#pastabuse

The darkness was warm, suffocating, smelling of expensive leather and Kwon Jiyong’s cologne. Rosé was on her knees on the plush, imported rug of his private studio, the fibers digging into her skin. His hand was tangled in her blonde hair, not gently, but like a leash, guiding her head up and down the thick, hard length of his cock. The taste of him, salty and slightly bitter, coated her tongue. The sound of his breathing, low and guttural, was the only soundtrack to her degradation.

“Just like that, Rosie,” he’d groaned, using the nickname she hated. “Show me how much you want this feature. Show me how bad you need it.”

Every fiber of her being screamed in protest. This was the price. Not for a debut, not for a spot in a group, but for a few lines on one of his songs. A stepping stone. A fucking stepping stone. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she willed them away. She would not cry. She would not give him that satisfaction. She focused on the end goal: hearing her own voice on that track, proving her worth to the company. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder, her movements mechanical and detached. She was a doll, a tool for his pleasure. And when he finally came, flooding her mouth with his hot seed, she swallowed it down, the act a final, silent capitulation.

She’d gotten the feature. “Without You” had been a success, her voice praised for its unique, emotional timbre. But the victory tasted like ash in her mouth.

Rosé jolted awake, a silent scream caught in her throat. She was drenched in a cold sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The dorm room was dark, save for the sliver of moonlight cutting through the blinds. Jennie and Lisa were breathing softly in their beds, but Jisoo’s was empty, a stark reminder of the night before. It wasn't just a dream; it was a memory, a raw, open wound that had been festering for over a year. And now, it was her turn.

For the entire week following Jisoo’s departure, Rosé had been a nervous wreck. The vibrant, sunny girl who charmed the trainee dorm was gone, replaced by a hollow-eyed ghost who jumped at every sudden noise. The knowledge of what was coming—a closed-door “evaluation” with five men, one of whom she had already serviced—was a constant, low-grade hum of terror in the back of her mind. She knew what Kwon Jiyong was. He was a predator, a collector of pretty, talented things who he believed existed for his amusement. The others, she could only guess, but she knew they swam in the same polluted waters.

***

When she walked into Studio 7, the contrast to Jisoo’s entrance was stark. She was trembling, her hands clutching the hem of her sweater so tightly her knuckles were white. She couldn’t meet their eyes, choosing instead to stare at a point on the floor just past their feet. Her long, dark hair, recently dyed for a new concept, fell like a shroud around her pale face.

She bowed, a jerky, ungraceful motion. “Annyeonghaseyo. Trainee Park Chaeyoung. I’m… I’m ready.”

G-Dragon leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He remembered her. He remembered the way her blonde hair had felt in his fist, the desperate look in her eyes as she’d swallowed his cum. He saw the fear radiating off her in waves, and it was intoxicating.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice a silken thread of malice. “Look at what we have here. Our little main vocalist is scared.” He looked at his members, a silent communication passing between them. The Miyeon incident had taught them a lesson in messiness. The Jisoo incident had taught them about the thrill of the slow burn. Tonight, they would combine the lessons.

“Rosé-ssi,” he said, his tone softening into a grotesque parody of kindness. “We can see you’re nervous. That’s understandable. This is a big night. So, we’re going to change the format. No need for a big, scary performance. We think a more… personal mentorship is in order. One on one. A chance for you to truly connect with each of us.”

He stood up, gesturing for the others to stay seated. “We’ll start with me. To help you… relax.”

The other four men settled into their chairs, a silent audience of voyeurs. They unzipped their pants, their hard cocks springing free. They began to stroke themselves, their eyes fixed on the stage, ready for the show.

G-Dragon walked towards her, circling her like a shark. “You remember our last session, don’t you, Rosie?” he purred, his voice a low whisper near her ear. “You were so eager to please then. So willing to do whatever it took. Let’s see if that fire is still there.”

He stopped in front of her. “Take off your clothes,” he commanded. “Slowly.”

Her hands shook as she fumbled with the buttons of her sweater. She let it fall to the floor, then her jeans, her bra, and finally her panties. Soon she was standing naked before him, her body trembling in the cool air, the other men’s soft grunts and the slick sounds of their masturbation filling the silence.

“Good girl,” he said, his eyes roaming over her body. “Now, on your knees. You know what to do.”

She sank to the floor, the familiar position sending a wave of nausea through her. He stepped forward, and she took his cock in her mouth. It was just like she remembered. The taste, the feel, the humiliating power dynamic. But this time was different. This time, there was an audience. She could hear them, see them in her peripheral vision, their hands pumping their shafts as they watched her degrade herself for their leader.

He fucked her mouth slowly, deliberately, making her feel every inch. “That’s it,” he groaned. “Just like old times.” After a few minutes, he pulled out. “On the floor. On your back. I want to see your face while I fuck you.”

She lay down, her eyes squeezed shut. He knelt between her legs, pushing them apart. He entered her in one hard thrust, and she gasped, a sound of pain and surprise. He began to move, his hips slapping against hers. “Open your eyes,” he commanded. “Look at me. Look at them.”

She forced her eyes open. She was staring up at his face, contorted with lust, and beyond him, she could see the others. Taeyang, his eyes half-closed in pleasure. Daesung, stroking his thick cock with a focused intensity. Seungri, a cruel smirk on his face. And T.O.P, his massive erection in his hand, his dark eyes promising an agony she couldn’t yet comprehend. The shame was a physical weight, crushing her.

Jiyong grunted, his pace quickening, and with a final, deep lunge, he came inside her, a hot, sticky flood. He pulled out, and without a word, moved back to his chair. Taeyang took his place.

Taeyang presented himself as the “gentle” one. He helped her to her feet, leading her to a polished leather bench. “Bend over,” he said, his voice soft. He ran his hands over her back, her ass, his touch almost clinical. He entered her from behind, his cock sliding easily into her cum-filled cunt. His thrusts were deep and rhythmic, less brutal than Jiyong’s but more invasive. He seemed to be testing her body, its limits, its responses. His thumb circled the tight pucker of her asshole, pressing slightly, not entering, just a threat of what was to come. A cold dread settled in her stomach. He came with a low moan, painting her lower back with his seed.

Next was Seungri, the smiling sadist. He pulled her over to an armless chair, sitting down and pulling her on top of him. “Ride me, Rosie,” he grinned. “And face the new you.” He gestured to the mirror on the wall, forcing her to watch herself as she impaled her body on his cock, the other two men stroking themselves in the reflection. He controlled her pace with his hands on her hips, forcing her to bounce faster, harder. He reached up and slapped her tits, sharp stinging blows that made her cry out. He pinched her nipples, twisting them until tears welled in her eyes. “That’s it, scream for me,” he laughed. He moved one hand down to her clit, rubbing it with a brutal expertise. Against her will, a shameful, unwanted orgasm tore through her, her body convulsing with pleasure even as her mind screamed in protest. The humiliation was absolute. As her walls clenched around his cock, he groaned and came inside her. “Such a good little slut,” he whispered, shoving her off his lap.

Daesung was last before T.O.P. His quietness had been a deception. He was a coiled spring of aggression. He didn’t bother with chairs or benches. He simply grabbed her, throwing her onto a large sofa and spreading her legs wide. He spat on her cunt, a glob of saliva hitting her swollen, sensitive flesh. “Dirty fucking Aussie whore,” he snarled, his voice a low growl. He slammed into her, his cock battering her cervix with every thrust. It was a raw, angry fuck, pure punishment. He held her down, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and foul. He called her every filthy name he could think of, his words like physical blows. He finished quickly, pulling out and emptying his balls all over her stomach and tits.

She lay there, a trembling, broken mess, covered in their cum, her body aching and bruised. But it wasn't over. The biggest, the most terrifying one, was still waiting.

T.O.P loomed over her, a giant cast in shadow. He didn’t say a word. He simply picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the center of the room, laying her down gently on the floor. This gentle act was more terrifying than any violence. He produced a bottle of lube, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. He knelt between her legs, and she began to cry, silent, racking sobs of pure terror.

“Shhh, baby girl,” he rumbled, his voice a deep, terrifying vibration. He spread the lube around her tight, virgin asshole, his thick fingers pressing against the entrance. “Just relax. Let me in.”

He positioned his monstrous cock at her back door. The pressure was immense. She braced herself for the searing pain, but he was surprisingly slow. He pushed forward, millimeter by millimeter, giving her body time to stretch, to accommodate his impossible size. The pain was still there, a deep, burning ache, but it was blended with a horrifying, intimate sensation. He was taking his time, savoring her destruction.

He finally buried himself to the hilt, his massive balls resting against her ass. He began to move, his strokes long and deep. The other men were gone from her mind. There was only him, only the feeling of being completely and utterly filled, claimed, ruined by his colossal cock. He reached down and began to rub her clit in time with his thrusts, and to her absolute horror, she felt another orgasm building. This time, it wasn't a sharp, shameful peak, but a slow, devastating wave that broke over her, leaving her limp and sobbing.

Her convulsing walls pushed him over the edge. He let out a guttural roar, and she felt a hot flood deep inside her bowels. He pulled out slowly, and she lay on the floor, utterly spent, a ruin of a human being. Cum leaked from her ass and her cunt, a river of filth. Her body was smeared with it. Her mind was a blank, white void of pain and submission.

G-Dragon walked over, crouching down beside her head. He reached out and stroked her long, dark hair, a gesture of obscene tenderness. “You know, Rosie,” he said softly, his voice dripping with condescension. “I think I like this hair on you. Makes your face look sluttier. More fuckable.” He smiled. “You’ve passed.”

***

At 4 AM, she was cleaned, dressed, and escorted to a new building, a new dormitory. The door swung open, and there stood Jisoo, her face calm and beautiful.

The moment Jisoo’s arms wrapped around her, the dam broke. A raw, gut-wrenching sob tore from Rosé’s throat, and she collapsed against her unnie, the entire night’s worth of pain, terror, and humiliation pouring out of her in a torrent of tears. She clung to Jisoo, her body shaking uncontrollably.

Jisoo held her tight, rocking her gently, her own body a vessel of grim understanding. She didn’t offer empty words. She just let her cry, her hand stroking Rosé’s hair, a silent testament to the shared hell they had both endured.

After what felt like an eternity, the sobs subsided into quiet hiccups. Rosé pulled back, her face swollen and blotchy. She caught her reflection in a small mirror by the door. She saw the long, dark hair that framed her tear-streaked face. She saw the hair that G-Dragon had called “sluttier.” The symbol of her violation.

She looked at Jisoo, her voice a raw, broken whisper. “Unnie,” she pleaded, her eyes filled with a desperate, fragile hope. “Help me… help me change my hair color.”

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