well and truly ending.

The others follow, retreating to their chosen tents. Of course you have your own, but you've given up on a proper rest a long time ago, way before a meteor decided it was your time. You exchange good nights with everyone knowing you'll hardly sleep through the night, and that's okay. It won't matter when you're dust and bones around this period tomorrow.

But even with all these thoughts running through your head, you close your eyes. As your consciousness fades to black, this is the last thing you remember:

18 hours remaining.

—————

Still, even as the end looms closer than ever, the world never stops. It's making its funeral bed.

The Pope presides over a country-wide prayer vigil at St Peter's Basilica. Analysts and reporters are crunching down the initial casualties (already in the billions), the long term effects on the planet, and whether or not life as we know it will continue existing in the years to come. Presidents are giving their farewell addresses; some choose to stay and die with their nation, others (global superpowers mainly) have taken quiet refuge somewhere only they know.

People take refuge in makeshift bunkers, whether in their homes or through subways, underground basements, or whatever place they can find. Some stupid billionaires are sending rockets to blow up the meteor without properly considering the new problems such an idea would bring. Either way, this planet is fucked. Nature or the forces above have marked you all for death.

All this chaos and commotion for something that will ultimately consume everything and everyone. Meanwhile, on the other side of the planet, it's as still as water. 

Less than 9 hours remaining, the doomsday ticker reads on the bottom of your phone, checking the news in real-time. Still lying in your tent, you wake up to your best night of sleep in years. Probably just the calm acceptance of your fate fully settling in your bones. 

Peeking out from your tent, you can hear the relentless waves crashing against land far below the hills where you're standing. Someone's simmering food over a portable cooker, based on the crackle of oil and meat. Another's playing music over their speakers. The skies are surprisingly clear. The breeze is perfectly chill. It feels right.

You finally step out into the warm embrace of the sun. Soak it all up because you'll never feel it again in a matter of hours.

Yunjin's the first person to greet you good morning, the one cooking breakfast—or brunch, as she would correct, as it’s close to noon. Nevertheless, she serves bacon on top of pancakes with a spread of maple syrup. The pork looks a little burnt, though. She says that you're the only one who hasn't eaten yet, since everyone else got up  earlier, with her in particular up the earliest to watch the last sunrise of her life.

"You look well rested," she remarks, flipping a few pieces of overcooked bacon over. "Doesn't seem like the world is ending today for you."

"I've made peace with that a long time ago," you reply, shrugging, poking a strip with your finger before she swats it away with her spatula. You wince, yelping as she smacks your hand.

"Hey. Clean your hands first," she scowls, pointing to a nearby well. You're reaching for your aching hand, annoyed as she laughs at your pain. But you acquiesce.

Meanwhile, the others are spending their final hours as you thought they would: Gaeul's by herself reading a book inside one of the vans' cargo area, Kazuha's in workout gear meditating under the open sun, and Leeseo and Eunchae are playing some video game on a shared Switch 2. Rei and Liz are nowhere to be found.

You ask them where they are; they mindlessly answer the hill without looking away from the screen even for a split second. Both girls are locked in, mashing buttons on their JoyCons competing like they're at Genesis. You forgo breakfast to look for the missing couple instead.

And sure enough, they're standing at the top of the hill, holding hands. Up here, the winds are twice as harsh, and the ocean ahead spreads out everywhere. You can see a commercial plane flying past; for what reason you don't know. 

"Gorgeous view," Liz mutters to Rei. She looks down at their interlaced fingers, with Rei's skin glistening under the light, almost resembling a ring. "I lived here my entire childhood and I didn't know this place existed."

"Your parents didn't take you? Even once?" Rei asks back, tilting her head.

"I probably forgot if they did."

Rei smiles. Brushes the blow locks blocking Liz's face. Then she cups her cheek. "Maybe one day, if somehow, we make it through this, then this would be the best place to propose to."

"Who? Me?" Liz's cheeks turn beet red. Flustered at the implication, she covers her face with her hands. "Hey—"

"No, no, not me, silly," Rei chuckles. She pulls Liz's hands away from her face and leans forward, flashing her trademark grin. "I mean, the person who'll eventually love you and give you the world and all that! I can never love my best friend; we would break up and that would be ugly."

Liz looks overwhelmed. This feels like a confession. Even though they've been close after so many years. They've hung out countless times, slept in each other's beds, shared clothes and items—but they could never meet halfway for the most important thing: commitment. And that's what's keeping them apart. Even now.

"Gosh, Rei—" She stops herself. Still hesitant, still unwilling to speak her truth. "I mean—"

"Relax. That's not gonna happen, anyway. We're all gonna die," Rei interjects, her energy sounding wrong in the face of imminent death.

As you approach them, they face you in unison, moving like its choreography. "Hey!" Rei chimes, waving. Liz, meanwhile, bows gently. Slightly leaning closer to her member, but without letting go. "What are you doing here?"

"Was about to ask the same thing," you counter.

"There was no beach to walk on," she answers, "so this hill was the next best thing. Great view. I can see why you like it up here."

It can be interpreted two different ways: how it's the closest you've been to God in years, or it's a straight plunge into the sea down below. Either way, you're seeing heaven real soon.

"Am I overstepping on something?" you ask, and Liz immediately huddles behind Rei, futilely hiding half her frame.

"Not at all," Rei answers. Her eyes glance briefly back at Liz, the reddest person in the vicinity. "Anyone looking for us?"

Turn to your side, down at the camp below. Their gazes follow. Nope. No one at all. Everyone's doing their own thing.

"No, I'll just—go down—"

As you're about to turn around, Rei suddenly grabs your hand, pulls. Gives you a hug.

"What—what's happening?" you force out, the words coming rough. She squeezes tightly as if sucking the air out of your lungs. 

"Nothing. Just wanted to give you a hug for no reason," she mutters, as Liz quietly sneaks off while you're trapped. You turn your head just enough to see her jog down the hill.

"What was that all about?"

"Beats me," she says. You want to believe her, but girls like Rei tend to hide secrets behind not so subtle smiles. This is no exception. 

—————

7 hours remaining, the doomsday tickers read. Programming is nothing but waiting for the end to arrive; TV is basically white noise. Sometimes you just want to turn it off, throw all the phones and devices away. Death feels more real when you just—feel it approaching, not watching some countdown. 

Everyone's gathered around the circle for lunch, sharing snacks, drinks, and conversations, cherishing the last traces of normal life before it all becomes dust. The final hours of peace anyone will get. 

Just then, you feel a slight disturbance. A tremor. A faint echo of engine noises, followed by a flock of birds flying off. SUVs and vans and cars of different kinds—around eight or nine of them—emerge from the forest serving as the gate between road and paradise. Some drive past your camp, others stopping several feet away. You eat away the newfound attention, pretending to act nonchalant, but after a night spent with these girls and soon to be former idols, it feels like an intimate secret being exposed to the world. 

But it doesn't take long to realize nobody cares. No one asks who you are and the people that you're with. You find that these people are here for one thing only: to see the end with their own eyes, up close and personal. Families, couples, friends. Doesn't matter the age, status, gender, race, or anything else, you're all nothing when the time comes. 

When they wave, it's less about the stars beside you and more 'came here for the meteor, huh?' acknowledgement. They have their own snacks and chairs and blankets for the occasion. It just so happens you went a day too early, it seems.

And wouldn't you know it, Liz's family is here too. 

Her brother runs headfirst into her for an immediate hug. Everyone bows and greets her parents. They brought the old family van, the one that's been in the garage and only driven like thrice a year, brought out a fourth 'for old times' sake.' They said if she couldn't be home, then they'd be the ones to go to her instead, and they're blessed to see their daughter come back one more time and just be close enough to reach. It's a bittersweet feeling, but at least they'd be together.

And as you turn around, a dozen or so women are emerging from the other side of the hill. Squint your eyes; can't really tell them apart. One of them seems to be looking for something or someone. A few moments later, they found it: you.

As they come down the hill, their faces become clearer. And so is the first voice. 

"Hey!" a blonde girl yells out, and her arms are stretched wide, seemingly going for a hug. You've never met this person, but you respect the gesture enough to reciprocate. 

She runs past you and towards Yunjin instead. That was never meant for you. The fact you don't know each other should have been a dead giveaway. 

Likewise, the other girls walk past and ignore you completely. Nine of them to be exact now, but one stops and actually recognizes you. Her eyes widen with genuine surprise—and delight. So do yours.

"Hey," you manage to call out as the woman caresses your cheek and pecks it. "Aren't you—"

"From the Starship building? Yes!" She sounds excited that you remember her from the other day. "Oh, I never really introduced myself to you. I'm Yeonjung, by the way. I'm their senior," she says, pertaining to the IVE girls greeting her members, proud at seeing her lineage come together.

"I know you," you reply, and your gaze flicks to Gaeul in particular. "You stopped Gaeul as we were leaving."

"Yep! I found out your plans from her, and after talking with Somi, we pitched this together super last minute." All eyes are on Somi, the most enthusiastic in the area, giving hugs and kisses like it's Christmas. "It's inspiring what you've done to these girls. And well, it's inspired us too."

"You guys are fortunate," you remark, mentally recounting each member for confirmation. Somi, Sohye, Sejeong, Chungha, Jung Chaeyeon, Nayoung, Doyeon, and Yoojung. Hell, even Mina and Jieqiong are present and accounted for. It's a goddamn miracle. "You guys get to be together. Them, on the other hand—"

"We almost didn't," Yeonjung gently cuts in. "Jieqiong almost didn't make the 5 a.m. flight to Korea today. They were no longer flying planes from China after 10."

"Still. You are all here, regardless,” you say. “Even if you're not together, you all could have said goodbye to each other through calls or some physical meeting. They can't."

She blinks. Stares at her girls, then at her juniors. Subtly, she shakes her head. "They deserved better, you know. All of them. I wish they were here too."

"They are," is your reply. "In a way, I can feel them. Somehow."

The I.O.I girls finish exchanging pleasantries, and you feel the attention being redirected toward you as Rei nudges Sejeong in your direction. They surround you completely, offering apologies in their own personality and pace for ignoring you. Everywhere you turn, there's a face saying 'sorry' and bowing. You can hear the girls laughing in the background, Yunjin and Rei especially, as they wish to be with your group for the grand finale. Of course you say yes; even when you're the only person who might say no—and you won't—the supermajority won't accept that.

Ultimately, there's about forty or fifty or so here on the cliffs on Jeju, with front row seats to Earth's grand finale. 

As the hours fly by, you watch the last of this world fall apart. Slowly. Surely.

First it was the networks. With less than 4 hours to go, all non-news related broadcasting said their goodbyes; each station played their last songs and aired their final programs. DJs bid their own farewells, each one no less emotionally charged and heavy:

"To all our listeners, we thank you. Thank you for tuning in, for staying with us, for keeping this job a joy even during our hardest days. We don't know what comes next. None of us do. But what we do know, is that we've shared something with you—something real, something human—and for that, we are grateful."

"If you're still listening, please. Call your mother. Call your father. Call the friend you haven't spoken to in years. Make amends. Forgive. We don't have much time left, but we have enough to leave without any regrets."

"This is KBS Radio 1. We are signing off. God bless you. God bless us all."

The services followed not long after. Telecommunications, electricity, the like–you all know because you've heard from acquaintances in the mainland and in other countries that everyone has been left to fend for themselves now. Most governments have gone into hiding, and the few that stayed are choosing to fall with their respective nations. This was a given. They'll have to live in a world that's certainly gonna be uninhabitable for millions of years.

That's their problem to deal with. For now, it's cosmic judgment given in the form of a giant rock. It's visible in the sky now as the skies turn from blue to orange, clearly seen through binoculars and telescopes, careening down at God knows what speed, because the time between impact and after is almost instantaneous. You wouldn't know what hit you. 

37 minutes left, Yeonjung's custom built ticker reads. You've lost access to the internet an hour ago, so it could land any time now. She says that Dayoung managed to put it together by connecting it to NASA's database, the hows and whys she has no clue. Of course she did; she does just about anything and it fucking works. This doohickey is also why you still have communication with everyone else. There's a lifetime of questions you want to ask, but it all feels irrelevant in the face of imminent death.

Through the radar, you hear NASA and other rogue teams are pulling off the sci-fi bullshit hail mary you've seen in films: they're sending astronauts to space by blowing up the meteor before it hits earth. The rockets are already en route to meet it, and the plan is just straight up ripped from Armageddon. Dig through the center and detonate everything from the core. It's fucking stupid in the movie, it's even dumber in real life.

"Did they ever name the asteroid?" Eunchae asks innocently. "I don't think they ever said it in the news, or maybe I forgot."

"Hmm," Yeonjung ruminates, "I think it was called Luminary for how bright it was on their satellites. They missed it by 2 days."

"Sounds stupid," Somi scoffs. "Should have called B.B.S for Big Bullshit."

Just the small banter between people, not just these girls in general, feels like a relic in this heightened atmosphere. To think you'll be beyond history—not lost in the record books, not something to be remembered more than a number, a statistic—should daunt you. It doesn't; it just makes these moments more special. 

Outside of you and a few others tracking the asteroid, everyone's waiting anxiously for the end. Couples, families, friends, fresh acquaintances all standing on a field looking up at the sky. Elsewhere, life goes on. The earth still spins. Nature continues its cycle with blissful innocence. It's hauntingly beautiful.

Repentance, regret—you'll save it for the afterlife when you knock on heaven's throne.

10 minutes remain. The asteroid is much clearer now; it's a gargantuan mass hurtling down in a wave of its own smoke with small crackles in the middle and around the sides. The hail mary must have failed, you assume, given there's no update since. Yeonjung ultimately decides to close the radar and join the others in facing the end. All of you do so as well. You make the short climb up the hill to meet it at the summit.

As you look around, there's this underlying dread behind each person's eyes. That maybe, just maybe, they're not ready to die just yet. They're all still in their 20s to 30s, with so much ahead of them, only for that opportunity to be prematurely taken away. Liz and Rei are holding hands. Eunchae and Leeseo are hugging each other. They're then cuddled by Kazuha and Gaeul, reassuring them that everything will be okay. Yunjin has her hands folded, feeling shivers down her spine. The wind is getting cooler; the evening breeze is approaching. The ocean bleeds orange on the horizon; the sun is sinking down.

"Do you have any regrets?" Yunjin asks suddenly, facing you as she rubs her hands on the sleeves of her shirt, uselessly keeping warmth. It's quiet, kept specifically for you.

Your brows furrow. "Regrets about what?"

"Anything. Life, love, career—anything you regret. Could be spending your last days with us."

"Definitely not," you answer calmly. "Being with you is the best thing I could have done. For a couple of days, I actually felt normal. Like I was in my youth again."

She smiles. Small, but heartfelt. That's all she needs to hear.

"And what about you?" you ask in turn.

"None," she says simply, like she's secure in herself. "I got to sing, dance, and be on stage with the people I love. That's more than what most people get."

"And Chaewon?"

"She's in my heart. That's all that matters."

Someone's playing a song on their phone. Not the choices you shared over marshmallows and around a campfire, but something different. Downpour, because today feels like a terrible day for rain. 

You track the source. It's Kang Mina. She's on the verge of tears.

"You alright?" you ask her. She doesn't reply at first; it takes a moment before she looks at you and her brain loads. Blinking, she wipes a stray tear from her eye.

"Yeah," she answers, nodding erratically. Her body's trembling nervously. "Just—I missed out on a lot. I wasn't there for the 10th anniversary comeback and tour, and then the 15th one as well, thinking there would be time for me to join the 20th. And then" —she sobs— "this. I took everything for granted."

A hand finds her shoulder. Somi's. Sejeong follows. The other girls follow shortly after in shared comfort. 

"You'll always be I.O.I, remember?" Sejeong says. "Doesn't matter if you weren't there for the reunions. What matters is you are I.O.I, no matter what. That part of you will always remain, wherever you are."

"That goes for the rest of us," Sohye adds. "And even if it was because of a giant rock, I'm glad we got to share one final moment together. All of us."

"Thank you girls," Mina mutters as she sobs into her members' arms. They share a warm hug that also makes you smile. You may not know these girls, but you can resonate with this shared bond. What a beautiful final sight of humanity. 

But now there's the meteor, burning overhead. Not even Hollywood's best IMAX cameras can fully capture the scope of this beast. The air feels hotter; breathing is akin to inhaling in a closed room full of nitrogen and metal. It's descending faster than you can comprehend it.

You pull out your phone. Not to take a photo like any dumb influencer, but to play your song. The opening melody and harmony of Colors rings in the air, but everyone's too engrossed by the sheer scale of the asteroid to notice. It's borderline inaudible, almost drowned out by the whistle of the falling star above, but the lyrics are clear—that's all that matters.

You should be seeing your life flash before your eyes. Glimpses of your childhood and growing up, the inevitable fall out that led you to Korea and where you are now. None of that. Nothing really comes to mind, not even the girls that inspired this song. Just a preoccupied head more concerned about what's waiting on the other side than the end of all things.

Ahead of a small crowd gathered at the hill of Jeju's cliffs, you stand headfirst, facing the sun. The light becomes brighter by the second until it's blinding. You close your eyes—and smile.

The end.

—————

You wake to a shining light. This must be heaven—

Except you're still here. Still breathing. Staring the asteroid right in the face. 

It's up there, several thousand feet in the sky, its presence almost swallowing the entirety of the cliff you're standing on, but it's not moving anymore. Sure, it leaves a massive trail of smoke in its wake, but any forward—or downward—momentum has been completely shunted. 

Something is keeping the asteroid from falling. You look around and the others, too, are also suspended in frozen animation. Only you seem to be conscious and able to move around. But you don't go too far; you look up again and find the source holding it together: a small beam of light rising from the ocean, finding its way up to the hill. Purple, blue, white—it's every color of the spectrum all at once.

Instinctively, you close your eyes from its dazzling gleam. Its glare relaxes, even as bright and as colorful as it shines. Open them, and it's transformed into a ray punching into the asteroid's core. Still no source. And then—

They're right there. Facing the meteor. Surrounding you.

Hands raised to the sky, each one radiates the color associated with their youth, pouring their light into the asteroid, keeping it from falling any further. They're not real; this is all a figment of your imagination. The memories that were supposed to flash before you die. But no—they're actually pushing the planetoid back. They look exactly the way you or anyone last saw them: alive and in good spirits.

You can't speak. Your eyes remain wide, unable to maintain a gaze at any one of them. Sheer, utter disbelief. You want to hold out and feel them; you don't.

She finds the opportunity to glance at you. Beams.

"We've been waiting for you," Eunbi says, relaxing her arms, but still pouring her light into the beam. She shouldn't be here, but she's real. The voice, the frame—all clear to your senses. "I'm so happy we're still remembered like this."

"We've been waiting for the right time," Sakura clarifies, flicking her gaze at Chaewon. "And this is it."

Chaewon's eyes glance at the girls behind you, more specifically Yunjin, Kazuha, and Eunchae. "I'm so proud of what these girls have become. We're here. Always have been. Even when you couldn't see us, we were keeping track of everything. You remembered us. And we are so grateful."

Suddenly, the meteor groans, pushes down slightly. The girls wince, their faces straining as they're forced to lift their arms higher, exerting more effort than usual. It's a stalemate.

"We don't have a lot of time," Yujin states. "Well, we do. We can easily destroy this meteor, but we don't want to do it by ourselves."

"We want you to help us," Wonyoung adds. Her eyes tilt to the people behind you, encompassing the greater crowd, not just the ones still present. They land on Gaeul, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo, and she looks at each of them proudly. "All of you. The ones who still remembered. The ones who kept us alive."

They're not moving. Not at all. Their words confuse you at first, but you've seen stranger things. 

"What do I have to do?" you ask, panicked and desperate.

"Lift your hands," Chaeyeon answers, tilting her head, smiling. "Your light. It's just as powerful as the rest of ours."

But there's nothing resembling light coming out. 

"Are you sure?" You hesitate. 

"We are!" Yena shouts exuberantly. She reaches out her hand. At the same time, they begin floating. "Now come on. We can do this. Together."

For a moment, you don't follow. Part of you thinks this is all just a weird afterlife dream. That you're seeing ghosts. Hope manifesting through some forgotten nostalgia. But her hand is still there, waiting for you to take that leap.

Ultimately, you take her hand. It's warm. Solid. She's real. They all are. And before you know it, you begin levitating off the ground too. 

After only a few moments, Yena lets go; you don't fall. Rather, you're suspended in the air as they climb just a little higher, encircling right under the asteroid. 

"Come on. Join us," Hitomi urges. There's no urgency, merely a kind call to action. 

And just like the Apostle Peter, you struggle to find your footing. Not for lack of faith, but at the absurdity of it all: 12 ghosts making you face death like this. It feels like a rite of passage more than anything else. But you follow along, because a small fraction of you wants to believe.

Eventually, you catch up to their height. Several thousand feet in the sky. You're walking on air. 

"Lend us your light," Hyewon prods. "It's been in you the entire time."

Their light is getting stronger; the collective beam is slowly pushing back the asteroid. The shadow overhead is shrinking down to the edge of the cliff. They can singlehandedly shatter this meteor; you're just there as a private audience.

But they still reach out to you. To make you feel that you belong.

"Be here," Minju chimes in.

"We need you," Nako pleads.

"Trust us," Yuri adds last. "We miss you too. All of you. But we're so thankful you brought them together when we couldn't."

The meteor is pushing down once more. They struggle to hold the beam together. The light is flickering.

"Come on. You've given us this," Eunbi pertains to the people below. Maybe more than that. The thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions, who still remember them. "Now help us repay the favor. And as an apology for not saying goodbye properly."

After a moment's contemplation, you hold out your arms. Slowly, still hesitating. Faith is the one thing pushing you forward when all seems lost. As your hands match level with theirs, light begins to pour from your palms. Colorless at first, but when it joins the group's beam, it changes into every one of each member before the collective ray turns to a bright green. The meteor is being thrust upward again; more importantly, it's starting to crack at its center.

"It's breaking," Sakura remarks, her brows narrowing. "A little more. We can do this."

The beam continues to change colors, going through each member's signature over and over. The asteroid groans; it's being pierced through the core, now a few feet into being punched through. Hairline fractures spread throughout the massive body, the cracks being filled by the devouring light.

"It's falling apart," you say, in awe at what's happening. There's no way you'll explain any of this without being sent off to a psych ward or a therapist. Or maybe this is just one last fever soaked dream before you died. Can go either way.

Nevertheless, the possibility of a miracle spurs you on. So you push. Extend your arms higher, giving it all that you have. You want this more than even they do. You're fueled by love, loss, faith, fear, hope, desperation, sorrow, joy—everything in between. It powers your light too. The meteor begins glowing brightly. 

"Almost," Yujin exclaims. "We're doing it! Just a little more—"

You don't know where this side of you came from, but you let out a roar that dissolves into background noise. As the world goes silent, you can feel the giant rock being crushed with your very hands. Down below, you can feel the earth tremble even from up in the sky. The girls are beginning to fade in and out too. The light has become as wide as the meteor itself—pure, distilled white hue. 

The light overwhelms your senses. The asteroid is all but consumed. The last thing you hear before you reach the other side, faint and almost imperceptible, a shared voice:

"Thank you. For everything."

—————

Might as well face the music.

Here's the cold, hard truth: they were gone. They've been gone. As in, it's not April 29, 2021 because you have that date marked on the calendar like Christmas or any other holiday, nor was it anything like three years ago, when contract negotiations were public and messy and there was reason to believe one or two of them would walk away forever. They did, all of them, but not in the way you expect careers to end: sudden, tragic.

The thing about death is that it comes without warning. One minute, you have a bright future and rest of your life ahead of you, the next you're collapsing during a fashion event and it's all for nothing. That's exactly what happened to Wonyoung. She was the first to go, and you can't come to terms with the cruel irony of her fate: she was the center, and she died as the center of attention. Natural causes, the doctors and coroners said, a byproduct of being too young and too in demand. It shook the entire industry, called into question whether she had been overworked to the bone (she was). She never complained; she was the consummate worker who kept things professional. Part of you believes she regrets signing that extension, but you'll never know.

Unsurprisingly, they were never the same after. Yujin tried her best to hold them together, but a reckless drunk driver was feeling too egotistical to let go of the wheel on a lonely night, and she paid the price. She was holding a Cherry plush in remembrance of her at the crime scene, which made her untimely demise all the more heartbreaking. The rest of the girls—they haven't had a comeback since then. Shelved, and probably for the best.

It's only these two so far, but part of you hurts remembering. And then there's the rest:

Chaewon had this nagging neck injury after that one accursed move that initially sidelined her for months. One slip in their dorm and then she was gone. Sakura found her half an hour later and rushed her to the hospital to no avail. She blamed herself not being there to save her on time, and it'd come full circle: a sasaeng pulled a knife on Kazuha during one of their fanmeets and she stepped in to take what would have been a hit to the stomach. Likewise, she was hospitalized but it was too late: she had bled out. HYBE kept the girls, promising to support them, but they never did. They were sidelined in favor of their newer groups. Yunjin saw the light and was trying desperately to terminate their contracts, but nothing came of it.

Eunbi was trying something different; she wanted to be an action star. Naturally, there were stunt sequences, and unlike others who opted for doubles, she insisted on doing them herself. A wire malfunction caused her to fly 30 feet into the air and crash facefirst into one of the buildings used for the set. Pure negligence on the production team and coordinator's part; that wire was reportedly having issues but they were saving costs and filming time. Another life carelessly lost. 

Hyewon's probably the one with the best outcome: she simply died of natural causes. She was found sound asleep in her apartment one day after watching anime the night before and never woke up. Too soon, everyone would say. Never had any underlying health issues that were publicly addressed, just someone who was never meant to stay here on this earth a long time.

Yena's past would come back to haunt her. Recurrence. She knew she was always on borrowed time, and while she would fight it at first, she recognized it was a losing battle. No wonder she gave it her all: every performance, every song, every time she talked, she spoke like it would be her last. And she shined brighter during her final moments than any other period. 

Chaeyeon loved her sister. That's a given. But she loved her so much that she didn't hesitate to give up her heart for transplant. A shared, undiscovered hereditary disease meant both of them were essentially ticking timebombs, and she wanted to make sure her sister could live to see another day. 

Hitomi loved her members. Took care of them as her own sisters and daughters. One rainy night, their van was speeding to the next schedule when it hydroplaned into a barrier on the highway. The car tumbled over and ended up upside down. She held onto the members as it crashed, and that's how they managed to survive. She was the only casualty of that accident.

Nako was at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was deep in the pit of a music festival when the crowd began pressing in after some maniac brought in a gun and opened fire. Suffocated and passed out as she tried to find shelter from the chaos. A bullet did not kill her, but the commotion that caused it did.

Yuri got into one of the messiest relationships ever. After co-starring as one of the leads in a critically acclaimed drama, she ended up falling in love with her co-star. They became an instant power couple, further sparked by more successful projects. Then he was caught cheating on her with a younger actress, but he denied the allegations and even proposed to Yuri as a way to save face. After getting exposed a second time with a different actress, he ended up getting into this heated argument with Yuri while driving and struck another car that ended up totaling their vehicle, killing them both on the spot.

Minju became the dying ember of an era. She had been to every single one of her member's funerals, and with each appearance, people could tell it affected her greatly. She was losing weight, getting more and more wrinkly despite her age, and didn't appear in public as much. The stress and heartbreak of losing everyone she loved proved to be too much, and she eventually suffered her own heart attack not long after Yuri's passing. She felt that she shouldn't have to go alone, and so she followed her in the afterlife.

One by one, the lights flickered in and out until there was none. It had been almost two years since Minju, the last of their legacy, passed. Truly nothing was ever the same. The groups, the people closest to them, the fans who still remembered—it was impossible to move on. The fact that they all went in near quick succession is haunting to think about. Like death specifically wanted them all, because being apart wasn't an option. They had to be together. They were family.

This was the lie that kept you going. You deluded yourself into believing they were together somewhere. Just not here; up there. Living their best lives. They had been talking about it, too. In the months leading to their departure, after the dust settled and contracts were made flexible, rumblings began. It was the worst kept secret in the world. Even their members got in on the act. Their schedules were clearing up specifically to make an album and a tour happen. This was the closure you were finally waiting over a decade for.

And then it wasn't. 

Everything else happened, and the dream was simply just that: a dream. While the world moved on and memories faded, you refused. The girls and the people they left behind couldn't. For them, it was more than losing an idol: it was losing a leader, a member, a sister, a friend. For you, it was your youth, your spark, a piece of your soul with every member's passing. And so it was. Little by little, you detached from the world until all twelve were gone. Truthfully, you died the same day Minju died; every day after was merely a corpse walking amongst the living, a puppet without its strings. 

And as you float along the line between the living and the dead, you realize that there's more to this life than staying in the past. The future can be scary sometimes. Nostalgia brings comfort. But that doesn't mean you have to be consumed by it. Like Nako once said, even when they're apart, the fact they existed means they happened. That they will always come at the right time.

That was the closure you got, but never fully understood. Until now.

—————

You find yourself lying on the ground somehow. 

The sun is still setting on the horizon. The evening breeze begins to settle. You scramble to your feet to see if the meteor is on its way down—and nothing. Just an orange sky giving way for starry night. But in its wake, sparkling dust as fine as snow slowly descends to the Earth, spreading throughout the sea and the cliffs where you stand. 

It's beautiful.

The crowd looks just as confused as you are. People are holding out their hands, catching stray drops, glistening and glowing in their palm. 

Eunchae is the first to vocalize it. "What—what just happened?"

No one speaks, initially. They're too in disbelief to make sense of anything. The closest explanation anyone has is from Leeseo, and even that sounds too farfetched: "It just—disintegrated. It was falling, we were all blinded by the light, and next thing you know, it was—gone."

A ripple of murmurs passes through the small congregation. Some say it actually dissolved upon entering the stratosphere. Others suggest the ocean swallowed it whole (but where's the massive hole in the earth's crust and why are the waters still there). You've got a few proclaiming divine intervention, doesn't matter which god. But you know the truth. What you saw felt the most real, because you experienced it up close and personal.

You just can't bring yourself to say it.

Because, first of all, you don't believe. Not fully. None of these people will, either, not even the girls. How can you explain articulately that the 12 ghosts you trauma bonded over appeared and helped you vaporize the asteroid on some anime bullshit. There's no plausible way to make your case without sounding like a deranged fan who needs a realty check.

None of that matters now. What's important is that you're here. Everyone is. Still breathing. Still alive.

Yunjin looks like she's on the verge of tears. She falls to her knees dramatically, the kind that's earned after an exhausting battle. "The world—"

She's overwhelmed with bliss and relief to finish her sentence. Can't find the words.

"It's still here," she manages. "We're still here."

The emotions from everyone else burst open. Laughter from the elderly, children's screams, hugs and sobs from friends, family, and lovers realizing they've been given a second chance at life and won't take it for granted again. 

And sure, you have no one to grab in the moment. You're acquaintances at best. But you look up at the sky and find solace knowing you're never alone. 

Minutes later, communications are restored. Everyone is celebrating. News channels and radio broadcasts return overjoyed, unable to contain themselves:

"The world as we know it, is well and truly safe—"

"Scientists are baffled—religious groups are calling for prayers of thanksgiving—"

"This is a story about the indomitable human spirit, says the Italian president—"

And the scenes. The absolute scenes around the world. People are breaking out into the streets hugging, crying, wreaking havoc out of sheer happiness. Bottles are popped. Flags are waved. Not in celebration for a city or a country, but for humanity as a whole.

Meanwhile, as night falls over Jeju, a massive campfire party is underway. The idols are singing like they've redebuted. Like they've found reason to perform again. 

You can hear their shouts and laughs from the cliff's peak. You've stayed behind, still thinking about the dream. About them. If it really was indeed their doing. You haven't brought it up to anyone even once, never hinted at it, and probably never will. Only after you eventually face your maker, and then you will find out the answer.

But that's for one day. Someday, but not today.

Until then, you look up at the sky once more. The moon is out. Comets and meteorites are flying past. And high in the cosmos, 12 stars are shining brighter than the rest. Their time may have gone, but as long as they live in your memories and hearts, they will always exist.

With one hand you reach out, similar to the way you shattered the asteroid together. Nothing emanates from your palm, but the moon reflects its light down. It's the closest you'll get to feeling them. And through the dark, you hold out the photo with the other, still untouched by the elements. Proof that they're alive.

You hold it close. You can hear their voices echo in your head.

I will show you my colors.

And you can't help but smile.

"Hey." Someone’s calling out, so you turn around. It's Yunjin. "We're about to have dinner. Come on. Let's eat."

"I'll be there shortly," you say. She grins as she walks away.

As you follow her into a future that's bright and promising, the stars above twinkle. Shifting into their colors without anyone noticing, they disappear. 

Forever written on the clouds.

————— (a/n: sorry this took long

originally, this was meant to be a secret "13th" day fic for iz*mas when i reposted the series on fanprose, but i didn't expect how lengthy this would end up being! I also wanted to do a disaster fic, heavily inspired by Armageddon and Deep Impact (you can tell i watched a bit of pointlesshub). if i hardly mentioned their names, it was a deliberate writing choice for the plot, but the twist feels kinda obvious tbh lol. i wanted their presence to permeate throughout the story but through the lens of different characters and what it would be like without them. not sure if they count as killing an idol since they do happen before the story starts, but i ended up explaining in gruesome detail how lol. something different before i embark on my most ambitious string of projects yet, thank you for reading! ♡)

She’s on her knees on the edge of your bed, face pressed into the sheets with her back arched. Your hand is around her throat with her choker still on while your other hand is on her hip and you are behind her. Exuberance overflows from both of you after she showed up two hours ago to supposedly finish her job clean and swift. Now, she is here in the shape you wanted her in, beautifully arched and folded. You’re finishing the job but it’s messy; finishing quick is never an option.

“You motherfucker!”

“Asa, language.”

Her nails are in the mattress and her moans grow louder as you penetrate her lovely paechy little ass. You cannot see her face but you can feel all of her. Lube wasn’t an option so you had to use her slick that doesn’t take long to leak from her tiny tight cunt.

“Who sent you by the way?” An inquiry that you don’t really need an answer to, because you know.

That’s the thing about clairsentients, lying is not an option at all. When you fuck her senseless you know every thought she’s having and obviously she understands yours as well and somehow neither of you has ever gotten used to it.

Retirement surely has made you slow. Days just reading fantasy novels and smut from the hit platform Fanprose have dulled your senses. If sprens were real, the room would be crawling with them, tiny wisps in the wind. Two hours ago you were a sitting duck and you certainly thought it was the end for you, but now she’s the one about to break.

You pull her hips back and slam into her ass deeper. Her whole body jolts forward with the impact. Her knuckles turn white on the sheets, the choker slides half an inch under your fingers, and you drag her back by it. Every stroke chips at her mental wall; oh how the professional is losing herself right now.

She finally confesses and it sounds like a moan mixed in with a curse.

“That piece of shit Prael.” She moans to mask her embarrassment because she knows a career in the intelligence industry won’t be an option anymore for her after this failure.

“MI6? How the hell did they pull that off?”

“They contacted me after learning about our retirement from CIRO—” You increase your pace, cock slamming into her ass violently, her cheeks jiggling like pudding at every impact, and she can’t help but scream out loud—the intensity making her pause. “—and of course after our last job, they didn’t want anyone surviving to tell the tale.”

“So they sent you to end me and eat your own bullet after?”

“Something like that.”

“Are you crazy? You were the Ace in the Hole of CIRO. Such talent will be wasted six feet under.”

“You know flattery doesn’t work on me.”

“It’s not flattery, my Ace-sa, it’s a fact.”

“Stop calling me that! I know you’re just mocking me because you were the true ace.”

You feel her waver, somewhere in the middle of her thoughts; the plan she walked in with is starting to look stupid. Her moans shift and something changes in her rhythm. Her walls are tightening; it almost starts to hurt. You feel her decision before she makes it. She’s let go and is nearing her climax. Prael was wrong about trusting her and this is just going to make him furious after, but you’re ready for that outcome. (Who cares, Asa’s yours. Who else will he send?)

You slow down.

“Don’t stop, you piece of—”

“Language! Say it right.”

“Please. Please make me cum.”

You thrust harder as she claws the sheets. Her back arches so deep you feel her whole body work you. Her choker moves under your fingers with every gasp and you keep going. You keep going until you feel her mind tip over the edge of sanity.

Her body violently shakes as she cums and you follow shortly after. You stay in her as her ass squeezes you through it. Her forehead is on the sheets and she is breathing erratically—unusual for a trained killer, which means all of this is as genuine and as raw as you can get from her.

“You still have that safe house in Kyoto, right?”

“I do.”

“…I hate you.”

“Your words don’t reflect what you really mean.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Ace in the hole, you said.”

“I meant it.”

“Then I hope you’re prepared for what’s coming next.”

“Why, what’s coming next?”

She takes a breath. “Let’s just say a certain Agent Ahyeon is supposed to do cleanup.”

You hear the back door open and the air goes thin.

“Fuck.”

From the bedroom, the girl, Eunchae, storms out, head in hands, her steps quick but aimless. On closer inspection, her simple oversized tee is the same shade of purity that’s plastered all over the walls, her hair in a smooth, wavy curtain like she just got it done. 

Behind her, you trail, near lazy, like you’re used to the words, simple black joggers and simple black shirt, clean as the rest of her, as the rest of the house.

“Get the fuck back here.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey!”

Bang.

“It’s always this shit with you! All the time. It never fucking ends, never fixes itself like it’s supposed to-”

“And you think that this is all on me?”

“Some part of it is you, at least admit that, you fucking prick.”

Bang. Bang.

“I’m sick of your shit, Eunchae.” 

“Yeah? Are you? You’re going to fuck off now, are you? Call it quits for real?”

You click your tongue. You try to steady your breathing. Stay calm. Stay calm. Her words are blunt. Blunt and rude, blunt because they aren’t sharp. That’s what you’ve been reminding yourself every day, right? 

“Let’s stop dodging the issue here.”

Eunchae spins to face you, her face frosty, her cheeks flushed. She looks almost drunk.

“And again with that. Don’t you feel repetitive, always flipping things back on me with that shit? What are you, a robot? Recorder? Metronome?” 

“Stop trying to get a rise out of me! This is pointless!” 

“Is it? Everything that doesn’t help you get your way is pointless? We’re only allowed to follow the plot you’ve made for us, is that it?” 

“No!” You say, finding this whole thing ridiculous, “The fuck? All you have to do is listen to reason! Where is this taking us? Back to the same old shit we’ve always been doing.”

Eunchae’s mouth opens like she’s choking back a laugh, struggling from spitting it right into your face. 

“News flash, dipshit,” Eunchae shakes, “everything we’re doing right now is a repeat. Like a stupid fucking sitcom. And you’re the fucking star, assface!”

You roar. “Don’t yell at me!”

The house echoes your ferocity- literally. When the two of you were shallower, in earlier days, she’d take an unconscious step back, an instinct upon your voice reaching this decibel. But now? Her hide’s grown thicker, which means all she does is raise an eyebrow in that particularly annoying way, the one that gets under your skin. Her lips flat. She looks like she’s about to kick you in the balls. And fuck it, the ethics. You wanna throw hands. 

You swear, the amount of effort required to prevent you from going full on ballistic has popped several veins in your skull. You know how it looks, played this little finicky game before, with the bloody mirror in view as well. 

You redden, purple up, and it takes a hot second before the natural complexion of your face returns. And, pathetically, it’s only then you note your balled fists. You hate it. You don’t like this look, a sentiment shared by your partner. Anger doesn’t get you anywhere.

You drop your tone. Drop everything. She’s just another person. She can’t touch you. All she’s saying are meaningless words. You’re better than this. Than her.

Your next words are sanitised, hands slipped back in your pockets like you don’t give a damn. “We need to start talking like normal human beings.”

Eunchae’s tone follows yours, no longer shrill screech. “And how’s that been working for you? Do the results look satisfactory?”

Her eyes cast to the room around you, like she’s coaxing you to take a look at everything yourself.

Hell, she makes things so difficult.

“We at least get somewhere when we aren’t screaming bloody murder.”

Her reply is scathingly quick. Like repeats turned ad hominem.

“There’s no need to stabilise your driving when you’re on a roundabout with no exit,” Eunchae bites. “Like you always like to say, pointless.”

You snap. “God, fuck. Eunchae, please. For fucks sake! Fucking please!”

Lord knows you’re fucking trying, hands in your hair, wincing and all. Eunchae turns her head to the side, like she’s ignoring you. The truth is, she doesn’t want to let it get to her. You power on, because there’s gotta be goddamn light at the end of this goddamn tunnel.

“We need to settle this issue. And we do that with talking. Not with this… infighting.”

“We need to settle this issue… again.”

You take a breath. “Yes. Again.”

Eunchae levels her eyes on yours. Her arms are crossed, not because she’s angry, but because it’s protective. Protective of all the skin of her arms she has pinched between fingers. “Fine. I’ll make my argument simple. There is no solving this. We’re just wasting our breath.”

“So we should just let this fucking horseshit continue?”

This time Eunchae makes a sound of annoyance. She shifts her weight to her other foot.

“Why do you like that word so much, anyway?”

“Huh?” You furrow your brow, “What? The word ‘fuck’? It’s just a word.”

“Just a word. That’s all that’s ever meant to you, hasn’t it? Just a word. And anyone that doesn’t subscribe to that notion is stupid trash.”

You have no idea what she’s getting at. You’ve been using that word since forever. She uses that word. But you don’t snort. You resist the urge to make any sound that suggests belittlement, any words to betray how it’s raining down upon you. Control. Control.

“Fine. I won’t use that word. Remove the profanity. Whatever. Happy?”

“Really?” Eunchae replies, “What a surprise. Should I be honoured?”

“What is your problem?” Everything that comes out of her mouth seems poised to spite you. Unnecessarily so.

“My problem, dipshit, is your stupid need to level everything to your playing field. It’s absurd. Injust. You’re in control, always.”

“Always? I’m puppeteering your life, am I?”

“You may as well be,” Eunchae says matter-of-factly, “We play by your rules, don’t we? We stop the yelling, talk things out, communicate like we’re in a debate club. Somewhere where you can use your stupid, verbose bullshit to outweasel yourself from being in the wrong.”

You stare. “Are you serious? You think conversing like normal human beings, respectfully and peacefully, is a shit way to resolve our arguments? Even when we descend into playground insults and verbal fuc… warfare? Is this not a logical solution?”

“So nothing else matters, does it? Just the right way to do things? The cold hard facts?”

What is she talking about? “What are you talking about?”

Eunchae scoffs, not even bothering to hide it. The pad of her thumb rubs at her eyes, and it stings, but you’ve gotten used to it. Because this happens every time. And you’re not sure when this bled into normalcy.

“Forget it.”

“What?”

She doesn’t reply. Her lower lip shakes. Your hands are in the space, grasping for something, whole body shaking and shuddering with all the effort you’re putting in to just reach.

“Eunchae, talk to me. What’s all this? What are you on about? We can’t even communicate right now.”

“Of course we can’t!” Eunchae screams, and you can’t even fake your surprise, eyes widening, caught in a moment where nothing makes any logical sense-

“You’re not listening! You never do!”

“Huh?” You say, flabbergasted. Preposterous. You’ve done nothing but try to listen.

“I don’t care anymore. Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Your house?” Your voice rises. Shit. Tone it down. “We bought this place together. Even split. Fifty-fifty.”

Your resist the urge to add, the fuck you mean your house?

“Then draw a line! I’ll stay behind my fifty percent. Just leave me the fuck alone!”

“Eunchae,” you slap a hand to your forehead, “You’re going to run from this? Again?”

“I don’t care! You win! I give up, give in. Whatever you’re going to say, you’re right!”

“Eunchae!” You shout. Fuck it. You need to get her to listen somehow. She’s not receptive to anything right now. You’ll apologise later.

Probably.

“Work with me here! I’m trying my best to talk to you. We can’t keep running away from our problems. They don’t just magically disappear.”

“Don’t they?” Eunchae retorts. She’s forsaken the urge to rub her tears away, to give a crap about the trails down her face and falling off her chin. “Isn’t that how it always goes? We talk, we agree on something. You dictate what I say. Sure. Happy for a couple of days. Otherwise, we take a break. A week where we start over from zero. We kiss, have awesome make up sex, and everything’s forgotten, isn’t it? Pause, incident, pause?”

You don’t retort. You can’t. It’s true, regardless of how wrong it is. That’s how it is. That’s how it always has been. Putting it brutally, the two of you discard each other when shit hits the fan. The attraction is fleeting. Intermittent. Hell. Like… disease.

It takes a moment for you to realise Eunchae’s already stalked away, moving past you. She defeats you, in that moment. You’re still staring at the same spot, because you’re not sure you believe what’s happening right now.

“So we’re just going to let this go?”

“Just tell me what you want from me and I’ll do it,” Eunchae mutters, her voice soft, lost.

This isn’t victory. Not for you, not really. This is a resignation. There was no fight here. There’s no cause for celebration. All Eunchae did was just roll onto her back and tell you to get on with it.

You walk out. Grab the keys, slip into slippers. Anywhere. Anywhere but here. Clear your head, get some space, whatever. You have no idea what to do. Whether to move forward, or to hang back.

Eunchae sits by the dining table, motionless. She’s another piece of the furniture. Pure, clean. Whatever to distract from what this all is. Does it make sense? Pfft, no. Of course not. Does it hurt?

Eunchae hangs her head in her hands and cries.

____

In another instance, maybe, just maybe, things play out differently.

If the rules of the world weren’t written this way. If everyone said, hey, okay, do your thing. It’s your little corner of the world, I won’t intrude. A world free from judgement maybe. Maybe.

It’s like this, see. You try to play things properly, really. You put all the extra little thoughts in. Maybe too many at times. You act, no, play, no, am the perfect boyfriend, to the best of your abilities. On judgement day, you should at the very minimum be tilted to the correct side, wholly because of your own actions.

Things are happy at the beginning, romantic. You wipe the ice cream off her lips. She giggles. The Han river. Noodles and fried chicken. Spicy bokkeumbap. Yeah, things like that.

For a good while, a very good while, you’re happy. Content. She’s support in your fragile little world, and things are great. The two of you push deeper, wading into the marsh, not looking back. Hell, not even looking forward. Looking at each other.

And that’s the moment. Right there. Pause the video. Zoom in. Right fucking there. Take out your notebook.

See, at first you think it’s a joke. Horror stories concocted by your mother told to her friends whenever they come over for dinner and girls’ night. About how cohabitation is a test. A real make or break. About how getting closer means getting further apart. And other nonsensical horseshit.

Taking a step forward, but forward’s the wrong direction. Like bringing this person in means the end for everything else. And look, you’re smarter than this. Smart enough to know not to fuck this up. And to know how not to either.

But the house is a warzone. One that deceives you at first. You enter, weapons lowered, taking in the scenery. Oh, those are some nice flowers. Put them by the side. Look at the paths! They sparkle.

And then you realise the whole fucking place is laced with land mines. Kablooey.

And hell, why do things keep escalating? You’re not on an escalator, you’re not playing a roguelike videogame. What’s this, Tetris? Putting the blocks and pieces into place speedily without fucking up the arrangement?

The first time was bad, sure. Eunchae’s tired of always having to bring your clothes to the laundry room, always having to make the bed in the morning. She just wants things to be neater, nicer.

So you explain how it seems ridiculous to you that she believes a laundry trip is mandatory once a day, considering that two people times two outfits is at most fourteen articles of clothing, a day. Which doesn’t even fill up the machine you bought halfway.

She calls it unhygienic. You call it uneconomical. 

It gets heated. Stupidly so. It’s the first time you find yourself genuinely angry with her, and you don’t know why. She cries, and it’s the first time that she’s ever done that in front of you. So you panic. 

Fine, you give in. Compromise. You’ll even dump the clothes in the washer for her. 

That pisses her off. Because she doesn’t want to just win. It’s never been about the victory in battle for either of you. It’s about the war. She needs to make you understand. And agree that she’s right.

But it doesn’t make sense.

Over time, things change. It’s less emotional turmoil and more brokering, a painful game of sorts. But instead of decapitated heads rolling it’s simply layers unraveling in front of you like unbundled canvas. And the picture it paints, not pretty.

You make deals. Bargain your way to allow you to drag her to your side. Barter trade.

Bring your weapons to the table: Cold hard logic against metaphysical morality. Raise them up and fight.

And after, the two of you have peace. Come back together. Like Frankenstein; your bodies meld. Heat, passion, till your eyes roll back into your skulls. It feels better that way, raw and unprotected, vulnerable after so many hits.

Then your hearts. Stitched together. Smiles. What were we even arguing about? It feels so stupid now. Love blooms, because love is like most flowers. Seasonal.

And the two of you let the festering problem reach further, hold tighter.

——

Your feet are light on the pavement. Coffee. Need coffee. Starbucks will do. A roadside coffee shop will do. Anything will do.

Clangle. Past the Christmas decoration, past the little lights.

The barista is sweet, serene, adorned with an elf hat. She’s pleasant, taking your order with a gentle smile and a clear lack of care for anything in her immediate surroundings.

So coffee takes a while. And she kind of puts too much sugar in it. But whatever. That won’t be enough to ruin your day.

Sweet is the season. Your right hand, clasped around the bag, the bag containing the artificial softness you didn’t really bother to wrap up. Whatever. She’s going to love it.

You shift in your brown wool jacket. No time to waste. 

She’s already got everything set up, of course. The treats, the tree, the candles. She’s got a Santa hat on, a Santa-red dress. Her face lights up when you toss your bag over like you’re going to bludgeon her and bash her head into a pulp.

“Hey babe!” She laughs, hands sinking into the softness of the puffy toy through its protective plastic layer.

“Eun-ah, you’ve done so much. It looks so good!”

You reach over to try to kiss her, but the sheer size of the soft toy provides some resistance. The two of you laugh, but meet anyway, your mouth over hers, dominating the kiss.

“Cute dress,” you smirk.

“Thank you,” Eunchae gives a little bow, swaying from side to side.

“Can’t wait to peel it off.”

“Pervert!”

You laugh. 

“At least let me have dinner first! There’s always only one thing you want on your menu, isn’t there?”

“It’s the only food I need,” you reply, twirling your finger in the air like you’re summoning a spell. “I’m a repeat customer.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait. Until after we get some actual food in both of our bellies.”

“Ever heard of the term, start with dessert?” You toss the pondering question over. Eunchae hits you with her Christmas gift.

“I told you. Wait. I have more in store for you. You haven’t even gotten to the best part yet!”

—-

Coffee. Coffee. How it clears the mind. Rids the fog, some would say.

You sip slowly. The drink has long gone cold by now, but you’ve been nursing it. Resisting. Taking as long as you possibly can.

Through the glass panel of the kitchen, where you can watch Eunchae. Watch as she moves quickly, rapidly. Ruthlessly efficient are her hands. She does her work. Fingers a blur. She does the laundry. Quick are her steps. Routine. Routine.

Your eyes watch her. Unmoving. A provocation. Seeing when she reacts. Your mind? Cycling a million possible retorts to cook her like a well done steak the moment she opens her mouth.

“Stop looking at me,” she says, obvious with her anger.

“You want me to leave?” You reply, as if one long walk wasn’t enough.

“Do whatever you like. But give me some privacy. Stop looking at me like I owe you rent. It’s unnerving.”

You take another sip. Mug’s empty. “What is?”

“You looking at me. I don’t like it. The more you look at me the closer you get. The more I have to deal with your bullshit. Go away.”

She stacks another one of her shirts on top of the pile, before grabbing the entire folded tower and hurrying off to the bedroom. Like she has anything else to do.

You wash the mug. Place it back on the drying rack the way you know she likes. Your cup kissing hers. You follow.

“So we’re really going to do this?” You say softly. All traces of irritation, anger are gone, replaced by a droning monotone disconnected from emotional appeal. She won’t get to you now, because you won’t allow it.

Eunchae ignores you. The clothes go back into the drawers. Neatly, neatly. Scented with detergent you both agreed to use to clean. Like a promise to blend.

“We’re just going to avoid this, again. For another week. Maybe two. Then we’ll remember to start talking.”

She just packs.

“You don’t give a shit about us.”

“And you’re saying you do?” Eunchae looks up at you defiantly from her kneeling position. She opens the next drawer, turning back not even a second later.

“Clearly, I do. I’m the only one actively trying to solve the issue here.”

“There’s no issue between us.”

“There is an issue.” you say pointedly. 

“No there isn’t. Not one either of us can solve, evidently.”

“Do you want things to improve?”

“In this snail race?”

“Eunchae.”

“What? Go do your thing. Your little distancing routine. Go out. Have a drink. Chat with your buddies. Pretend to check out that chick at the bar. And come back in a couple weeks when you want to fuck me again.”

You sigh. You’re not even irked at that. It’s all so… desensitised. You’re tired. “We have to at least try, babe.”

Eunchae tenses unnaturally. Was it the word? Or everything else? She stands up, making a means to move, but you’re in the doorway.

“Excuse me.”

You don’t budge.

“Excuse me, please.”

“Don’t run away from this.”

“It’s not about how fast I can fucking get away from you, mister. It’s about how quickly you’ll catch me.”

She’s moved up right into your personal space, fearless in a certain sense, but her eyes don’t meet yours. You’re a barrier, and nothing else. Her eyes are motioning to move past. And you feel it’s all grossly unfair.

Is there anything to say that could change the current predicament? Any way to reason yourself out of this one? One that anyone could understand?

Finally, after a few moments, when Eunchae realises you’ve gone still, she looks up. She’s not daunted by the proximity, not affected by the look in your eyes. 

Her eyes, still red like they’ve been rubbed raw. Her lips are slightly swollen, like you’ve been kissing her too much. She looks so much like something that needs protection. And you’re not impervious like you’ve been telling the world. Everything begs you to hold on.

“What, you want to fuck me already?”

You blink. “I thought you didn’t like that word?”

“Yeah, but you love it, don’t you? You love that word, and all the things that come with it. It’s all you want to do, all you want to hear, right? Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!”

“Eunchae!” You say, scandalised. Like you’re scandalised.

“Isn’t that all you want? My body? That’s what keeps you running back, right? You only give a fuck about my body.”

You pop. Zero to a hundred. It’s not true. It’s a blatant lie. It’s everything to rouse you. And what she insinuates, you detest it.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you spit, “I do.”

You repeat the lie, because a part of you knows she hates this just as much as you do, all these naysayers with their opinions on what the two of you can be, will be, should be. Your hand seizes her wrist, bringing the two of you closer like you’re about to kiss her I love you.

“You’re right, Eunchae. That’s all I give a shit about. You. Your body. That’s what you want to hear me say, right? That you’re just a warm body I can use by my bed, a convenient way for me to drain my balls.”

Eunchae’s eyes darken. Magic, the way they manage to switch up like this. Like she wants to eviscerate you with a trebuchet. 

“Fuck you.”

You let her pass, because you can’t stand to look any longer. You shouldn’t let her go, but you feel like screaming at the walls.

You’re wrong. You mean so much more to me.

But they’ll never see that.

——

“Hey, what do you think is wrong with us?”

You glance over at Eunchae from your seat at the glass table. Her figure’s sprawled out on the couch, her head cast skyward like she’s stargazing through the ceiling.

“Wrong with us?”

If she nods, it’s imperceptible. But you heard right.

You turn to your hands, on the table, fingers outstretched and flat on the cool glass, back when they didn’t yet learn to curl into fists. The house smells like human petrichor, mixed in with that suffocating smell of sanitizer, of appearances.

“I think it’s about what’s wrong with me, isn’t it?”

Eunchae frowns. “No. I’m a part of it too. It takes two hands to clap.”

“Does it really though?” You reply, “Besides. I have two on my own.”

Eunchae glances down to look at you. From this angle, with her feet facing you and her body resting comfortably, she looks cute. Her chubby cheeks on her small face. A squishy look.

“A part of it is me. At the very least. We’re both guilty here. That’s why we keep crawling back to each other, unable to call it quits.”

“I mean, hasn’t this gone on for long enough? Why are we still torturing ourselves like this, like a pair of obnoxious siblings stuck under the same roof? Why can’t we just call it quits?”

“...I don’t know,” you say finally. And even if you did have the right answer, the one that solves all of this, would it matter? 

Fundamentally you know, there’s something wrong with all of this. There’s these things called rules, or whatever, lines drawn in the sand you’re supposed to abide by. Wards, fences, walls, signs all pointing in the opposite direction. Don’t do that. Don’t follow your heart. Not to her, young and pliable.

You slowly pick yourself up from the chair, and Eunchae watches closely as you cross over. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle. Her eyes just hold on to you, tracking your movements till you’re kneeled, on one knee, by her head.

Quiet. A moment for the two of you. Just the two of you. You watch her, and she watches you. Her gaze is pensive, pliant, waiting for your next move. 

You reach over to give her a kiss on the lips. One that you give all the time, but the kind she never gets tired of. When you pull away from her delicate softness, the hints of a smile grace her cheeks. You rub her head for a couple gentle moments. Hopeful ones.

And then you get up and start moving again, Eunchae watching you gently as you start busying yourself with life.

—

Eunchae never throws anything, in all her rage. Then again, neither do you.

In fact, the house is often so spotless, so incredibly untarnished, that simply by appearances the two of you seem to be living a perfect life. 

—

One more check. A whiff of your collar, a straightening of your cuffs. Things have still been in an uncomfortable flux, but just because the two of you currently hate each other doesn’t mean you’re going to miss out on important obligations. The tickets to her rehearsal are still there. You’re not going to just not go.

A quick glance in the mirror, which reveals that you look tired, tired from fighting and leaving and being hollow, from avoiding.

Combat between two urges, one that declares that things should be over, and the other that yields to the idea that you need her back by your side, that you miss her warmth.

Fight it out.

Eunchae took the car; You grab an umbrella just in case and start to make your way over, in your navy suit and brown oxfords. You look good, a guy that’s clearly out for a date, some attractive looking event, and you cycle through the million things you’re about to say.

And you think to yourself, the funny thing is this. Adjacent to Murphy’s law, nothing that anyone thinks will actually happen does happen. There’s always that additional layer, that extra hurdle life throws on the track that catches one off guard, that derails, that can’t be prepared for even with a million years of careful consideration.

So you choose to eliminate as many bad options as possible by trying to think of them first. Get rid of all the worst ways this night could go. Scrap the breakup story. Scrap the messed up performance. Scrap the why did you come? I didn’t want to see you here.

And ironically, try not to think of all the good endings. 

Her dress is red, for some reason. Like a Chinese ornament, or something. Hair done up, in a singular, smooth ponytail, a plume that rests gently behind her. And the thing is, she knows your seat, she gave you the damn tickets after all, so she knows immediately once the stage lights cast down on her that you’re here.

Her back straightens. She almost smiles. Almost. A quick bow and she turns to the keys, sitting with her feet tucked together.

She looks good. Nothing like the clipped seraphim she was every day of the past week. Her makeup conceals it all, brings out her eyes, always bright, spotlights in the dark.

She tests the keys, the same little pattern you’ve heard time and time again, at home, at her practices, at her performances. You close your eyes for a moment. You always prepare yourself mentally before her performances. She has her routine. And you have yours.

One. Two. Three.

Eunchae starts to play. The tune wafts in, gentle, romantic. She strikes each key with certainty, precision.

She eats it up right from the start. Her fingers, soft and slow at first, pressing gently when she knows the audience is focusing more on her than the tune. When the music overwhelms, when they start to give in to the message, they speed up, become a blur, tapping notes in succession.

The pieces she chose are good. They always are. And her skill goes without saying. The first song. A short break. A violinist comes on stage. And Eunchae accompanies his second piece.

Her eyes are mirthful. She doesn’t focus too hard on the notes, on the music sheet in front of her. Her fingers already have the song memorised. Her smile mirrors her playing, like she just forgets all about it and seeps into her notes. There’s not a tinge of sadness in her notes, like it never existed at all.

She doesn’t need to glance at you. She just needs to feel.

She gets one more piece. Brisk are her movements. A few people by your side, in the front row, take pictures.

You don’t know if you can live without her.

She comes down five minutes later than everyone else. And you’re not sure who needed to mentally prepare themselves more.

You stand in the first row, watching as all the other performers greet friends and family. All till a swish of red distracts you.

She walks purposefully, smiling and thanking as eyes fall on her. Her pace never falters. Swiftly, she reaches you. By your side.

Come on. You can’t even look slightly pissed if you tried. You smile, and she does as well, her chin dipping shyly.

“You-”

“Yeah. I came.”

Eunchae beams, her pearly whites showing for the first time in two weeks, and she turns away and does a little spin. The crowd parts naturally to give her room.

“How was it?”

“The performances? Great. The band was amazing.”

“But I was better?” Eunchae shifts her weight to her left foot, crossing her arms.

“You’d better be. Otherwise I’d be dating someone else right now.”

“Prick,” Eunchae shakes her head, “can’t you be nice and stop teasing for once?”

You chuckle. “You were amazing, babe. Gorgeous. As you always are. Everyone was transfixed.”

She glows. Everything feels better. No need for anymore words. The two of you communicate just like this. Her eyes glisten.

“Hey, none of that. You still need to receive all the praise and appreciation.”

Eunchae nods since she understands. She blinks a couple times, and they disappear. Later.

“I’m hungry. I’ll see you in a few minutes?”

“Go,” you nod. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

Eunchae nods, the little angel, turning and leaving like a flare shot away from a flare gun, leaving your life. Others watch her go, then watch you, watching her leave.

You get it. And damn. There’s so much more.

In the car, you’re a shaking wreck. Everything feels wrong. Everything feels foolish.

And that’s even before Eunchae knocks on the windscreen, telling you to let her in. The lock clicks, and she surges in, grabbing a hold of your neck and kissing you hard. 

Her lips meld to yours, mixing cherry lipstick with strawberry lips.

Your hands seized her shoulders, and each subsequent kiss deepens. It feels right, it feels good. Like she left, but dammit, she came back.

“Close the door,” you say between kisses, “the aircon is leaking out.”

She laughs, eyes wet, but does so anyway. She tucks herself neatly into the seat. And contact is broken. Just for a moment.

Because you’re pulling her in right after, again. And it’s a good while before the headlights of your car come on.

“I’m sorry,” Eunchae says first, the two of you on the highway. No, you don’t miss the details. Her hand clasped in yours. The other one fiddling with the hem of her dress, nervous like she’s been hurled back to her past, to your first date. The way she looks to the front because it hurts to look at you.

“We’re so stupid.”

“We’re not. Just… difficult.”

She laughs again. Weakly. Like she’s tired of it. Both of you are.

Your hand leaves hers for just a moment, so you can make a safe right turn onto the highway. And it comes back to rest on her thigh.

Her eyebrow perks up curiously, and you nonchalantly give her thin leg a squeeze. She shakes her head. She doesn’t even need to say it. 

“I’m just telling you, this dress is a bitch and a half to take off. It’ll take like, ten minutes. And a lot more space than the interior of a car.”

You do your best to look disappointed, like that’s really the first thing on your mind. “Later then. What do you want to eat?”

And it’s strange, because food feels almost secondary. And it feels like it’s because nothing makes sense. 

——

And look. The makeup sex is amazing.

Every time the two of you come back, it’s a couple days where the two of you can’t do anything else but tangle up in a mess of limbs and kisses.

It’s so good that in a messed up way it seems almost worth it to keep breaking apart, because returning feels consistent, probable.

The two of you stumble like drunken sailors all over the house, pulling and pushing each other around, gasping, moaning, groaning with round after round of mind boggling pleasure. That’s the only time things appear even a little messy. Her. You. Madness. Psychosis.

She becomes pliable, pudding, doing whatever you want and whatever you ask, loving it, making it feel like everything’s right with kisses down your cheek. A private moment for two, right?

“Let’s go out,” she says.

“When?”

—

“Get away from me!”

“No!” Eunchae screams. “You started this!”

You snort. “I started this? Me? When you literally just barged into the bedroom and screamed your head off?”

“You let it happen again! How did you let it happen again? What’s the point of saying things have changed, will change, if the same mistakes are going to happen again?”

“Things have been improving! I’ve been doing what you asked! Picking up the laundry. Cleaning the toilet. Waiting outside the office for an entire additional hour to pick you up! It’s been two months without incident. This was just a mistake. I was busy. It slipped my mind!”

“Of course! You were so busy you couldn’t remember to not let our house catch on fire? How do you nearly fuck up boiling water?”

“Just get one of those automatic ones that turn off by themselves! My boss dialed me with something important!”

“Made out of moneybags, are we?”

“Oh come on. It’s the simplest solution.”

“Well then, excuse me if I prefer using an item that’s not even spoiled rather than investing in a minor upgrade.”

“Then that’s your problem, isn’t it?”

“My problem? Yeah? Do I have to burn my fingers off the next time for you to get it?”

“The hell? That’s just being bitchy, Eunchae!”

“Fuck you! Can’t you not be such an unbelievable… pricklord?”

“…Okay, that’s just weak.”

“Fuck off! I should pour that kettle of hot water over your head!”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe I am! God knows I’ve already lost my mind living here long enough. With you!”

“Yeah yeah, everything is me, isn’t it? I’m the problem here.”

“So you think you can pin everything on me instead?”

“That’s not what I said! I’m done with this.”

“Then leave! For good! Has no one grown a pair of balls in this house? I know I definitely haven’t, and the last time I checked, you’ve got enough for both of us! So be a man and move on from me!”

“So it’s on me to leave as well! You haven’t learnt to be an independent woman yet, is that it?”

“There is no independence here, under your charge.”

“Stop saying that!”

—

No, really. You should be the bigger man here. The actual man. The one you’re defined to be. Moving on is logical. This will pass, and so will she. Plenty of fish, in this sea.

—

You know what it looks like. This isn’t a Mexican standoff, poker table, an all-in gamble. There shouldn’t be this much trepidation on the fact that both of you are seated on opposite sides of the dining table for the first time in what feels like forever.

“The truth is we can’t understand each other.”

Eunchae doesn’t react for a moment, like the truth doesn’t faze her. Which makes sense. Because the words have always been written here. On the walls. 

“We don’t agree on things. We don’t see eye to eye. We even… think differently.”

“Your point being?” Eunchae says, and you’ve never felt the coldness in her low tone before, but you do now. “We don’t work. We don’t even have the same value system. What you think is right and what I think is right, they don’t align. It’s like being a shitty MBTI match. I’ve tried. You’ve tried. We do our best to carve a way out for both of us, but we never come out the other side. It’s starting to hurt the way I look at you. And I know it has affected the way you see me as well.”

“So I should go, then.”

“No,” you say immediately, like it hurts. “No. It’s just… it’s bad.”

“Get to the point.”

You look up into her eyes. Her tone is detached, no, lobotomised, and it’s completely foreign. But the look in her eyes is anything but. Exactly the same way as before. Bright, but dimming with each passing moment. Affected.    

“I… I don’t know what to do.”

Eunchae stares. Then the tears burst from her eyes.

And you could say a million things about that moment. About how it hurts, how it feels wrong. About how afraid you are of each next passing second, unsure where this road is going, or if there’s any road at all. 

Your heart knows. Your mind knows. Each sparkle down Eunchae’s cheeks knows. She bites her lips, redirecting the pain outward, into something she can feel. She sniffs.

“You should let me go.”

Your throat goes dry. The right thing is to agree, right? Let her lead a better life, you’d do that if you truly loved her. You had no right to keep her for so long anyway, or to keep her at all. So you should just say it. Everyone would be happier this way. 

But. What’s stopping you? 

Eunchae’s breath catches, half because she actually needs air when she’s dying like this, and half because she’s watching your own tears fall.

“I don’t want to. I really, really don’t want to. I don’t know why-” 

“I don’t want to either.”

And you wish she didn’t say that. Because the truth is you love her. But that doesn’t matter, at least not anymore. Not here. Love is bullshit, disaster, the problem. The only thing that can’t be explained in any sort of rational manner-

“I still love you. So much.” 

And Eunchae sobs. Loudly. Her eyes crush into this ugly shape, her teeth gritted like she’s in pain. And the truth is, the two of you should be sick of each other. The two of you should hate each other. By coexisting, logic states that the two of you aren’t a match. The two of you can’t even decide on dinner sometimes, for gods’ sakes. 

She just says, I eat anything, even when the both of you know she has particular foods she doesn’t eat, and then you go I eat anything, because you actually do. And then the two of you just stand there, in the mall, waiting.

“We can’t keep going back,” Eunchae murmurs, rubbing at her eyes, her whole body trembling with each uncontrolled weep. And love, which is the sweetest pain, the most intense, it all just… seems so pointless. Why? Why couldn’t you have been different? Why are you still fighting for this? Eunchae’s next words make so much sense.

“All we’ve been doing is coming back to this moment. It’s a loop. We break, we fall. We come back. -hic- We never move on. You argue with yourself over and over again if you’re doing the right thing, like it matters to deny what’s in your heart.”

She sniffs again, and your hand shoots out to grab the tissue box by the end of the table. To drag it into the space between you two like a marker.

“...Should we just go?” You say, clearing your throat like you’ve been yelling for seven straight hours at a wall. 

“I don’t know,” Eunchae admits, shoulders hunched, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue. She looks up with this sad smile, this look that tells you she can’t care any more about the consequences. “How could I ever know?” 

She’s right. You’ve always known she’s right. You picked her because she’s always been right. Right in her own way. Just. The whites on the wall don’t need to peel for you to understand. There’s no need for a bell to signal the end of this ballad.

“I’d still try, you know? Over and over again. No matter how long it takes. Regardless of if it matters. If it changes anything.” “At the very least, I’d still be with you. Even if it hurts. I don’t know if I know how to go.”

“I know you would,” Eunchae almost laughs, this unnaturally light sound in this sombre mood, “But it’s okay. We can move on. Pretend this never happened. Pretend you never had the urge to come to me, to take me, use me, communicate something in a way that matters. Pretend you never loved me.”

“It sucks,” Eunchae admits, “We could call it quits here, right now. And it’ll feel like we’ve dumped a pointless amount of something to get to nothing. And maybe in a few years you’ll really forget all about me, realise that this was all pointless. Move on to someone younger, prettier and better. And that’s just how life works. It allows you to fixate on all the right things, and you’ll just get rid of anything that’s even halfway difficult to approach.”

Eunchae sniffs again. Her tears have stopped, and this moment really does feel final. There’s nothing left to write. 

“I should go,” you say.

You should go.

“The house,” she begins, turning to face the walls. Everything the two of you have taken shelter under, that’s been built together. Fifty-fifty. Even. Split.

“Keep it. It’s yours.” You say. The truth is, even the idea of retaining your share of everything feels like a black mark you won’t be able to erase. It’s best to just leave everything as it is. Cut yourself off completely. Remove yourself from any suspicion. 

“This house was made because of you. It should be left to you.”

Eunchae nods, slowly at first, like she’d argue. But arguments now are… needless.

The two of you pack like a couple. An actual one. She just hands things over wordlessly, things that go neatly into the next part of your suitcase. Clothes are easy. Everything else is difficult. Because how do you find things that she hasn’t touched, hasn’t graced? How do you just… remove everything that’s been tormenting you for months?

And it’s the way the tears start again, because each layer you unpack is another thing, another stupid reminder of what the two of you blended and made. Eunchae sinks to the floor, cradling one of those predrawn artworks the two of you never got around to finish painting, and even you can’t find the strength to pick her back up. You called it stupid. She’d promise you it’d be finished in two weeks, together. Bought it last year. On holiday. You watch her. Face concealed, that wavy curtain of hair you always thought hid her beauty from the outside world now looks like refuge, the last thing stopping her.

“I don’t want you to go.”

It’s soft. But genuine.

You zip up your suitcase. “I’ll see myself out.”

You declare it like she doesn’t trail behind you anyway, white following black, all the way to the door. 

“It’s… for real this time,” you say, exhausted. This has been a long time coming. Eunchae nods, like she agrees, her eyes still staring straight at the center of your body. Maybe she can see your heart. But she probably can’t. Because otherwise she probably would have stopped you by now. “... goodbye?” Eunchae says slowly.

And you look past her, at the house. The room. Everything that’s still there, that Eunchae will slowly have to filter out, toss away. And you almost smile. Maybe a part of you will still be here, even though it doesn’t matter. You won’t forget, will you? This should feel important. 

The house still smells like her. You wonder how long it’ll take her to get rid of your scent.

“Bye.”

And the important thing here is not how you leave, turning away, letting the door close on you without support, without either of you having a hand on the handles, but the way she reacts. Because you might not goddamn see it, but it’s everything that’s happening behind the door, the thing you can only imagine is happening, that really gets you.

How she slumps against the door, forehead first, then sinks. The way she has to curl up against it, a ball of ashy hair, her nails scratching at her lower lip, eyes empty. 

The way her fingers still find a way to scratch at the wooden front door, like you’re on the other side, and she’s the one waiting for you to open up and let her inside.

And your feet still haven’t left the dais.

Does it matter? Is everyone right? Is this lie of pretending she doesn’t exist, like she isn’t right fucking there, is this the best thing us as human beings could come up with?

Should you give a fuck? Don’t we pride ourselves on freedom of expression? If this fucked up way of constantly thinking about her, constantly coming back to her is wrong? Then what isn’t?

Desecration. Humiliation. The she knows or she doesn’t. Innocence and youth and the you shouldn’t do her like this, like everything’s true in your heart is false because it cannot be seen. Anguish.

The door clicks.

Eunchae stumbles away from the door, eyes widening like gold is falling from the sky. She barely gets a foot away before it swings open, and you’re quick, rushed.

You grab her by the scruff of her neck, pulling her up, tossing your luggage to the side. You don’t care if the handle cracks the marble.

And yeah, it looks like a fight. And it is a fight. A fight to protect the one goddamn thing you love.

Your lips find Eunchae’s. She’s pretty, all with her rosy lips and panicked gasps, but the kiss is anything but.

You press hard. Your fingers go to her hair, her neck, pulling her in. Her nails curl against your thin tee like she’ll scratch your heart out.

It takes a moment for you to realise she’s crying. Wait no, you are. What does it matter?

You pull apart for a fraction of a second, so you can realign yourself and kiss her again. She cries directly into your mouth, and it’s a rough pound against your chest that finally separates the two of you.

“Why?” She croaks, your lips stained with the salt of her pain, “you were supposed to leave. You had to leave! Now we’ll just go back into that same rhythm again!”

You don’t reply, just pull her in again. And yeah, she goes powerless. She kisses you back, harder than you thought possible, her fingers tugging hard at your shirt, pulling it up and bunching the fabric up.

The two of you break only when desperately necessary, both heaving like the two of you have summited a peak.

“I can’t go. Won’t go. Don’t go.” 

And Eunchae squeezes her eyes tightly shut. And your lips go to her cheek, right below her eye. All this isn’t new to you, save for the fact that this is the latest time you’ve mended back together.

Her hands go to your back, squeezing you tight, keeping you close. She doesn’t draw away, only pulls you in deeper, because the both of you realise losing this is the only real defeat in both your lives.

She pulls your shirt off, over your head. Her hands rest against your chest, next to your beating heart.

“I missed you,” she admits, between laboured sobs.

“Me too.”

“Bedroom.”

The two of you stumble backwards, a clumsy waltz back. You guide her, slowly, all while she starts pressing gentle kisses on your neck, your collar. Breathes in your scent hungrily like your memory can fade away from her nose, given time.

You guide her hands to find the top of the mattress. Her fingers close, take in the textile feel of the fabric.

You reach for the hem of her shirt. And you wait, longer than you should. Long enough to hesitate.

But she nods. And you pull it off of her.

Her bra is simple. Grey. Your lips find hers first, a kiss to reassure, to remind her this is happening, your hands thumbing away her tears, which are stilling.

She doesn’t shiver at your touch, doesn’t flinch when your lips go to that spot beneath her ear. You’ve been in this spot before.

All she does is tug you over her, closing the distance to nada, till you can feel her own need on yours. Her hands disappear behind her back, and it’s quick, the way her bra is tossed aside with her left hand, and her cute little handfuls are bared to you.

And sure. Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’ve taken things too far. Maybe what’s important is that you don’t fucking care. You want her. She wants you.

You kiss her shoulder. Then her breasts. You’re painstakingly gentle with each, placing gentle kisses on each mound, your hands rubbing her waist in circles. She arches her back, her breath catching in a delightful little gasp.

“More,” she asks cutely.

You swear you’ll protect her till the day you die. You use your thumbs first, introduce them to the sides of her breasts. It’s a formal greeting, letting her feel the warmth of your touch as you draw the curves of her chest before you start applying any pressure. 

Her fingers find your hair, moaning as your tongue paints her sensitive skin, glides over her nipples. 

“Oh fuck,” you hear. You grin inwardly.

You rub her peaks against your tongue, rub the surrounding flesh with your fingers. They feel good in your hands, good as they always would. That’s the exercise here.

Eunchae shudders, her elbows squeezed to her side like it tickles, her fingers clenching on open air.

“Mmnn!”

“Love you, babe. So much.”

You kiss her lips again. Your fingers brush over her rubbery nubs firmly, insistently, a metronomic motion.

“God yes,” she says, smiling with her eyes.

Below her shirt, she has shorts on, denim booty shorts, previously concealed beneath her oversized tee. Your hands are already slightly edging downwards, and the only thing that stops you is a sudden giggle from above.

“What?” You say, confused.

Eunchae reaches for her own chest, gently squeezing and humming softly. “You look so stupid going to take my pants off while you’re crying.”

You laugh, and she joins in. “Doofus, you’re crying too.”

“Fuck,” she says, grinning as she does so. Then her hands come down to help. One firm push from her, mixed with one sharp tug from you, and everything else falls off of her.

“Damn, beautiful.”

Eunchae laughs, meaning to pull you back up to her, but you’re already snaking your way down below, till your knees are off the bed and on the floor.

“Not wasting time, are we?” She says idly, propped up on one elbow, the other tossing her hand back behind her.

“All we do is waste time,” you reply, pulling her legs apart without another word.

Her pussy, soft, inviting, looking like it can’t fit more than a couple fingers in there. They shine with arousal, and you don’t need to look up to know she’s slightly flushed.

You take the same approach you did with her tits, rubbing gently into the flesh of her thighs, and pressing loving kisses to either side till she nearly kicks you from her giggles. 

“You don’t have to be shy, you know.”

“Funny,” you reply, “coming from you.”

You plunge your tongue between her legs.

Eunchae gasps, her eyes widening as it hits her all at once. You go deep, plunging into the depths of her core while making her sure her legs go still. 

You lap gently. Take what’s coating your tongue and go around her outer lips first, give both sides equal attention before you spread them again, drinking from the pool between them.

Eunchae shudders, throwing her head back, an unexpectedly low tone passing from between her lips.

You press down on your tongue, using your head for added effect to apply more pressure, letting her feel the heat of your own tongue.

“Shit!”

“Mmm, yum,” you reply. 

Eunchae clamps a hand over her mouth, her eyes all wide, doing a remarkable job and concealing her pleasured groans even as your gentle laps against her pussy turns to lashes.

“Now who’s being the shy one?” you tease, gathering spit on your tongue as additional lubricant and letting it fall lewdly between her legs.

“Shut up. This is… different.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Different? What, does it feel like you’re being watched?”

“I don’t know, maybe, yeah.”

“Like you need to care about giving a fuck. Just keep your eyes on me. And you know I like it when you voice your enjoyment.”

“Fine, jeez, it’s embarrassing, you know,” Eunchae says. You don’t reply, already leaning forward for a second helping.

This time, a couple of your fingers work to pull her further apart, because the truth is, she’s tight. She always has been, and maybe always will be. You rub a finger between the slit, because you know it’s better when she has time to get used to it. And you know she loves it when you take your time with her.

And you haven’t even gotten to the button poking out from beneath her hood yet.

“Ah!” Eunchae cries when you seize it by the lips, legs shaking. 

“God, you eat pussy like you’re famished.”

“Only yours,” you reply, pressing another gentle kiss to her thigh, giving her but a moment’s respite. “And like you’d blame me.”

A chuckle is her response, one that’s cut off as you really start to go for it, apply full strokes the way you’ve learned she enjoys.

She enjoys everything really, anything beneath your touch. But you’ve worked hard to know what really gets her going.

“Don’t cramp on me now,” you warn, because it’s happened before.

“Ah! That- guh, that’ll be later.”

It’d be better if it was never, because it really does get in the way sometimes. But occasionally that’s how it is. 

Eunchae locks her feet together behind your head, sinking back against the sheets, arms spread wide. You glance up, able to observe her heavy breathing, her chest heaving as she tosses her head left, then right like she’s having a bad dream.

She decorates the room with her soft cries, her tone a blend of rich timbre and youthful charm. Your hands keep her legs well apart, fingers almost drumming a pattern into her skin.

“Fuck, that feels really good,” Eunchae confesses.

Her hips start to move in time with your tongue, bucking back and forth gently till she hits a particular spot and lets out a shattered moan.

“Right here?” You ask, redirecting yourself to find that spot you brushed by moments earlier.

The increase in amplitude of her voice gives you the answer.

“Oh my fucking-,” Eunchae buries her mouth into her elbow, “please don’t stop. I think I might cum.”

“I won’t stop, baby,” you say, your fingers replacing your tongue whenever you speak. Add one, let her feel the intensity. “I’ll keep going, right here, okay? Till you let go for me.”

You lower your head again, and all conversations stops. Just the soft sounds of you sucking on wet flesh and the louder sounds of what it’s doing to her entire body.

“Hnn- oh, oh,” Eunchae snaps her hips suddenly, like she managed to find even more than what she asked for.

“Oh shit, oh fuck. That’s really good.”

You almost scoff. As if she hates the word.

And the one thing about her is that she doesn’t lie. When she gets going, starts reaching her peak, it’s obvious. It comes in the slight tremble in her legs. Inconsistent at first, little twitches, her toes curling against one another, then more persistently, like a soft electrical hum.

“I’m going to cum soon,” Eunchae says, like you can’t feel it beneath the vibrations of her skin.

You continue your efforts. You don’t speed up, just keep giving it to her at this exact pace, the one that she’s into today, till it’s almost robotic. You don’t speed up, but you don’t slow either, and to Eunchae, it feels like a consistent, growing build up she can’t tug away from.

“Fucking g-mmmhmmph,” Eunchae hums, borderline painfully. Almost there. You will your tongue to continue, no matter how tired it may be.

Her voice comes out in vibrato.

“Fuck! Fuuu-uu-uuu-uu-ck!”

And it’s because her body does too. Her whole body shakes, convulses uncontrollably. You guess orgasms give some people electrical shocks, because her hips twitch and buck powerfully at incredible space, and yeah, you’ve seen this before, but it’s not like the scene isn’t amazing and incredibly hot each and every time.

Eunchae whimpers like she’s afraid, a long and deep orgasm that rocks her entire body, overstimulates every single nerve.

You hold her through it, closing your eyes and letting yourself hear her, hear how well you’ve done her, feel as wetness splashes against your chin.

You hold her till she stops shaking, fingers rubbing into her thighs, easing the muscles. She always gets like this. You pray, no cramps today, please.

Eunchae takes a few moments to gasp for air, a delirious, nonsensical laugh bubbling from between her lips.

“How was that?” You say, fishing for compliments.

It takes a couple of seconds for Eunchae to prop herself back up to look at you. Her eyes are wide, unfocused, her nostrils flared and jaw slightly open.

“You know our makeup sex is the best.”

You snigger, reaching up to pinch her cheeks. It’s still slightly cool from her faded tears. She slaps your hand playfully, scrunching her nose.

“You’re adorable,” you say, and she laughs.

“Come here, you sack of potatoes.”

You pull her towards you, just as your legs clamber back on the bed. Her legs stay splayed open on either side of you.

“Let’s get you out of these, hmm?” Eunchae’s fingers move your pants, almost gently singing a tune as she undoes them.

You watch her for a few good moments, lost in the way she looks, the way happiness evident in every fiber of her being brings a calmness to your heart as well.

You don’t know how you’d deny or ever leave her.

Eunchae seems to notice that she’s the only one actually doing anything, and she gives you that curious look, frowning and for a moment it seems like she’s going to berate you about leaving your laundry hanging about again. You help her hurriedly, shimmying out of your pants.

“Want a blowjob?” She asks, palming your length in her grip. The couple strokes that follow are wholly unnecessary, and only really serve to show how big you are in her hands.

You shake your head. “We have other days for that.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

No idea. You scoop your hands under her, under her sides, gently flipping her like a pancake. She makes a motion to raise her hips. You push them back down gently.

“Stay,” you say softly, slowly pulling her legs apart, lowering yourself till she can feel the heat of your pelvis above and behind her.

“This is cute.”

“Really, cute?” You say, slowly guiding yourself to her entrance. She’s beyond wet.

“Ye-ah!”

You push your hips forward, pressing delicately with each inch. Eunchae’s feet rub gently against the bedsheets, her voice hitching as her body grows to accept you.

It’s slow. She’s tight, but she’s also incredibly wet, so her body kind of tells you when you can sink fully.

“You good?” You ask breathily, your hands shaking against the bed. She feels indescribably good. Soft.

“Yeah,” Eunchae huffs, and the both of you hold onto your breaths as you thrust the last inch into her.

“There we go,” you gasp, feeling way too much at once. You can even discern her own heartbeat as your body drops over hers.

You press a kiss on her shoulder blades, and she rubs the back of your arms gently.

“God, fuck me,” she murmurs.

“Getting to it,” you mutter, frowning. She’s still somehow impatient.

The two of you shift till your hips are comfortably aligned. And then you lift your hips and slowly draw yourself from her warmth. 

“There we go,” Eunchae says with a slight hiss, “that’s it.”

Plap!

Her perky derrière claps against your pelvis as it drops.

Plap. Plap! Plap!

“Nngh, fuck,” Eunchae groans, her head falling to the sheets already.

“This might be too much for you,” you say.

“Shut up. Prick with a big dick.”

You laugh. That’s a new one.

The pace gets easy. Eunchae lies comfortably, prone, simply making sure her hips are up at the correct angle to make things easier for you. You focus on hilting on each stroke, controlling your energy and making sure each thrust is even.

But in no time at all, she’s bucking her hips back up as well, meeting you back. And it helps. Feels great, too.

“Mmm, fuck, I really don’t know how I could possibly get away from this.”

“Yeah, it’d be your loss. People do say I have a magic penis.”

Eunchae snorts, and, like she didn’t learn her lesson, it’s cut off again by her need to moan.

“What’s with this position anyway?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s good. mmm... Just curious. You shy?”

Plap!

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, maybe it’s because sometimes you’re too pretty and it hurts to look at you.”

“Bullshit!” Eunchae calls immediately, but then her expression turns serious. “Wait, seriously?”

You press a kiss to her ear; You press another to her cheek.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you whisper, before you start amping up your thrusts.

And you don’t see it, but Eunchae has a childish grin. And maybe it’s that kid competitiveness in her, but the harder and faster you start to thrust down, the harder her hips seem to rise up to meet yours.

Plap! Plap!

“Fuck,” you groan, tilting your head back. She’s gripping onto you so tight. Your head is swimming. The two of you could melt an ice pack with your shared body heat.

“So good.”

“Yeah? Liking it?”

“Mhmm!”

“Need something more?”

“No, this is great, really! Oh! Just, don’t act like I’ll break, mmkay? You’re gentler than usual today.”

Curious.

“Mmm, just let me know,” you mutter, refocusing your attention on making sure she gets it good. You press another kiss to her cheek, her hair tickling your nose, allowing you to catch a whiff of her pleasant ocean shampoo.

With surprising dexterity, Eunchae manages to reach for one of her hair ties laying next to her pillow, scooping her hair back and tying it into a neater ponytail. And it’s between her incessant moans and coos as well.

She tilts her head to the side, catching your gaze. She puckers her lips, and you get the message, meeting her for a couple of kisses. Difficult to get much more than light pecks in, but she doesn’t seem to complain. 

You rearrange to kiss her better, and her ass rises up naturally, her knees tucking beneath her.

“This is nicer,” Eunchae says between surprisingly chaste kisses, “you looked like you were trying too hard earlier.”

“Really? Is that an insult to my endurance?”

“You talk too much.”

Eunchae tugs you towards her again, and you can feel her smiling against your lips, and you’re sure she can feel you too.

“Harder, babe. Come on.”

You nod, pumping your hips forward, more used to this more elevated position. Eunchae flicks her ponytail back, straightening her back as your hands come to rest comfortably on her waist.

“Fuck, darling, you feel so good. Seriously. You’re the best.”

“Good that you know that,” Eunchae replies, “now fuck me like you mean it.”

Your fingers dig into her skin, truth be told, you’re still a little scared she’ll break. It’s just something about her in general. You blame it on her squishy cheeks. There’s something about her that sometimes makes you hold back. 

But whatever Manchae wants, Manchae gets. So if it’s a good dicking down, you’d be obliged.

The sounds of your hips meeting grows louder, rising to meet Eunchae’s volume. And her words get filthier.

“Oh god, yes! Fuck me! Harder!”

“That’s it,” she growls, “Yes! There!”

You gasp, overtaken by both exhaustion and pleasure. Eunchae doesn’t ever need to try hard to get you there, ever. Her gift, maybe.

“Mmm, fuck, Eun-ah, Chae, shit- babygirl,” your hands find her ass, kneading softly, something to distract you.

But Eunchae has other plans. She reaches behind grabbing a hold of your left hand with her own, and slowly tugs it forwards. 

Towards her back, you think at first, or her shoulders, for stability. But no, she brings you all the way to her head, clasping your fingers and pressing them over the back of her skull.

Then the angle between her thighs widens, and she arches her back fully, letting you see this magnificent view of all of her, that descends past her hips.

Her moans become muffled by the sheets. “Please!”

“Fuck.” You press her down, fully, keeping her head pressed to the bed as you ramp up.

“Oh, yes, like that! Just like that!”

“Are you getting close?”

“Mmm! Are you?”

“You know I am.”

“Just hold on a little bit longer, okay? Mmph! You’re fucking me so good right now, it’s driving absolutely crazy. Keep doing that, you crazy bastard. I love it!”

Ah hell. Whatever. 

You keep her pinned, your right hand grubbing her waist tightly; guiding the way her hips thrust back onto your cock so you can grind yourself as deeply as you can into her.

And you’re definitely on the right track, because her body twitches with surprising force, and she tries to tile her head back.

You release your grip on her locks, and she turns back to look at you urgently. You feel her trying to shift your weight. You slow, confused.

“I wanna see you when you cum in me.”

Your eyes go wide. But she’s already in motion, and the two of you reposition till she’s flat on her back, legs wide, you pressed, leaned between them.

She presses her hips up against you insistently, and it’s muscle memory that gets you fucking her again.

“Yes, I’m gonna cum!”

Yeah, you can feel that. Her legs are trembling again.

“Babygirl–”

“Cum with me! Cum with me, cum with me cum with me!”

Pleasure suddenly spikes throughout your whole body.

“Oh fuck, baby, wait–

“Fuck meee… Cumming!”

“Oh fuck!”

You groan, firing off first. It’s a complete crashing wave, one that knocks you off your metaphorical feet, till you’re dumping and groaning and simply gasping at how much it all is, suddenly spilling and shooting and feeling that it’ll never stop.

Eunchae’s a couple beats behind, her legs quivering and shaking with enough strength to rock the both of you as she shrieks, her hands twisted dangerously tight around your arms. Both your moans reverberate, and your eyes nearly bug out of your skull.

With her full-body convulsions, it’s a completely unbelievable and incredible sensation on your member, and it wrings dry any possible remnants you could have.

It actually takes you a couple minutes to process what happened. You nearly ripped your cock out of her from the amount of sudden, concentrated pleasure. Sure, make up sex has always been awesome? But that?

Eunchae murmurs gently, incoherently, her eyes still firmly shut. She’s tugging at you gently, trying to get you over her, and once you regain your senses you let her, the two of you collapsing in a post sex coma.

“Holy shit,” you murmur. “That was…”

“Nnmm, uh..uh huh.”

“Baby–”

“Yeah.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t gasping for air.

After another five minutes, when the hammering in both chests have stopped, Eunchae presses a kiss to your cheek. You jerk your head up, having already nearly fallen asleep. 

She gives you another kiss on your lips, then rolls onto her side. You slide into that natural spot behind her, spooning you both.

“Covers.”

You tug the sheets and toss them over the both of you.

“I’m gonna pull out,” you murmur.

“Fuck it.”

You smile against her back.

“You’re crazy.”

“Mhm. Night, babe.”

“Night.”

You help to turn off the lights, then settle back into your spot. Everything feels right, just like it always has. The way you cuddle behind her, it’s like it has always been.

Except. Something nags at you, and it takes you a moment to figure out what’s up.

“Babygirl.”

“Yeah?” Eunchae asks a heartbeat later.

“You thinking?”

“...yeah.”

“About what?”

Eunchae doesn’t reply. 

“... Is it about whether anything changed?”

A sniffle.

“Hey,” you say, reaching over. You cup her cheeks. They are damp. You sigh.

“I know. God dammit. I know.”

“It’s the same,” Eunchae murmurs, like it is heartbreak. “Is it? Is it another loop, baby? Is it not working for you?”

“No, I mean… no. It…”

“What?”

You feel Eunchae shuffle in her position. “We’re improving. We are. You didn’t even dump your laundry in the right basket at first. Now you’re doing it for me. I don’t know how you feel, but I feel like every time, we get a little closer. Closer to that perfect thing we both want, the perfect day we can both wake up to.”

You feel fuzzy. “Then why the tears?”

“Because I don’t know if we’re healing fast enough. What if it takes too long to get there. What if the guilt gets to you? What if one of us gets chased out?”

A pause. You rub her cheeks gently, trying to rid her tears with damp fingers. You don’t know, honestly.

“Then fuck it. What matters is our here and now. And that we tried. I won’t run away from it. If I go down, I go down swinging. You’re what matters.” 

“Do you believe that?”

You lie back down, your hand still protectively wrapped around her waist. 

“I do. Because nothing’s worth it if I don’t.”

After a while, Eunchae’s breathing turns regular, smooth. You said something that mattered, something true. And it must have comforted her. And even as you sink into sleep, sink deeper into the confirmation that yeah, you know what, you believe in what you said. What does anything else mean in the grand scheme of things? Does anything matter more than the warm body next to you?

The real question is:

Did any of it matter?

Because what else is any of this? Besides video tapes that are only evidence to two?

____

You’re pretty sure you’ve told your knees to stop shaking three times already. And still, they wouldn’t listen.

You rub your hands together. It’s not even that cold yet. Some of the fleece on your jacket must have peeled off. The insulation feels like shit today. Your eyes scan the campus garden furtively, making sure that none of your friends are in the vicinity. You have to be undercover today, or you’ll never hear the end of it.

“Hey.”

Ah crap. You swallow slowly, turning your head to look at her. Hong Eunchae, hair done up in a ponytail, with those bangs that have become her signature. 

“Hey.”

“You look like a wreck. Did one of the profs assign a surprise test or what?”

“No,” you chuckle weakly, “that’s not it. But I’m sure you can guess what’s really up.”

Eunchae tilts her head to the sky for a moment, slowly walking over and dropping her bag on the seat next to yours. 

“Yes, considering everyone’s eyes on campus will be on you from this day onward, I guess you’d be nervous.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

Eunchae laughs. “I mean, what were you expecting? You had the balls to come up to me to ask me out, you’d better have the balls to become the talk of the school for the next few weeks.”

“For the foreseeable future, more like. I can already imagine Yunjin’s instagram post. Comp Eng Loser tries to steal my bestie? I’m gonna smoke his ass.”

“Oh, Yunjin already knows.” 

“What?” You freeze.

“Eh, you’ll be alright.”

“You do realise that the both of us have no idea if this is going to work, right?”

“All the more reason for you to not screw this up, then.”

“...Fantastic.”

____

“Emmchhe!”

Eunchae doubles over, her hands clutching her belly.

You pull the ice cream cone off your face, looking positively furious.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You look like Anpanman!”

“Oh it’s funny to you, is it?” You growl, rubbing the strawberry ice cream on your flushed cheekbones. “Seriously? Ice cream slap? This cone cost fourteen bucks!”

“Worth it!” Eunchae sings, throwing you finger guns. 

“You!” You snarl, swiping at her face with the cone. Eunchae shrieks.

“Ah! You got it on me!”

A long streak of red slices across Eunchae’s features from lip to jaw, like a really bad nosebleed.

“Deserved. I’m taking a photo.”

“Hey!”

Eunchae’s fingers clamp around the hand reaching into your pocket, halting it. You roll your eyes. 

“Fine. I won’t. Let go of me.”

“I don’t trust you! Haha!” 

You sigh, watching as the ice cream starts to melt on her soft features. Without thinking, your free hand comes up to start wiping it off. Eunchae’s eyes widen for a moment. Then she giggles. Laughs. Her hands release your own, and she comes up to tap at your cheeks, like she’s checking if the damage has really been done.

You laugh too. Goddammit.

____ “It’s peaceful here,” Eunchae mutters, leaning her head against your shoulders. It’s nice and cool, the perfect temperature to come to the river. Eunchae was right in dragging your lazy ass over. “I thought it’d be busy, but it’s like everyone knows to keep things quiet and nice.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. But your jjapageti is getting cold.”

“Mmm… feed me.”

“You’re such a baby,” You sigh, but you do it anyway. Eunchae giggles, clapping happily. 

“Delicious!” 

“Yeah yeah,” you smile. Your hand reaches for the fried chicken next. “Try this.”

Eunchae makes an appealing crunch. She hums in joy, her whole body swaying at the taste. You laugh. It’s ridiculous. She even bobs her head.

“You better feed me next.”

“I don’t wanna!”

“Brat.”

___

“So I’m going first?”

“Prepare to have your mind blown, Miss Hong. This dish is about to be so good, it’ll give you an out-of-body orgasm.”

“Pervert!”

“What? It happens in Food Wars! This is culinary expertise here!”

“Sure, sure. But the plating looks kind of simple, don’t you think?” “Blasphemy! How dare you insult my skills. It’s art. A Michelin recipe!”

“Michelin, eh? You know the tire company-”

“Yeah, yeah, just get on with it. I cannot wait to see the look on your bedazzled face when you try my bamboozling bokkeumbap.”

“Alright, Chef Ramsay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You watch intently as she scoops up a spoon of rice.

“Get the kimchi! That’s the best part!”

“Jeez, let me eat in peace, will you?”

The food enters her mouth. She chews. Bites. There’s a nice sounding crunch of kimchi. Her face is stoic. You watch with baited breath.

Then she frowns, squeezing her eyes shut and cringing.

“It’s salty!”

“Bullshit!” You leap to your feet, offended beyond belief. You were a goddamn magician in the kitchen earlier!

“It really is!” 

“This is biased judgement. Malfeasance!”

“Settle down, boy who cried wolf. I rate it a five out of ten.”

Your jaw slams into the ground. “A five? Where are my boyfriend pity points?”

“Already included. Two of them, in fact.”

You feel like tossing the frying pan at her. Your hands vanish into your hair. This is outrage!

“Try mine.”

“No! This isn’t fair. We need an unbiased judge! I’ll call the neighbours over.”

“Scared you’ll lose?”

Your eye twitches.

“Yeah right. If mine’s a five, yours is not even surpassing a three.”

“Spoon to the plate, dipshit.”

“I can’t wait to puke all over you.”

“Ew!”

You take your seat. Scoop up a plate of suspiciously orange looking bokkeumbap. So what if her egg is fluffier than yours? The rice is the real deal breaker here. Eunchae watches you like she already knows she’s won. What an egotist.

You send it to your mouth confidently. Yeah right, there’s no way she’s gonna beat you. She nearly dropped the knife earlier, nearly caused a panicked mess. You can’t wait to spit it back at-

Your face blanks. You stare. Your spoon clatters to the table.

Eunchae shows her pearly whites.

You stare at the plate. Then back at her. Chew.

“That’s not fair!” You roar, slamming your hand down on the table like you need a drink. Eunchae shrieks with glee, climbing out of her seat and doing a celebratory spin.

“This is your mom’s recipe! How the hell am I supposed to beat that!”

“Eat my ass!” 

Oh you’ll do that alright. But you’re still fucking mad.

“This was supposed to be an individual competition! No outside help allowed!”

“I cooked it all myself,” Eunchae says matter-of-factly.

“Using other people’s recipe is against the rules!”

“Uh, actually, dipshit, it wasn’t even in the rules. Brains beats brawn, right?”

“Fuck off!” You turn back to the table, shoving another mouthful of her bokkeumbap into your mouth, “Mommy’s girl. Cheater!”

Eunchae laughs, drumming her hands against your back. You continue eating, shovelling the impeccable taste of her mom’s cooking into your goblet, all while ranting about the injustice of society.

“Hey! That’s my lunch! Go back to eating your three out of ten! Asshole!”

____

The cabin shakes slightly beneath your feet, giving both you and Eunchae a slight scare. She looks up at you, sniggering.

“This is safe, right?”

“Yes, you big baby. Now focus on what’s behind you.”

You turn around, watching as the Ferris Wheel starts to ascend, giving you a great view of the Japanese coastline. 

“Wow. Blue, blue, and more blue. Stunning.”

“Killjoy,” Eunchae grumbles, taking out her phone to snap a few pictures to send to Chaewon and the girls. You smile, hands in your pockets, one thumbing a thin chain of metal between your fingers.

“Hey, babe?” You say once the two of you are decently up in the air. 

“Yeah? Could you bend over, baby? I want to take a pic behind you.”

You’ll ignore making the obvious joke this time.

“Are you enjoying our anniversary celebration?”

“Yeah,” Eunchae nods happily, then tilts her head to the side. “Why?”

“Rate it?”

“Ten out of ten? You brought me to Japan, babe. I think that’s definitely a step up.”

It’s good that she’s loving it and all, but you get a cheeky idea.

“A perfect ten? Okay then. Guess my job here is done.”

Eunchae narrows her eyes. “What is it?”

“Nothing?”

Her eyes drop to the hands in your pockets.

“What’s that? You’ve got something.”

“Is that so? Why don’t you guess? What has Bagginses got in his pocketses?”

Eunchae rolls her eyes. “Show it to me.”

“You’re no fun,” you sigh. 

You pull the necklace out from your pocket, grinning as you see her eyes glimmer and her smile widen.

“Oh my god. I could kiss you.”

“Could? You better kiss me. This is worth at least a dozen kisses from my girlfriend. And a blowjob. And buttsex!”

“Freak!” Eunchae’s eyes widen, but her smile is still plastered on. “Give it here!”

“Giveitses?”

“Oh, stop with that. Come on!”

“Come here then!”

Eunchae cheers excitedly as she moves over to your side, giggling as you gingerly put it on for her.

“You lose this, and you’re paying me back with buttsex.”

“Stop!”

You smile at the little glimmer now added to her shine. It’s perfect, like you thought it would be. For a moment, nothing matters. Not the bill, not the time spent, not what’s going to happen next. It’s just you and her. And that indescribable feeling. “What do you think?”

Eunchae looks down, her eyes similarly in a state of wonder.

“I love it.”

“It? Is that all you really have to say for yourself?”

She giggles, like she doesn’t even care how much she’s rubbing it in.

“Fine. What do you want me to say?”

“You even need me to tell you?” You say, shaking your head in disappointment.

“Come on. Say the three words babe.”

____

A/N:

“Don’t you have games that you have to play?” she asks, focus entirely on the yarn in the hands. “You have like, what, ten games you haven’t played yet since the sale?”

“I’m not in the mood to play ‘em.” You let out a deep sigh, fingers rhythmically tapping at the bedsheets. “I don’t even know why I got them in the first place.”

“That’s what you get for buying them all,” she giggles, glancing at her tablet momentarily, holding up the in-progress-cloth. “Why don’t you play that one game?”

“Which one?” You prop yourself up by the elbow, chin on your hand. Watching her fingers deftly weave the wool, admiring how good she looks. Light makeup, glasses that make her look delectably adorable, your flannel over the white top she has on. You’re not sure if she knows that a hint of the black lace underneath is peeking out, but it’s not like there’s anyone that isn’t you have the privilege to see it right now.

“The one with the big number,” she replies, tilting her head. “All about paintings, from what I remember?”

“Oh, that one.” You’re not going to tell her that you bought that game full price and not on the recent sale. A game on the backlog is a game on the backlog, after all. “Maybe I should pick it up.”

“I heard it won a lot of awards,” she adds, face scrunching up cutely when she inspects her work. “And the story’s got everyone hooked.”

“Maybe you can watch while I play?” You grin, knowing that she’ll be taking the controller from you at some point. Even on the intended difficulty, you knew how hard that game was. Add the fact that Sakura gets extremely competitive on wanting to be the best, and you’ll most likely need to add a few controllers to the cart. 

“Later, hun.” She smiles, turning to look at you. “I want to finish this hat for Sana first.”

“But I’m bored,” you whine, pleading with your eyes. Silently begging for her to give you some much needed attention.

“You’re so needy today,” she teases, letting out a little chuckle at your dilemma. “Can’t you play it without me?”

“I can, but I wanna play it with you.” That makes her melt, and her hand reaches out to boop your nose.

“Sweet,” she says, making you smile. “I promise I’ll play it with you later, okay?”

“Fine,” you relent, rolling back down onto the bed. Eyes gazing up on an upside down Sakura, who’s gone back to focusing on the yarn in her hands. “Still bored, by the way.”

“I’m sure there’s something you can do,” she says, her tongue sticking out, struggling at this one part.

Her statement gets you to think. No missed chores that you can pick back up, not in the mood to head to the gym after yesterday’s leg day, don’t want to play without Sakura—

Playing with Sakura is a thought. A fun one, upon giving it much thought. You glance back down to where the hint of her bra is peeking out of that tight top she has on, and even your flannel—as loose as it was on her—can’t hide how busty she is.

You move to sit behind her, arms wrapped around her tiny waist. Pulling her close, her arms come up to face level as she leans back against you. The face she must be making would tell you that she has an inkling of what you have in store to get rid of your boredom.

She’ll still ask what you’re doing. Give you that raise of her brow as she gives you a side eye. Roll her eyes at you when you give her a noncommittal answer, like a shrug and a nonchalant “Just watching you do your thing, sweetheart.”

You let your hands slide underneath her top, feeling the milky smooth skin and the contour of her abs, fingers running through the hard muscle. She lets you, of course; continuing on with completing the beige ‘hat’ that you quite can’t tell how far along it is from being one.

Your chin rests on her shoulder, the view of her deep cleavage from the top gets your fingers feeling frisky, and you gulp at the sight. You distract yourself with a whiff of her shampoo and her body wash wafting through your nostrils. It gets you nuzzling into her neck, lips leaving a peck by her pulse, your breath getting her ticklish and getting her to giggle.

“Stop.” The playful way in her tone along with a small nudge of her elbow against your chest tells you otherwise, and your hands come to join. Touching the spots you know where she’s ticklish, getting your fingers stabbing into them lightly that gets her to reveal the melody of her laugh that never fails to get you to smile.

It gets to a point where the yarn falls down to her lap, her own hands trying to get you to stop your assault on her spots. Every giggle, every laugh—it’s intoxicating, such a beautiful harmony that you could never grow tired of hearing.

Doesn’t help that her thrashing to get you to stop is unintentionally making her ass grind against your pants, her short shorts doing wonders for your cock that’s slowly straining against your pants. 

Sakura manages to end it, one way or another. In this case she puts her entire weight on top of you, trapping you between her and the bed. She grabs hold of one of your hands, getting you to stop at least half of your tickle attack. With a quick swivel around, she faces you, her messy hair along with the crooked glasses that you’re surprised managed to stay on her face takes your breath away.

God, you could stare at the visage of her angelic features. A goddess, right in your arms—such irresistible pulchritude that you’re even lucky to breathe so close next to. Combined with the fond look on Sakura's face, the softening look in her eyes, the slight shake of her head that gets her hair framing her face. 

And that damned smile that gets you all the time.

“Do you have nothing else to do?” she jokes, straddling you properly, her grip on your hand loosening.

The fingers that are on her waist squeeze gently. “Other than doing you, not really.”

Sakura scoffs, rolling her eyes with a grin. “Needy and horny.” She leans in close, her lips inches away from yours. “Whatever will we do?”

“I was thinking if you can maybe, hopefully—” You raise your hips slightly, making her gasp when your erection is against her shorts. “Possibly help me out?” 

“After messing up my hat?” You take the chance to look down at what’s happened with her work. It doesn’t look that bad, though that's what your ignorant brain sees. “I should leave you blue balled for that.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say, your free hand resting on her thigh, thumb running circles over the smooth expanse under your palm.

She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even know how to crochet, hun.”

You reach up to fix the pair of glasses on her face. “I’ll buy you new polaroid film?”

Sakura narrows her eyes, humming thoughtfully. Her answer doesn’t come out quickly, as if she was actually debating on whether she’ll take your offer or not. It comes with a mocking sigh followed by a chaste kiss on your lips. “Deal.” She tilts her head, giving you a smirk. “How does my honey want my help?”

“Well–” you start, already dead set on what you want, running your finger down to give her breast a quick squeeze. “These would be fucking amazing on my face, sweetie.”

Another roll of her eyes. “You and your fascination with my tits,” she comments, shaking her head at your antics.

“Are you complaining?”

“Of course not.” Pulling away to sit upright once more, her legs tuck under into a kneeling position, palms tapping her thighs. “Come on, hun.”

You follow her order, laying your head on her soft thighs while she pulls the flannel down her arms, the buttons of her top becoming undone enough to loosen the fabric and give way for her cleavage. You’re already salivating at the idea of what she’s offering, arm wrapping around her waist to pull yourself closer to her chest.

Your other hand reaches up, parting her shirt in the middle, that lacy black bra of hers an even more thought reducing sight on her than you realize. The exposure has you paralyzed, the one and only action you can do is let out a quiet curse at the fact that you’ll be drooling all over those magnificent tits, followed by—

“I fucking love you so much,” you blurt out, gazing up at Sakura’s smug face, the adoration bleeding through her eyes. 

“Love you too, you horny little shit.” The nickname gets you both laughing, and it’s such a stark contrast to what both your hands are doing that it’s a wonder how you two can get into these situations. Hers fishing your cock out of your sweatpants, yours pulling her bra to the side to expose the soft, mouth watering flesh underneath.

Her laughs become breathless once your mouth latches on to the pink little nub of hers, suckling on her teat like a baby. Giving them a little nibble as your other hand reaches up to grab hold of her other breast, wanting to give her as equal attention as you can. And even through all those layers, you’ll never get enough of playing with her chest.

Sakura isn’t idle throughout, spitting down her hand and wrapping her fingers around your length, stroking you languidly. It gets you moaning, your hips bucking up at her hand as your eyes close. The sweetheart that she is, helping prop you up with her palm resting at the back of your head too, making sure that you never leave her soft, warm, delicious embrace.

“You look like a baby,” she giggles, turning to focus her attention to your cock. She thumbs your slit at every stroke upward, brushing against your balls when she reaches the base, her fingers hitting your every weakness like she was getting revenge for your earlier actions. “Take your time, honey. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words only spur you on, getting you to suck harder, grope rougher. You’re in a haze of pleasure, the pink nipple you’re nursing tasting so scrumptious that you wonder how much better it would taste like if milk were to ever come out of her breasts. You can only let out a muffled noise at the concept, biting down on her nub.

Her strokes grow faster on your cock, cooing such dirty provocations watching you lose yourself. The seduction in your ear, whispering how nice and hard you are for her, feeling you throb in her hands. Her giggles are temptation symphonized, words of encouragement coming out of her in droves as you worship her. That’s it, honey, you’re doing so good sucking on my tits. 

Feeding you more fantasies at every groan you let out, thrusting into her hand in an attempt to chase your release. Growing desperate in her arms, your hunger grows ravenous as you suck fervently on her bud, with the only thing that gets you to stop was a one, simple possibility that she can turn into reality.

“I bet you want to fuck my tits so bad, don’t you?”

That gets you humming excitedly, head nodding, your eyes finally opening to be greeted with Sakura’s gorgeous face—flushed and warm and grinning down at you. You pull away, and if you could get on your knees to beg, you could. “Fuck, please.”

“Stand up for me.” You scramble, your feet hitting the floor in record time, Sakura sitting in front of you by the edge of the bed. She’s biting her lip at the sight of you positively throbbing, leaking precum because of her. “Already so close?”

“Me and my fascination with your tits.” You’re putty in her hands, jerking you off slowly to keep you wanting more. And more she gives, when she’s taking off her glasses and pulling her shirt off her head to expose her bra.

She makes a show of it, pressing them together to remind you just how deep her cleavage can go, of how big her chest is under all those layers of clothing. Baggy, fit, tight—all that doesn’t matter in the face of genetics.

“Starting to think you love my tits more than me,” she says, taking hold of your cock by the base. She gathers drool in her mouth, letting it trickle down her lips and coating your shaft.

“Kkura, sweetie, you know I love you a lot more than your tits, right?” you begin, hands resting on her shoulders.

“Mhmm.” She’s smirking, enjoying you squirm. “Your point?”

“My point is–” You’re interrupted by the softest sensation in the world wrapping around your cock, your words turning into mush when she slips your cock in between her tits, bra still on to entrap you in the pillowy hold. “Oh for fuck’s sake, can I please fuck the utter shit out of your tits?”

Sakura devilishly chuckles, pressing her tits together, the velvety embrace growing tighter. “Love you too, honey.”

You’re fucked stupid, and you haven’t even started fucking her chest yet. She starts it for you instead, fucking your cock on her breasts with this insufferably slow pace, letting another batch of spit down your cock, pooling into her cleavage. And the pressure is intense, thought shattering, god you need to fuck them—

Your hips thrust up, making your tip peek up her breasts. That alone gets your thighs to tremble at the sensation, and you’re biting your lip in a feeble attempt to delay your fate. “Oh my god.” Another thrust, and that unlocks the flood gates. “I’m never gonna leave your tits alone after this.”

“Not like you weren’t already doing that.” She leans down, pressing her lips against your head when you thrust up a third time, and you can only help yourself with a curse slipping out your lips. “Starting fucking ‘em already, hun.” Another dose of spit falls down your cock. “Or are you all talk?”

The pace you set off the bat is harsh; hands gripping her shoulders firmer as your hips snap upwards. The filthy grin on her face as you watch your cock disappear between her breasts adds to the entire sight. Her hands dig down harder on her tits, the embrace impossibly tight that every thrust has the odds of you cumming down her cleavage.

And Sakura has no say as to when you will. She’s given you the reins, letting you whatever you want to her breasts, looking delighted at the mess you must look like by now. You can barely talk, completely taken over by the need to chase that high, and she knows it. 

“Cum for me,” she says, those three words making you growl. Your rhythm goes erratic, and you reach up to hold onto the back of her neck. “Come on, honey. Paint these tits that you love so much.”

“Kkura, fuck–”

“Please?” It’s so innocent, the way she says it. Until the next set of words come out of her mouth, and all you can hear is pure, unadulterated depravity. “Need you to mark me with your cum. Want it so bad, please–”

You come down, taking her lips with your own as your orgasm hits, and your entire body is trembling. Your moans grow muted as the first spurt shoots up her breasts and hits her collarbone. The next few pool in her cleavage, a few strays staining her bra with your seed. 

Her tongue plays with yours as you glaze her, her hands coming up to hold you upright. Her chest follows your hips, moving up and down your cock, each pulse sending another streak of white across her skin.

By the end of it you’re almost slumped against her, your forehead pressing against hers. Your lips linked with a string of saliva, her breath hot against your face. You can barely stand up, lungs in dire need of air, the only thing that’s keeping you up are your hands on Sakura and her own on your hips.

Sakura leans up to plant a wet peck on your lips before she pulls your cock off from between her bra, ruined and stained full of white. “Look at that,” she breathes, looking down at the mess that you’ve created. “I’ll need to throw this bra away because of you.”

You let out a shaky chuckle. “I’ll buy you a new one.” You move to sit beside her, but the aftereffects of your high cause you sagging into the bed.

“Hun, please.” She turns to you with a playful glint. “You’ll just ruin it again.” Her fingers run down her cleavage, scooping up a dollop of your cum and taking it in her mouth. “Yum.”

Her gaze cast downward, toward your softening cock. She takes a glance up to your face, that playfulness turning dark before she sweeps down to take you in her mouth. Your legs jolt, the sudden sensation of her tongue swirling around your length such an overwhelming feeling. It makes you crave for it when she pulls away just as quick.

“Happy now?” she asks, all casual and smiles. Like you’re not dead on the bed and on life support.

“Ecstatic, sweetheart.” You barely have the strength to reach up and cup her cheek.

Sakura smiles sweetly, taking your hand in hers, her lips kissing your palm. “Want me to get some water for you?”

“Please,” you say, and with another, parting kiss on your palm she stands up—cum painted in her chest, bra utterly ruined, and completely glowing that make you shout out—

“Have I mentioned how much I love you yet?”

“Multiple times, hun!”

As she leaves to grab some well needed hydration, you can’t help but let out a smile.

You slip the straps off her shoulders. Her dress falls to her waist. She’s bare from the waist up.

The sun on her bountiful chest is the last thing you ever needed to see. You think you might cum without being touched by just staring at it. You stand at the foot of the bed and look at her and you cannot understand what you are seeing. Her tits are bigger than you imagined and you have explored that visual in your head so many times. The skin between them swallows light like no other; cleavage as deep as Mariana’s Trench.

Her nipples pink as the cherry blossoms of spring, erect like thorns from roses, and you have to grip your own thigh to stop yourself from doing something stupid.

“Stop staring.”

Words refuse to come out of your throat.

She laughs, soft as the fields of cosmos you used to play in when you were both young, embarrassed. “Come on, stop it.”

“I can’t—”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t stop staring. I’m sorry, noona. I’ve been with you for most of my life and I’ve never noticed.”

“Come here.”

You approach her. You climb onto the bed and you put your face into her neck before you do anything else, because her neck smells like her, and you breathe in for a long time, and your brain malfunctions.

“Sohyun-noona.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“You smell like flowers in early spring, the first ones, the wet ones.”

“Oh, how romantic.”

“I want to put my face on every part of you. I want to know what your skin smells like from your ear to your ankle.”

“That tickles.”

“I know.”

You kiss her neck. The skin there is so soft you make a sound in your throat without meaning to. You kiss her shoulder, the bones of it. The hollow at her clavicle that you have looked at across the library table for years. You kiss the inside of her wrist that has rested on a textbook in front of you, and your cock is so hard in your pants, thinking becomes a chore.

“Be careful,” she breathes. “I bruise.”

“Good.”

“What?”

“I want to leave marks on you. I want you to find them tomorrow on the plane and think about my mouth. Please tell me I can.”

“…yes, of course you can.”

You suck on the place between her shoulder and her neck until a deep red spot blooms there. The sound she makes resembles the birds that flock around your garden; small and melodic. You feel her soft thighs shift on the bed below you. You stop and look at her and her eyes are already wet and her cheeks are red.

“You’re insane.”

“You make me insane.”

You move down. Her chest is in your face now and you cannot believe it is real. You take one nipple into your mouth and your eyes roll back. Intoxicating you like a poisonous nectar you’re willing to die for. You suck and you taste every note of musk, and skin, and scent of her that translates to numerous neurons activating and your tastebuds firing off signals that it has never transmitted before.

The tenting arousal under you is starting to hurt. Her hands find your hair and she gasps. You give her tit the time you have spent fantasising about it, which is a fuck ton. You feel her arching off the bed, she’s trying to push more of herself into your mouth and you of course let her.

You move to the other side, give that pillowy-goodness the same amount of attention and time. You spend so long on her tits that her hand goes from gripping your hair to stroking it, slow, like she’s the one trying to comfort you.

“You’re going to be here all night,” she breathes, heavy and labored.

“Oh, that’s the plan, noona.”

“Oh god.”

You move down further. Push the slip off her hips and it falls to the floor and now you can see her fully and you have to close your eyes for a second because the sensation is too much now. You open them. She is the most you have ever seen. You kiss the soft slope of her belly and you bite, not hard, just enough to feel it, just to know what her skin gives like, and she makes a lovely noise.

“Did you just try biting me?”

“Yes and I’m not done.”

You bite her again. You kiss her hipbones. You drag your nose down the line where her thigh meets her hip and your nose is full of her flowery scent and you cannot stop your hips from grinding into the mattress. You are still fully clothed but your cock has been leaking in your pants.

“Ms. Park Sohyun.”

“Yes, baby boy?”

“I’m going to be eating you for a while. Do you understand that?”

“For how long?”

“An hour or so, maybe more.”

“…okay.”

“Now spread those legs.”

She spreads her legs and you stop breathing for a moment.

Her cunt smells like flora in early spring and you can’t get enough of it. You shove your face there and you breathe in and you don’t come up for air for so long she has to ask if you’re still alive.

“Are you okay down there?” She asks while being almost breathless herself.

“I am doing better than okay, noona.”

“Can you still breathe?”

“I can replace this with oxygen for all I care.”

You lick her. You taste her and your eyes roll back once more. You growl from the ecstasy that lands on your tongue. She tastes like something you would walk a hundred miles for just to taste again. You lick her a second time and you start drooling uncontrollably. You don’t care, you stop trying to be a person and you let the animal inside you free.

“Oh my god. Oh my fucking god, you’re—”

“What?”

“You’re so good, you’re shaking.”

“I know.”