#triples fic

You choke on air. "Gong Yubin, what the fu—"

She's already scooting towards you, grinning widely like she just suggested going out for a Jollibee dinner on a random Wednesday. "I have been on tour for soooo long! I work hard, I dance hard, I sing even harder! I deserve to have some fun too!"

"Well…yes you work hard, and I’m proud of you, bu—"

"I'm bored. You're horny like half the time we're together.”

“No I do no—”

“And I have been training my gag reflex on my toys whenever the girls aren't around." She pats her own cheek twice, as if she didn't just announce a weird revelation that is definitely TMI. "C'mon. Free use, no judgement. We're literally close enough that we share a toothbrush anyway."

"That's because you aren't bothered buying o—"

"Pllleeeaassseeee?" She flops backward again, scooting until her head hangs off the edge of the mattress. She looks at you with a pair of pleading eyes that seems to work all the time. "How could you refuse a request of a cute and pretty girl like me to fuck my throat as hard as you want?"

Your cock twitches inside your pants. Damn you and your horny brain. Pretty sure the head of your cock is doing all the thinking now, with how quickly you set your phones down and position right in front of her face.   

"See? Not so hard, isn't it?" She giggles. "Well, your cock is, but you know what I mean."

"This is one of the weirdest shit you have ever asked me to do."

"Uh huh, and you're stalling, buddy." Yubin reaches up blindly and hooks two fingers in your wasitband and yanks. "Let me see that damn hard dick of yours. I have vocal lessons after we get back from our trip and I want to make sure I can blame you for destroying my throat."

She makes a pleased little hum when you finally shoved your pants down. Your raging hard cock bobs free (and embarrassingly eager, too) and she opens her mouth wide, tongue flat, and then twirl that damn fucking sexy tongue in a circle in an inviting manner. You step closer, letting the tip of your cock brush her bottom tip. That alone brings a muffled moan out of you, and then another one when she flicks her tongue against a slit once.

"Are you sure this is oka—"

She rolls her eyes. "If you don't fuck my face in the next five seconds, I'm gonna walk out right now and start begging for a stud to fuck me ins—"

You hate that she knows how to trigger your sanity, because instinctively, you grab her throat with your hand and forcibly ram your cock inside her throat. “Don’t even bring a random dude into this, Gong Yubin.”

The first thrust is brutal, going straight past her soft palate with no warm-up whatsoever. Her throat convulses immediately around you like it's clinging the fuck out of your dick, but instead of pulling away she just arches her back harder. Her head dangles further off the edge so you can use her even rougher.

And yep, a thick and wet glurk rips out of her instantly.

Saliva explodes from the corners of her stretched, puffy lips. It gushes out in heavy ropes, coating your shaft in her sloppy layers before dripping in fat strings down to her forehead, then her hair, and then onto the carpet with wet plaps. And the more you pump, the messier it gets. Each brutal thrust drags out more spit, and every slam back forces a fresh wave of it to bubble and overflow.

Fuck, you know she's a hot girl, but Yubin's so fucking sexy when she’s drooling like a broken faucet. Thick, bubbly strands connect her cock to her chin every time you pull back, and splatters when you ram back in again. Your balls are so slick as it slaps against her noise with each thrust, making her inhaling all the musky smells.

And she is really, really, really into that. Why? Because while her throat is getting absolutely destroyed, she shoves one hand down into her boy shorts.

It is loud and clear — the frantic, slippery pumps of her fingers into her cunt are messy as hell. Her hips buck every time you bottom out, fucking herself in time with your thrusts. Her muffled moans are the icing on the cake of spits, with the deep and needy "mmph!" sounds that get more and more broken the harder you go.

You tighten your grips around her throat, fully intending to use her throat like an onahole as she so fucking wants. Her throat belts out these obscene and gurgling squelches that you are so sure the next door will hear how much of a mess you're making out of Yubin. The saliva is everywhere — coating your shaft in a glossy, dripping sheen, stringing between your balls and her nose, and smearing across her cheeks without a care.

You can feel her throat constricts even more around you, milking you even more as she chokes. Each thrusts of yours become deeper, shoving your balls more insistently towards her nose, and you swear you can hear the wet squelch of her cunt is getting louder and louder as she fingers herself deeper.

"Shit, Yubi—"

You pull out, mainly out of concern for your best friend, but partly because you want to see the damage in progress. Well, Yubin whines at the loss of your cock in her throat.

It is the most pathetic yet the hottest you hear out of her (high-pitched and needy). A long, broken "whyyyy" manages to get out through the spit still clinging to her vocal cords. Her lips are swollen and glistening like she just throated a cylinder. Thick ropes of saliva and precum stretch from the fat purple head of your cock all the way to her chin, and then they snap and splatter across her upside down face.

She gasps once, then twice, then immediately cranes her neck even farther like a baby bird begging for more worms (Except this baby bird is filthy as fuck.)

"Don't— don't fucking stop!" She coughs. "You fucking pussy, really think this gonna break me that easily?" Her fingers still go in and out of her bruised cunt. "Cmon, fuck my throat. Ruin it. Fuck my face like you hate me. Make me choke so hard I see death's door. Let me gag on your fat fucking cock until my throat's wide enough that it can only satisfied by yours alone. Just fucking use me like your dumb little cocksleeve you always want, you bitch!"

Holy shit. You swear no viagra was consumed, yet your cock is raging hard so bad that it hurts.

Well…she asked for it.

You smack her face with your free palm, making her open her mouth before you ram into the tight throat once again. Fresh spit gushes around your shaft, pouring down her face in rivers, coating your balls, dripping in fat globs and contributes to the huge puddle of spits below. Every time you bottom out she lets out a broken mantra of gurgled moans around your cock. It mangles into wet nonsense but still somehow the dirtiest thing you have ever heard.

You can feel her throat spasming harder now, fluttering like it’s trying to suck the soul out of you. Her free hand claws at your ass and pulls you as deep as she can until her nose is mashed flat against your pelvis and she can’t breathe at all. She looks completely fucking destroyed (her pretty, bubbly face turned into a sloppy, drooling mess), and she has never looked hotter.

That gets you close to releasing your load.

You yank out again, the hard cock springing free with a wet pop and a thick rope of spit that slaps across her cheek like a slap. And of course, this needy bitch whines.

“Noooo—put it back, you bitch—don’t you dare leave me hanging—” Her voice is shredded, barely there, cracking on every word. “I was so close—my puffy cunt is throbbing so fucking bad—c’mon, choke me again, baby, make me cum with your huge dick down my throat, pleasepleaseplease—”

She sticks her tongue out as far as it can go, trying to lick at the cockhead even as more drool cascades down to the floor.

“Paint my fucking face if you have to, just don’t stop using my throat. I wanna feel this fucking dick twitch when you cum. Wanna swallow every thick drop while I ruin my own needy cunt. Wanna be your nasty little cum-dump slut tonight.” True to her word, her fingers speed up inside her shorts, and the wet sounds turn into outright gushing now. Her whole body jerks like she's about to faint from ecstasy.

So you just mindlessly ram into her for the last time. One. Two. Three deep brutal thrusts. And then you pick up the pace into something more violent and frequent. She screams around your cock, and her whole body locks up. Her cunt clenches so fucking hard you aren't sure if the squelching comes from her slutty mouth or from her needy pussy. She holds the fingers stationary and then buck her hips up, desperately and violently, before her thighs clamp around her own hand and make the biggest fucking mess with her girl juice — soaking through her boy shorts and leave a dark patch onto the sheets.

Yeah, that snaps the last thread of sanity in you.

Burying balls deep in her, you unload thick loads straight down her convulsing throat. You can visibly see her throat working overtime, swallowing greedily as she still trembles through her own orgasm. Some spills out - a creamy, white and viscous liquid mixing with the plethora of spits on her face, before it bubbles at the corners of her mouth and drips down in filthy streaks.

When you finally pull out, she gives a wet and wrecked cough before dissolving into hoarse giggles.

"Fuuckk yes!" She licks her own messy lips. "You taste so fucking good, bestie."

She rolls onto her side, still giggling like a lunatic, ignoring how her face is a masterpiece of ruin.

You collapse beside her and breathe heavily with your whole chest. She reaches over and pat your thigh with a sticky hand and gives a sprinkle of adoring kisses to your spent cock.

"Ten out of ten. Would let you ruin my needy throat again." She laughs harder. "But I should bring my toys next time, just to see how many of them will spread my pussy while you expand my throat even more."

“What the fu—” You throw a pillow at her face, and of course, she catches it (just because) and presses it to her cum and spit covered cheeks before letting out a contented sigh.

"Tomorrow, I'll let you fuck my ass. And I’ll make sure you feeeellll so good."

Yeah, say bye to your sanity. 

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Note: Hi!! Thank you so much for the explosive support for the Soda fic! It's a very plot heavy fic, so I'm glad it came out well. This one is the opposite of that, as you can tell, so hope it turns out nice.

There, in the middle of your room, was Nien — your roommate, your self-proclaimed coach, and the last person you want to see before 9 a.m. She was in a cropped hoodie and shorts, hair tied into a messy ponytail, cheeks slightly flushed as she warmed up… using two water jugs like makeshift dumbbells.

Even worse, she was smiling too. Bright. Cheerful. As if this was the most natural thing to be doing at the crack of dawn.

You lazily checked your phone. 7:03 a.m.

“I hate you,” you mumbled into your pillow and covered your head with the blanket. "I stayed up late last night, damn it…piss off, Nien…"

“Good morning to you too!” she chirped without missing a beat, clearly ignoring your groaning . Her voice was way too chipper for someone who had no business being awake this early.

You peeked out from under the blanket, squinting at her. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” She looked over her shoulder, cheeks flushed from exertion, that innocent smile of hers glowing like morning sunlight. “Disciplined?”

“Insane,” you corrected. "It's the weekend. Let me sleep, you jolly bean…"

She laughed, setting the jugs down with a soft clunk. “Come onnnn, you promised we’d go to the gym together today.”

You groaned louder, flipping onto your back. “No, you said, ‘Let’s go to the gym,’ and I said, ‘We’ll see.’ That’s not a promise, that’s just me thinking.”

Nien padded over, each step light and springy, the floor creaking softly under her socks. She crouched beside your bed, her expression hovering between amusement and mischief. “You’ve been saying ‘we’ll see’ since last month.”

“That’s called consistency,” you said, eyes still closed.

“Then consistently get up,” she countered.

You reached for the blanket again. “Not happening. Not today.”

A moment of silence. Then, her voice. Softer. Playful. “Come on. You said I could drag you out of bed if you bailed again.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you mumbled. “You’re too nice for that.”

Well. A soft whoosh, and then, betrayal. Your blanket was yanked off in one swift, merciless motion. The rush of cold morning air hit your skin like punishment. “Nien!” you shouted, curling up instantly.

She was laughing now, that innocent, bell-like laugh that made you want to simultaneously smile and file a noise complaint. “Get up, grumpy. We’ll miss the good treadmills.”

“You think I care about good treadmills?” you said, glaring at her. “The only treadmill I care about is the one that treads me back to sleep.”

“Wow.” She nodded seriously. “That’s a terrible line. You’re definitely awake now.”

You sighed dramatically and sat up, hair a mess, face still half-buried in your hand. “Tell me why the hell did I choose to live with you?”

“Because I do your laundry when you forget,” she said immediately, standing up straight and crossing her arms like she’d been waiting for that line.

“Once,” you muttered. “You did it once and haven’t stopped mentioning it.”

“It’s a good deed, I deserve credit.”

You squinted at her. “You mixed my white shirts with your pink hoodie.”

“Now they’re matching!” she said proudly. Completely unbothered.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out. “You’re so annoying.”

“Annoyingly cute?”

You stared at her blankly. “…annoying, period.”

She gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Wow. You’ve changed.”

“Yeah,” you said, dragging yourself out of bed, “I’ve changed into someone who wants to move out.”

“You say that every week,” she teased, already grabbing her gym bag. “And yet, here you are — my favourite roomie.”

“Only because the landlord won’t let me kick you.”

She grinned, leaning against the wall. “You like living with me.”

You looked up at her, the morning light from the window catching on her pink hair, her eyes dancing with mischief, her entire being radiating that unfair combination of wild and warmth, and sighed. “Sure, you can think of it that way.”

She chuckled, tossing you a water bottle. “Come on, tragic boy. Five minutes to get ready.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll carry you out in your pajamas. Bridal style.”

You blinked, half-daring her. “Don't you dare, muscle freak.” But to be fair, it does sound good in your head.

Her lips twitched. “Try me.”

You stared at her for a moment. The slight smirk tugging at her mouth, the way her stance screamed “I absolutely would”. Didn’t think this girl would make you rub your temples this early in the morning. “You’re not human.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly, as if you just complimented her. And by the time you stumbled into the bathroom to change, she was humming to herself and tying her sneakers by the door.

Somewhere between brushing your teeth and pulling your hoodie over your head, you realized that, for someone who claimed to hate mornings (disheveled, half-awake, annoyed), you couldn’t stop the smile on your face.

And that was the most annoying part of all.

-

7:30am, and the gym is already a live wire. Metal clanks, treadmills thrum, bass-heavy pop rattles the mirrors, and a chorus of strained grunts underlines everything. The air tastes faintly of chalk and protein shakes. And you want, with an aching passion, to be anywhere but here.

You fall a few steps behind Nien, who moves through the large space like she owns the layout and the playlist. Her pink ponytail bounces with each stride; her hoodie sleeves are pushed up just enough to flash the curve of a biceps that looks illegal on a person who smiles like a dandelion. At home she’s a cinnamon roll. Here she looks like she will effortlessly put you on a chokehold.

“Remind me why I agreed to this again?” you ask, dragging your feet toward the bag racks so your shoes hit the rubber floor slower than they should.

“Because deep down, you love taking care of your health, with me.” she replied, voice dripping with mischief.

“I don’t even love taking care of my own skin.” you muttered.

Nien laughed and handed you a towel. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Pretty sure I won’t, dummy.” you said, but you still followed her to the free weights like a responsible hostage.

You started your warmup — light curls, slow breathing, trying not to look like you wanted to go home. For a moment, you thought you were doing decent, doing your usual set. Until you looked over.

Nien, this girl. 

Seriously, she was in her zone. Fully locked in — no breaks, no wasted motion, just clean, economical lifts that look effortless. One set, two, three; her crop top clings to a frame that is all lean planes and subtle strength. Her face is flushed the kind of pink that says exertion, not stress, and she still manages that mischievous, almost innocent smile you’ve gotten used to.

She finished her reps, turned to you with a bright grin, and asked, “You good?”

You quickly looked away. “Yeah. Totally fine. Just… pacing myself.”

“Pacing yourself?” she repeated, smiling knowingly. “You’ve been lifting that same dumbbell for five minutes.”

“I’m focusing on form,” you said defensively. "and technique."

“Right. Sure.” She giggled  and went back to her next set, leaving you muttering under your breath about how she was a macho girl with an angelic face.

And then while you were on your third set, already feeling your arms tremble, you noticed her reflection in the mirror moving closer. Nien had finished her reps long ago, but instead of resting like a normal person, she was making her way toward you with that look. You know, the one that meant she was about to “help.”

“Your form’s off again,” she said, voice cutting through the music and clanking weights.

You exhaled through your teeth, trying to sound nonchalant. “I got it.”

“You don’t,” she replied simply, standing right behind you now. "You should take a— "

Before you could protest, you felt her presence — warm, solid, unmistakable. Her hand slid lightly between your shoulder blades, palm pressed flat against your back. “You’re rounding,” she murmured, adjusting your posture with gentle but deliberate pressure. “Keep this straight. Yeah, like that.”

You could feel every point of contact — the brush of her fingers through the thin fabric of your shirt, the heat radiating from her body as she leaned in to guide your movement, and the sweet perfume you saw her put on this morning. Her voice was low, steady, the faint sound of her breathing brushing past your ear. Great, a terrific way to stay in focus.

“Now, engage your core,” she said softly. Her hand moved down, resting lightly against your stomach, and your entire brain short-circuited. “Don’t let it relax while you lift.”

You swallowed hard. “Pretty sure it’s impossible to relax right now.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, resuming the lift. It definitely didn’t help that you decided to look at the mirror. You saw her. Nien. Too focused on getting you to the right form. You were too focused on the beads of sweat rolling down her abs instead. And you swallowed hard. Hard. The air between you suddenly felt thicker and heavier. Every breath sounded too loud, every heartbeat became annoyingly noticeable. Damn it, get your mind out of the gutter. It’s just Nien.

It’s just Nien…right?

“Better?” she asked softly, still close enough that her ponytail brushed your arm.

“Yeah,” you muttered, trying to sound normal. “Better.”

She stepped back finally, and you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. The air felt cooler without her there (annoyingly so).

Nien smiled, completely oblivious, wiping her hands on her towel. “See? I told you I’d make a good trainer.”

“Sure, totally.” you said, trying not to think about how close she’d been a second ago. "If they ignore your puppy eyes."

She laughed. Light, careless, the kind of laugh that made you think she really had no idea what she was doing to you.

You grabbed your bottle to quench your very much overdue thirst, then you saw them — two guys near the bench press. You caught the side glances, the subtle nods, the whispers that weren't as quiet as they thought. But then again, the gym was full of people looking at people. It wasn’t new, so you didn't want to assume.

Then they started moving closer.

Nien had gone back to her own set, focused, completely unaware that the two were making their slow approach, pretending to check weights near her area. You could already hear one of them mutter, “She’s cute as hell.” You tried to ignore it, you really tried. Not your business. Nien could handle herself. She's a grown up, after all.

And then they started approaching the aloof airhead. Great.

By the time the first guy spoke up  “Hey, you need a spot?”, she’d looked up, polite and caught off guard. Blinking with her puppy eyes, polite as ever. “Oh, no, I’m okay, thank you.”

“Come on,” his friend added, stepping closer. “You shouldn’t be lifting that alone. Dangerous for someone your size.”

You rubbed your temple and exhaled through your nose. Hard. Gosh, they really didn’t even try to hide. Sweaty, subtly contracting their muscles, straightening their back to flex their chests.

Nien just smiled awkwardly, trying to be nice. “Really, it’s fine. I do this a lot.”

They didn’t move. You could feel your patience slipping, tempting to just fling a 20kg weight idling next to you already. And by the time the second guy started flexing (actually flexing) and saying something about “training tips,” your leg moved before your brain did. One step, sharp, automatic. Then another. By the time your mind caught up, you were already standing between them. It got awkward immediately.

The guy blinked, clearly surprised. You blinked too, because you hadn’t exactly planned this.

“Uh…” you started, realizing you had no script for this scenario. “She—uh—she said she’s fine.”

The taller guy looked at you, a bit thrown off. “We were just—”

“Yeah, I heard,” you said quickly, trying to sound composed but feeling your heart thump a little too fast. “Just… don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked, brow furrowing, a smirk creeping back. “We were only—”

“She said she’s fine,” you repeated, this time firmer.

Silence stretched for a beat. The guy’s friend shifted awkwardly. Finally, they both backed off with some muttered “chill, bro” and a shrug that was supposed to look confident but just looked uncomfortable. You exhaled through your nose and turned back to Nien, who was just staring up at you — a dumbbell still in hand, face slightly flushed but not from the workout.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” you interrupted, rubbing the back of your neck. “My leg kinda… moved on its own.”

Her lips twitched, struggling not to laugh. “Your leg?”

“Yes. My leg. It moves by itself,” you said flatly. “My brain was still debating if I was bothered, but my leg just—” you gestured vaguely between you and the space she’d been standing in, “—did this uh…fucking thing.”

She giggled, covering her mouth. “That’s… very you.”

“Rude. What’s that supposed to mean?” You really tried to sound annoyed.

“Impulsive but pretending not to be,” she teased. “It’s cute.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat at your neck makes your retort sound thinner than you planned. “Whatever. Just. Don’t smile like that at random dudes, okay? You give them hope.”

“I was just being polite,” she said innocently.

“Polite doesn’t mean naïve,” you say, handing her a water bottle. “Not everyone is harmless.”

Her lips twitched. “You sound like my dad.”

“I sound like someone trying to prevent you from an awkward date. Or two. Or three.”

She laughs, light and unbothered, the kind that makes the gym noise recede for a second. “Ok dad, you worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough, Nien.”

“Then we balance each other out.” She hooks an elbow through yours teasingly, like a claim staked with a smile.

You glared half-heartedly. “You think this is funny?”

She nodded. “A little.”

You sighed and shook your head, muttering, “This girl, seriously…” before grabbing her wrist. “Come on. We’re done here.”

“What? But I still have two sets left!”

“You can do them tomorrow. Before you accidentally start having a line of guys I have to kick.”

She laughed again as you tugged her toward the exit. “You’re seriously dragging me out?”

“Yeah,” you said, pushing the gym door open. “You dragged me here. It’s only fair.”

-

Outside, the morning air was different. Crisp and cool it was, the kind that carried the faint scent of wet pavement and coffee from the café across the street. After the thick, sweaty heat of the gym, it felt like stepping into a reset button. You exhaled, muscles still faintly trembling, and your mind somewhere between annoyance and relief.

Your hand was still wrapped tightly around her wrist. You didn’t notice until you saw the pale contrast of her skin against your fingers. She didn’t say a word about it. Didn’t tease. Didn’t pull away. Just walked beside you, her sneakers scuffing lightly against the pavement, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the rhythm of your footsteps, the dull hum of early traffic, and the sound of her breathing beside you. Calm, steady, almost smugly peaceful.

Then she said it, voice soft but laced with that familiar teasing edge. “You really didn’t have to step in, you know.”

You glanced sideways at her. “Yeah, well, someone has to make sure you don’t get kidnapped by other muscle heads.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “So you were jealous.”

You stopped walking. “I wasn’t jealous.”

She stopped too, turning just enough to catch your face. Eyes glinting, lips curving into that grin you’ve learned to fear. “You totally were.”

You stared at her flatly. “Don’t even try.”

She only laughed, the sound light and disarming, before doing something that short-circuited your brain. This girl. This sly girl. She slipped her fingers between yours. Smooth, natural, like it wasn’t even a decision. 

“I knew you’d step in anyway,” she murmured, voice dropping to a sing-song whisper.

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Her eyes darted to yours, all mischief and sunlight. “Nothing~”

You sighed, half in defeat, half to hide the fact that your pulse just kicked up a notch. “You’re so damn fucking annoying.”

“I prefer cute,” she said cheerfully, squeezing your hand…and then tugging you forward.

“Ya—” you started, stumbling a little as she began to walk faster, practically dragging you down the street by your hand.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder, grinning as bright as the sun that was finally cutting through the clouds. “You’re buying breakfast.”

“What—why me?!” you groaned, letting yourself be pulled along anyway.

“Because,” she said, turning around just long enough to flash that teasing smile that always spelled trouble, “you always do. Bleh.”

So then she just half-dragged, half-led you while humming some pop tune under her breath — light, breezy, entirely unbothered. And for a split second, you caught yourself smiling despite the ache in your arms and the little mischief she always brought into your life.

And that's when it hit you.

She definitely planned this. Every single second of it. From waking up to now, holding your hand like her favourite thing in the world.

Self-worth

Xinyu (🦊) x Reader (📖)

Word Count: 584

You say it like a disclaimer. Like you need the record straightened before anything else can happen in this room.

"Just to be clear, I didn't hire you to be a prostitute."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't even look up from where she's tracing the rim of her wine glass with one finger, slow and idle, like she has all the time in the world and every intention of using it however she pleases.

"I know."

The suite hums quietly around you — the soft pulse of city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling glass, the low ambient cool of air conditioning, the way expensive rooms always seem to hold their breath. You'd chosen this place for appearances. A weekend. A function. Names in the same social circle, faces that already knew each other just enough to make the arrangement feel almost natural.

Almost.

You look at her. She looks at her wine.

Silence.

You don't say it. You don't have to. The silence does the asking for you — is that what you think this is? The question sits somewhere behind your teeth, unvoiced, because you don't quite know how to ask it without making everything worse. You'd been careful, you thought. Deliberate about the wording, about the boundaries, about making sure she understood that the money was — it was logistics, not a transaction, not that kind of arrangement. But then the weekend happened, and the function happened, and somehow the two of you ended up here, in one room, one bed, the city sprawling indifferent and glittering beyond the glass.

You wonder if she's been thinking it this whole time. If every time you pulled out her chair or rested a hand at the small of her back for the cameras, she'd been quietly tallying it against what you'd paid her. If she'd felt cheap in a way you never intended.

Apparently, to Xinyu it never did.

She sets the glass down.

And then she turns to you, and something in the air shifts — not dramatically, not like a storm, more like the moment before one. Her eyes find yours with the kind of ease that shouldn't belong to someone you've only ever exchanged pleasantries with at mutual friends' parties, whose name you knew but whose attention you'd never quite managed to hold.

Until apparently, you could be persuaded to pay for it.

She crosses the space between you unhurried, like she already knows you're not going anywhere. When she stops, it's close — closer than the arrangement strictly requires, closer than anything written in the terms you'd half-jokingly outlined over coffee three weeks ago. You can smell her perfume now. Something warm. Something that doesn't apologize for itself.

"Oh, baby." Her voice drops, not into something cheap, but into something almost fond — like you've said something endearing without meaning to. "The money you gave me could've bought you a thousand prostitutes, maybe hundreds of escorts."

She tilts her head, just slightly. A small smile playing at the corner of her mouth like a secret she's deciding whether or not to share.

"You never needed a prostitute."

Her eyes don't leave yours. Her hand comes up — barely, just a suggestion of touch at the lapel of your jacket, fingers resting there like punctuation.

"You needed me."

And the worst part — the part that sits hot and unresolved somewhere behind your sternum — is that Xinyu is not wrong, and she knows it, and she's looking at you right now like she's known it longer than you have.

===(0)===

Sought

Mayu (🐰) x Reader (📖)

Word Count: 765

You hear the words begin to form and something in you goes very, very still.

"I love—"

"I love you?"

It comes out wrong. Not soft, not wounded — sharp, the way things come out when they've been held too long in a place that's run out of patience for gentleness. You hear your own voice like it belongs to someone standing slightly behind you, someone who has been waiting a long time for exactly this moment and isn't relieved that it's finally here.

"You love me."

You say it again, quieter, and somehow that's worse. You watch her face — the way it does that thing, that thing she's always done, where she arranges her expression into something soft and open and just uncertain enough to make you feel like the difficult one. You know that face. You built a whole version of yourself around trying to deserve that face.

"After everything."

You don't even know where to start. That's the cruelest part of it — that there's so much, so much ground to cover, that the damage has spread so wide and settled so deep that standing at the edge of it now, you can't even find the beginning. You just know that you're standing in it. That you've been standing in it for a long time, and somewhere along the way you convinced yourself the ground was supposed to feel like this.

She takes a small step toward you.

"Don't." The word leaves you before she can close the distance. "Don't do that."

She stops. And you watch her recalibrate — barely perceptible, the microscopic adjustment, the way she reads the room and finds a new angle. You used to mistake that for emotional intelligence. You used to think it meant she understood you, that she was careful with you. It took you longer than it should have to understand that careful and calculated are not the same thing.

"I mean it," she says. Quietly. Like quiet is the same as sincere.

"I know you think you do." You almost laugh, and what comes out is worse than laughing. "That's always been the problem, Mayu. You always mean it. Right up until it's inconvenient, and then you meant something else, and somehow by the end of it I'm the one apologizing for misunderstanding."

She opens her mouth.

"No — " you cut across her, and your voice doesn't rise, which surprises you, because everything inside you is loud right now, everything is loud — "I need you to hear this. I need you to actually stand there and hear it without finding a way to make it about what I'm doing wrong by saying it."

The room holds still.

"You made me feel insane." The words come out measured, because if you let them come out any other way you're not sure you'll survive the saying of them. "You'd do something — you'd do something, and I'd feel it, I'd know it, and then you'd look at me like that — " your jaw tightens " — exactly like that, and I'd end up convinced I invented it. That I was too sensitive. Too much. That I should be grateful you stayed."

Something moves across her face. You can't tell anymore if it's real. That's what she took from you — the ability to tell.

"How dare you," you say, and it comes out almost quiet, almost gentle, which is the most devastated it's sounded yet. "How dare you stand there and hand me that word like it's an apology. Like it fixes the architecture. Like I'm supposed to feel something good right now."

She looks at you with those eyes that have always known exactly what they're doing.

And that's the thing — that's the thing that keeps you rooted to the floor instead of walking out — because part of you, the part that still lives in all the versions of this that weren't terrible, wants to believe her. Wants to cross the room and let her make it make sense the way she always could, the way she'd fold your anger back into something that felt like your fault, and you'd be grateful for the explanation.

You're so tired of being grateful for the explanation.

"You don't get to say that to me," you say finally. "You don't get to hand me something that big after everything you've taken. That's not love. That's just — " you look at her, really look, and it costs you something " — that's just the last thing you have left to try."

The silence that follows doesn't feel like an ending.

It feels like her, waiting to see if it worked.

===(0)===

Skirt

Kotone (🦭) x Reader (📖)

Word Count: 821

You find her in the hallway outside the function room, half-turned like she was already leaving, like she knew this conversation was coming and gave it a five-minute head start.

"Kotone."

She stops. Doesn't turn around immediately — and that alone is strange, because Kotone has never needed a moment to face anything in her life. You've seen her walk into rooms that didn't want her without breaking stride. You've seen her take a hit during a pick-up game and laugh before she hit the ground.

She turns around, and for a second you almost don't say it.

Almost.

"You said so before, right?" You keep your voice even, careful, like you're handling something you're not sure is loaded. "You love me. Tell me it wasn't a joke."

Something flickers across her face. Fast, and then gone.

"We agreed it was a joke."

"Because we both laughed at it."

"Because—" She stops. Resets. Her jaw shifts the way it does when she's deciding how honest to be. "Because you laughed at it first."

The words land somewhere quiet.

You let them sit there a moment before you say, "Well. I'm not laughing now."

The hallway hums around you — muffled music from inside, the distant clink of glasses, someone's heels on marble. Kotone looks at you the way she used to look at a bad call on the court, like she's deciding whether to argue it or let it go and make you pay for it later.

"And why is that?"

"Kotone, what do you mean—"

"Why now." It isn't a question the second time. Her voice is flat and precise, the way it gets when she means business. "What exactly changed?"

"What? Nothing changed—"

"Bullshit."

The word hits the air clean and final and you go quiet.

She doesn't fill the silence for you. She stands there in the dress — the dress you noticed the moment she walked in, the way everyone noticed, the way you noticed and spent the rest of the evening pretending you hadn't — and she waits, arms crossed, chin lifted, looking more like herself than anything she's wearing.

"What, do you think I'm saying this because you're wearing makeup now?" Your voice comes out more defensive than you intended. "Kotone, do you think I'm that shallow?"

And something breaks open in her expression — not soft, not hurt, something furious and exhausted in equal measure.

"Yes." She says it like she's been holding it. "Call it shallow or whatever you want. You knew Yooyeon for a day — one day — and suddenly you're on your knees. I'm here. I've been here. Your whole life. You threw a water bottle at my head. We cut each other's hair with kitchen scissors at two in the morning because you lost a bet—"

"So you're jealous." You say it before you think better of it. "Is that what this is?"

"Of course I'm jealous." She doesn't even flinch at it, doesn't try to dress it up or take it back, and somehow that honesty is the most disarming thing she's ever done. "But that's not the why. That's not what I'm saying."

She takes a breath. When she speaks again her voice is lower, and that's worse — Kotone quiet is always worse than Kotoneloud.

"I let my hair down. I wore a dress. Fine. But I'm not the only one who changed." Her eyes hold yours. "You opened doors for me. You censored your words. You were nice."

"And I'm supposed to not be?"

"You were supposed to be a friend." The word comes out worn around the edges, like she's carried it too long. "Just that. We made that decision — both of us, together — when we agreed that what I said was a joke. You were supposed to just be that. Just stay that." Her voice drops on the last part, almost to nothing. "Please."

The please is the part that gets you. Kotone doesn't please. Kotone negotiates, argues, wins, concedes on her own terms — she doesn't plead. And she's looking at you now like she already knows what you're going to say and has braced herself for it anyway.

"And if I can't?"

She looks at you for a long moment. Something in her face closes like a door.

"Then at least don't pretend," she says quietly, "that it wasn't because I wore a skirt."

She holds your gaze just long enough to make sure you heard it — really heard it — and then she turns, and this time you don't call her name, because you're not sure you've earned the right to yet.

The hallway feels different after she's gone. Smaller, somehow. Like it took something with her when she left.

Hood pulled low, strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, her eyes red not from sleep, but something else. She's clutching her phone so tight her knuckles are pale, the other just hangs limply by her side.

She doesn't say a word. Just standing there, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as if she just rushed to here (she did, you found out later), and her lips trembling like she's still deciding whether to speak or not.

"Soda?" you murmur her nickname, voice still thick with sleep. "What are you-"

"He broke up with me."

It's quiet. Flat. Like she had recited the news to herself, as nonchalant than it should’ve been. But she couldn't hide the crack in her tone, enough to give her away. You’ve known her since middle school.

“Who?”

“Who else?”

You blink once. Twice. The sentence sinks in like a slow burn like your consciousness back to life.

Then you step aside. "Get in."

She doesn't hesitate. Dahyun walked past you without meeting your eyes, the faint smell of rain and the scent that is undoubtedly hers following her in. She kicks off her shoes with a dull thud (one of them landing sideways) and drops her phone onto the couch before collapsing beside it, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around your huge Snorlax plushie like she's trying to squeeze the ache out of her chest. 

You would've snatched a photo already if the air wasn't so suffocating.

Instead, you close the door behind her. The click sounds far too …final.

For a while, neither of you says anything. The TV in the background was still mumbling nonsense, but it did fill up the silence with half-hearted laughter. It felt almost wrong to even keep it on, like the world outside didn't get the memo that your best friend was just trying to keep every piece of her from falling apart.

You move toward her slowly, scratching the back of your neck. "…want some soda?"

She shook her head (she would've laughed at that by this point, you knew she loved that joke). Her eyes stay fixed on the floor, seemingly distant.

"He said that it doesn't work."

"What does that even mean? What doesn't work."

"That I'm…too much, apparently. Too clingy."

Her voice breaks on the last word. Small. Bitter. Feels like she's trying to turn the pain into sarcasm (just like you. Wow, best friend certified.) and failing miserably.

You dropped onto the spot next to her on the couch, being extra careful of every single movement. "Too much? Too clingy? How? You're the most empathetic girl in the world."

She lets out a dry laugh. "Can you believe that? Too clingy. Like caring is not allowed now. What the fuck."

You finally take a proper look at Dahyun. She tried so hard to stay composed, trying to joke about it away as usual, the way she always does when she's hurt. But her eyes couldn't hide it this time. There was this deep, hollow sadness sitting behind them, the kind that comes from being made to feel like her utmost love was too heavy for someone to carry.

She exhales shakily, her shoulders rise and fall in slow, uneven waves. "It's stupid, right? It's the same shit every time. I care too much, I ask too many questions, I…I text first too often. It's like —" She presses her palm to her mouth, her breathing shaky, and her voice clearly cracking, "-- It's like I'm not allowed to love people unless I pretend not to care about them."

Her words hang heavy in the air. You can hear, no, FEEL the frustration behind them. The anger that bottled up when you're tired of being gentle, tired of being told you're too much for people who don't know how to appreciate it.

It took you a full minute to find what barely was the right word to comfort her. "Soda…you just gave your time and heart to someone who didn't deserve it."

She didn't move for a second. Just stares down at her hands, the fingers picking at the hem of her sleeve. And then, without looking up, she whispers, "Then why does it keep happening to me?"

You wanted to answer, but nothing managed to come out of your throat. "I–-"

"You wouldn't understand anyway." She turned her head slowly, like the motion itself is a betrayal. The Snorlax plushie slips from her arms and lands face-down on the floor with a soft, defeated thump.

"Soda—"

"You don't understand!" The words rip out of her, jagged and raw. "You've never been the one left behind like this!"

You flinched. Not from the volume (though it's the first time you've ever heard her raise it), but from the venom oozing out of it. Seo Dahyun, who once apologised to a chair she bumped into, is screaming at you, her best friend. And she’s up, pacing the narrow strip of floor between the couch and the coffee table. Bare feet slap the rug, then the cold tile, then the rug again. Her hoodie’s zipper is half-down, revealing the thin strap of a tank top underneath, damp from the rain. Wet strands of her hair stick to her cheek in the dark.

"You always act like you have your life all figured out."

"Soda, I don't have my life figure—"

"Like you are so fucking calm. Like nothing ever hurt you!”

“Soda, listen to me—”

“I hate it! I hate how your life is just stable and quiet, while mine is in fucking shamble!"

The accusation hangs in the air, unfair and sharp. You don't move. You can't move.  Your hands stay open on your thighs, palms up, like you are offering something she doesn't want. You know she's not yelling at you. It's the ghost of every single exes who told her she was too much, too needy. The echo of her own voice, telling her she's wrong.

Then she stops in front of you, chest heaving. Her eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, but the tears haven't fallen yet.

"I just—" Her voice cracks again, but smaller now. "I just need to feel something else. Anything else."

Her hands are on your shirt before you can answer, fisting the fabric, and tugging you forward. It wasn't gentle, and it certainly wasn't asking. You just lift your arms and let her yank your shirt off, the fabric catching on your ears for a second before it's gone. She tossed it aside absentmindedly, and couldn't give a damn where it landed.

Her hoodies then followed, fully zipped down in one motion. It puddles on the floor like shed skin. She's in a thin white tank now, her perky nipples visible through the damp fabric, and you try so hard not to stare. You tried to stay within the line, but she already threw it when she climbed onto your lap, knees bracketing your hips, her thighs trembling.

"Soda" You say, with utmost care. "Hey, Soda, listen to me—"

"Shut up." She whispers, but it's more like pleading than demanding. "Just, don't talk for a second, okay?"

Her fingers fumble with your belt, metal clinking too loud for comfort in the quiet space. She gets it undone, shoves your jeans and boxer down just enough. And then her own short. Then her underwear. She rises up on her knees, one hand braced on your shoulder, and the other guiding your exposed member to her entrance. She's wet already (unsure how, but you didn't dare to question), and her breath hitched as your head brushed her folds.

"Tell me you want this…" She whispers, eyes locked on yours. "Tell me you want me. Please."

"Fuck…" You groaned. You should've stopped her. Should've calmed her down, but what came out was: "I always do, Soda."

With the approval, she sinks down in one slow, deliberate slide, taking you to the hilt. The sound she made was half-sob, half-relief. Her head falls back, throat exposed, and you watch all the reliefs pouring out through her tears, tracking down her cheeks and dripping down onto your bare chest.

"Gosh…" she panted, her hips rolling in a circle, grinding down like she's trying to memorise the shape of you in her. "You - mmph, you feel so good…"

She then starts moving, her hips rolling in tight circles and grind down like she's trying so fucking hard to erase the bad memory away. Her breath hitches every time she bottoms out, a small and wounded sound that makes your heart ache.

"Tell me.." Her voice trembled. "Tell me I'm not too much, you idiot. "

You swallowed hard. "You're not. Soda. Never."

She makes a broken sound and kisses you. Messy, desperate, teeth clacking. Her tongue slides against yours, tasting like salt and rain and something very her. She pulled off the kiss and rested her forehead against yours. Her hand slides up to your chest, nails grazing your skin. It does hurt, yes, but it was still light, careful, like she's afraid to leave deep marks. Afraid to ruin you. Afraid to ruin what you both have.

"Say it again. Please." She pleaded. "I'm not too much."

"You're not too much." You repeated, rougher this time. "You're…more than they deserved."

Her pace quickens, hips snapping harder and slamming down harder, but there's still hesitation in it, like every thrust is still a question. The couch creaks beneath you. The TV is still on, running some nonsense infomercial. It's absurd. It's obscene. It's just enough.

"Harder," She whispers, "Yes, fuc- yes~" and you weren't sure if she meant you or herself. You slide your hands to her waist and her back, just holding there and letting her take what she needs. She rides you like she's trying to outrun the pain, but her eyes kept flicking to yours.

She leans back to your touch, and you watch her. Tank top riding up, breasts bouncing with every roll of her hips, the slick slide of her pussy taking you again and again.

"Am I...hurting you?" She whispered.

"Not at all." You panted. "You're doing fine."

She bites her lip, nods (good that she is still responding well, that's the Seo Dahyun you know), and moves again. Faster. Rougher. But her hands stay gentle, her fingers splayed across your chest like she's anchoring herself. Or relying on the anchor that is you.

"I don't want to be mean…" She moaned, almost to herself. "I just…I just want—"

"I know…" You smiled. "I got you. Do you feel good?”

" Yeah, fuck…you feel so good in me." She looked at you, her glassy eyes were on the verge of shattering. "You'll,,, stay with me like always…right?"

"Of course." Without hesitation. Without missing a single beat. "I'm always here for you."

And then she breaks. Sobs. A real one. It was raw, guttural, like she was finally being allowed to let it out. Her face crumples, forehead pressed to your neck, and the tears come hot and fast. You feel her clench around you. You don't think because it was deliberate, but it was just reflex from all the emotions, her thighs trembling violently as the wave hits.

Her fingers dig deeper into your shoulders. Just holding you tightly like you're the only thing left in her world. "I'm sorry," she chokes out between sobs, voice muffled against you. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry—"

You don't want to answer with words (Not the thing she wanted to hear at this moment. You can read her more than enough times). Your arms around her tightened even more, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her damp hair. She's shaking so hard. So fragile. So small. Yet she still moved her hips in tiny, involuntary jerks, chasing the last of it even as she fell apart.

And then, the orgasm crashes through her. Her whole body locks up, back arching, a mantra of "fuck" and "I'm coming" tearing out of her throat as she let herself go. Hard, messy, tears and snot and sweat mixing on your skin. (It was a pain to clean it off, but that's not important right now.)

"Let it out." You whispered. "I got you, Soda. Do it for me."

And she did. Hard. With a broken cry that was half your name, half a curse. You feel it the way she pulses around you, the way her breath stutters as she begged you to hold her tight and not let go, and the way her nails dug half-moons into your flesh before going slack. It was too much for you to hold back, and you followed soon after. All the built up spilled into her with a low, helpless groan. Your hips jerked up once, twice, before stilling.

She doesn't pull away.

Just collapse fully, her weight grounding you both. Just the warmth from the heated session and the bond between you two.

"I…didn't hurt you, did I?" Her tone too careful. Too fragile.

You shake your head. "You bonking me accidentally with a metal bat last week hurts more."

“Damn you…” That finally brings out a weak chuckle out of her. "I just…I just… didn't know how to be angry without breaking something."

"It's fine." You smiled. "You’re not breaking anything.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. You're still here. And I'm still here for you."

She exhales into your skin, shaky but light. The silence stretched, but it was comfortable.

And then, the TV cuts to a commercial for a blender. Hearing the rambling, Dahyun snorts, "We're literally fucking to the sound of a NutriBullet ad."

You soon followed with an airy laugh. "Don’t point that out, Soda, damn it."

She shifts, still on your lap, and winces. "Damn you, I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow."

"Well, it's your fault for riding too hard, Soda. I get it, I'm too irresistable."

She smacks your chest lightly, cheeks flushing. "Shut up…I was just processing."

"Mhm…hope that was a great processing time you had."

"Stop teasing me, damn it." She pinched your shoulder, forcing a groan out of you. "You didn't exactly complain."

"Why would I?" You brush a strand of hair from her face, tuck it behind her ear. “Hey.” 

She hummed.

“You want that soda now?”

She let out another snort before she looked up to you with the smile you adored so much. Small, tired, real. Undeniably hers. “Diet Coke. With ice. And a straw.”

You sighed, a grin managed to escape. “Tsk. So bossy.”

“Deal with it, idiot.”

But she doesn’t move to get off you yet. Not yet. Just stay there, and breathe with you.

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

You sigh, pinching your nose bridge for a moment. "Anyway, you're telling me she signed up for Rent-a-Friend voluntarily?"

"Fill out the form like us too. Ya, she wrote this long, earnest section about wanting to learn how to connect with people without pressure and trying something unfamiliar."

Ok, that tracks painfully well.

You glance at the traffic light ahead. "Did she say why?"

"Let me check…the form says: inspired by a particular cute guy."

"Don't fuck with me, Kkura." "I'm not!"

Yeah, you don’t believe her one bit, but Sakura still defends herself. "Do you know how excruciating it is to read reviews of you and not mine? Are you trying to rub it off your face?"

You snort. "Your fault for reading it."

"Oh jeez I wonder why?" She continues. "Totally not because management assigned me to train her. ME!"

The light turns red. But you haven't moved yet.

"YOU?!" You shout. “They didn’t think to—oh, I don’t know—assign the person she actually hired?”

"I guess they want the same gender just because."

"Gosh, Gaeul's gonna have one rough time." "You bitch!"

"You invoice people wrong for 3 weeks. I heard from management." "Okay, that was one time."

"She's going to think the whole service is a scam."

Sakura clicks her tongue. "You're just mad because YOU want to be her trainer."

The car honks behind you, and you finally step on the pedal. The road starts to widen now, buildings thinning out, iron gates and tall hedges replacing storefronts. The Ji family mansion isn’t that far, and you can already picture the long driveway, the security booth, the polite nod from the guard who recognizes your car by now.

'Why would I be?"

"Oh please." Sakura laughs. "She's really pretty even from me. And you just want to move on from your ex."

"Shut up and hang up."

"Gosh you are so baby. Anyway, I'll train her well. Just so that you can be soooo happy when you see her."

The wrought-iron gates of the Ji mansion come into view, black and immaculate, already beginning to slide open as your car approaches. You pull into the driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. The mansion looms ahead, expansive yet pristine as always.

“I’m here,” you say. “Don’t traumatize her.”

“No promises,” Sakura replies. “But hey — if she quits, I’m blaming you.”

And the line goes beep.

-

You wait.

That's usually how it goes when delivering to the Ji family — just some peacefully quiet stretches of nothing before you hit the road again. You stand near the edge of the main hall at first, then drift outside when the quiet gets a bit too overbearing, and the painting is still wrapped tightly.

You always wander around the path, and as usual, always marvel at the cleanliness and the scale. Trimmed hedges, pale stone paths, and a fountain splashing softly somewhere. Don’t even start on the fresh smell of grass mixed with something floral and expensive that probably has a French name you can’t pronounce. It feels familiar, actually, remembering how you peeked over the giant walls of your ex's house while waiting for her to sneak out.

That's when you notice a girl. From afar.

She's further in the garden, under a pergola. One leg against a wooden bench, her body folds with slowed and controlled precisions. The late afternoon light filters through the deciduous trees, casting patterns across her delicate shoulders. She has this dark hair pulled into a neat bun, and a leotard that makes you question if cold is a foreign concept for her.

Who is she, really? You’ve never seen her around here before. Maybe you missed her — the mansion is really fucking big.

Well, curiosity kills the cat, so you just walk to the uncharted habitat. Your footsteps crunch against the gravels and the shriveled leaves, and she turns her head to the noise immediately. Her posture instinctively straightens up before she relaxes again, and her face beams with a smile.

She lifts her hand and waves.

Oh. A little awkward, yourself, but you return it. "Hey. Um…Hi."

She doesn't respond. Just tilts her head slightly, seemingly waiting. Interesting. "Sorry, I was just…" You vaguely gesture around like that explains anything. "…uh, anyway, whatcha doing here?"

She blinks. And then her hands move with such fluidity and precision. Beautiful too, have to include that — she really has long and delicate fingers, yet she moves it to form some sort of symbols so quick as if she has done it her whole life.

It takes you exactly two seconds to realise you have absolutely no fucking clue what she just said. "Ah…ok, that's on me."

She puts one hand over her dainty lips and silently (and politely) laughs. Her shoulders lifting up and down, probably have gotten used to this scenario. Before you embarrass yourself further for your ignorance, you reach into your breast pocket (thank fuck you're wearing polo jacket today) and pull out your notebook and pen.

Quickly flipping through the paper, you hastily scribble. "Can we write?" You wrote.

She reminds you of Pingu a lot when her eyes beam up immediately. Her hands take them from yours with a degree of carefulness, and then write neatly and quickly.

"Hi! My name is Ji Suhyeon!"

Ji…Suhyeon? Ji? The Ji family?

Now it makes sense. The owner usually talks to you about his only daughter inside the mansion busy with her practice. So this is what she looks lik— oh, she's writing something else.

"'Su' as in excellent or long-lived, and 'Hyeon' as in worthy or wise. My name, you can think of it as 'exemplary virtue'"

You stare at the page for a second. Woah, beautiful name, and beautiful explanation too.

"Nice to meet you too, Suhyeon." Your hand quickly catches up with your voice. Your name is written down first, then usual greetings as the notebook is being exchanged back and forth like you have been doing it for ages.

She writes again. "I'm a ballerina, as you can see."

That doesn't surprise you at all. "Yeah, I figured. Don't worry."

She looks amused, and then adds more. "Your paintings are so pretty. It looks great around the houses. My father really likes collecting them."

You give her an appreciative bow. "That is very kind of you, Suhyeon. Guess I will give your dad a discount for this one."

She bites her lips to not let out a smile. She fails, and you swear this girl will be the death of you today. "I often see you from far away when you bring paintings. This is the first time we really talk. Well, writing."

You huff. "Yeah. Writing."

"Kind of like texting on Insta." "Yeah, kind of like tex—" Wait.

Insta?

"Couldn't we just text on SNS?"

Suhyeon looks at the words on the paper, and it looks like the realisation hits her too. She smacks the notebook on her forehead and silently laughs again, her shoulders shaking.

You burst out laughing too. 'Right? We're standing here like back in the 1800s."

She scribbles faster now. "I forgot that you might not know sign language, so I just write automatically."

You follow suit with the line underneath. "I forgot SNS exists, so we're even."

She tilts her head, still somehow keeping the posture since you come over, then writes: "Do you want to add me on Insta?"

How straightforward she is.

You nod quickly, and your hand hastily grabs the phone out of the pocket before handing it to her. She takes it with both hands — careful, almost ceremonial, even — and types in her handle. When she gives it back, the screen is still on her profile: @jiyeon. But the profile picture is the main show. It's not some ethereal and graceful ballerina professional portrait. It's…actually just a zoomed-in selfie, with her cheeks puffed out and her eyes as wide and bright. Kinda like Pingu.

You look up at her, and she is as frozen as the rock nearby her. Her ears are red. Her cheeks are red. Even the tips of her fingers look red.

You look back at your phone.

Then at her.

Then back at the phone.

"…Pff."

She lunges and tries to yank your phone away. You dodge it instinctively, not because you are trying not to break it, but just because her reaction is hilarious. Feeling defeated, she scribbles aggressively in your notebook. "It's not funny!"

You grin. "It very much is. Funny, cute, and elegant.”

Her cheeks turn pink as she writes. "YES, MY IMAGE IS VERY ELEGANT." in all caps.

You look her up and down slowly, analysing the posture, the bun, the breathing, and then back to the puffy cheeks. Then you nod solemnly. "Of course, very elegant."

She narrows her eyes at you. Then, after a second, she writes, with a belated sigh. "Please forget what you saw."

You (fake) contemplate for a moment, then write. "Nah"

She swats your arm with your notebook while puffing her cheeks. And you have to admit it — she looks cuter than Pingu.

The recovery takes a while before a comfortable pause settles between you. No more sounds of scribbling — just the gentle rhythm from the fountains and the rustle of the overhead canopy. Somewhere up in the tree, a bird startles and takes off.

You write again. "I do other work too." You hesitate about writing it down, but you decide to do it anyway. "Rent-a-frien—"

"Oh, hey!" A voice cuts cleanly through the garden. You flinch slightly, instinctively straightening as one of the Ji family’s dealers steps out onto the stone path. He’s already adjusting his glasses, tablet tucked under his arm. Right, time to do my actual business here.

You wince apologetically at Suhyeon. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, tapping the notebook lightly. “I’ve gotta—”

A thumb up from her comes quickly. She hands you your notebook and pen back carefully, fingers lightly brushes yours. You step back, already shifting into your polite-business mode, but your phone buzzes in your hand.

@jiyeon sent you a message.

You look up. She’s holding her own phone now, pretending very hard to look composed. Elegant. Untouched by embarrassment… maybe.

Jiyeon: It was nice to finally meet you properly. (Not like the 1800s writing version.)

You look up at her. “It was,” and this time there’s no teasing tone. "See you around, Suhyeon."

And before you finally leave her alone, you type back one more thing.

You: Modern technology is amazing. See you around…puffy.

Jiyeon: Delete that nickname right now.

-

A few weeks later, you're standing on your tiptoes like a darn moron, purely because you are too lazy to drag the ladder from across the studio.

To be fair, your fresh stack of notebooks is idling on the top of your sketching bookshelves. The ladder — perfectly usable and stable — is leaning against the opposite wall. Yet, instead of grabbing it, you decided that today is the day you deepen your understanding of ballerinas.

Specifically, the foundation of the whole art form. Pointe.

"Okay…" you breathe heavily and rise slowly, one hand braced against the shelf and your calves immediately screaming to stop. "So far so good, I hope."

You rise a little higher anyway, trying to mimic what you remember from the sketches and reference photos. Weight forward, ankles straight, balance centred. Shift your weight forward an- yea, no. No. No. Instant regret. Mayday, mayday. Board the ship. Your calves literally scream, and your toes are carrying the entire weight of your body, and for one horrifying second you understand why ballerinas either deserve medals or lifetime free healthcare.

“Oh this is ba—”

Your phone buzzes. The vibration nearly makes you lose balance. You drop flat onto your feet so fast the impact echoes slightly against the studio floor. Honestly, you almost fell on your butt. But luckily, you catch yourself on the edge of the desk, wincing as blood rushes back into your feet.

“…Ow.”

Finally, you check your phone.

Jiyeon: Are you alive?

You snort.

You: Somewhat. Just studying pointe for sketching practices, and I think my ankles are dying.

Jiyeon: Are you trying it barefoot? You're not supposed to!

You: Oh really?

Jiyeon: You’re stupid. We have paddings in the shoe.

It feels like you're winning life when a pretty girl tells you that you are stupid. Huh, 'she' always called you stupid back then, well until you can't differentiate if it was affectionate or she was just berating.

The thought flickers past and you shove it away quickly.

You: Oh….. Well, ahem. How do you do?

Nice pivot.

Jiyeon: I’m okay. Just practicing a lot. Wyd?

You glance around your studio.

Papers scatter everywhere. Charcoal dust near your elbow. A half-finished study of a foot en pointe (sort of badly proportioned, now after a look.) But after Jiyeon’s explanation about padding, suddenly something clicks in your head. Gotta do it later otherwise you forget.

You: Drawing. Thinking of pulling another all-nighter after you told me I'm stupid. You?

Jiyeon: Just practicing. Recital soon.

You: Nervous?

The three dots linger longer than before. And then it's gon— oh, it comes back.

Jiyeon: A little.

You: You'll do well.

Jiyeon: I searched something.

…That is not the usual response to encouragement.

You: What is?

Jiyeon: Rent-a-friend.

Holy fucking shit. Your mouth — no wait, your fingers — and their stupid slip ups. Why did you even mention that job to her in the garden that day? You start pacing across the studio, bare feet tapping against the floor. But if she hires you… fine. That’s the job. But something about mixing work with someone you actually enjoy talking to makes your stomach twist weirdly. And clients with money (also 'her') always bring complications. Except the Ji family. they’re… nice.

Still. You wipe your palms on your shirt.

You: Ah…it's pretty easy to find, yeah.

Jiyeon: Your profile picture is less elegant than mine.

The ballerina, the witch, and the audacity of this bi—

You: Hold on, what?

Jiyeon: Did you just wake up and take a photo?

You stare at your profile picture in silence. Messy hair. Half-awake expression. Coffee mug in frame.

You: …no comment.

Jiyeon: Gosh, good thing I'm outside to help you out.

“Oh wow,” you mutter. “How kind of her.” Clearly she’s here to save your public image. Maybe recommend clothes. Maybe fix your lighting. She probably has good taste — ballerinas live in elegance and aesthetics after all. And with the kind of money the Ji family has, she could try every fashion style in existence.

…actually, dial back, outside?

You: Outside where?

A knock hits your studio door. Your brain takes a second to catch up.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me." You walk to the door, already rubbing your hands on your shirt to get rid of some of the charcoal dust. When you pull the door open, there she is.

Ji Suhyeon.

Her hair is not a bun this time, just pulled into a high, slightly messy ponytail, soft waves spilling down her back.. She's wearing an oversized gray hoodie that people will think she stole from her older siblings (she doesn't have one, as far as you know), with sleeves long enough to swallow half her hands.

And, annoyingly, the print on the hoodie is a bold, bubbly font: "I'm a bad influence."

"What…the…"

She lifts her phone slightly and tilts it toward you. Oh hey look, it's your DMs with her.

Jiyeon: Gosh, good thing I’m here to help you out.

She looks as proud as the day Leonardo Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa.

"You could've let me know, far out." Yet, you still step aside out of habit as she slips past you into the studio like it's a normal space in her own world. It's only when she stops in front of your working area that she slows down and lets her gaze travel across the room. And now she can see the study sketches that you have been doing. A lot of them — feet en pointe, arches, half-finished poses, the same tragic drawing where the ankle angle looks painful.

"Don't even." you groan, seeing how her cheeks puff up again and trying her hardest to not laugh. "I'm not into feets, ok? Just research. Meeting you got me curious about ballerinas and stuff…yeah."

She just shrugged. How sassy, Ji Suhyeon.

Anyway, you watch as she pulls a clean page from your notebook stack (the same one you almost died retrieving) and scribbles something.

"I want to sign up."

You stare at the five words longer than you notice. "Oh."

She scribbles again. "Why do you look at me like that?"

"Wait, no I didn't mean—" You start writing a reply quickly, but before you finish she lightly smacks your side.

"I'm kidding!"

Trickster, she is. Tricksters.

Ok, then she continues. "I do have…acquaintances, I suppose. But my recital is next week, they will be spending time with their own family and stuff." She sighs for a moment before continuing. "My parents will be busy."

"Business trip?" And Suhyeon nods again.

"I got used to it, sure. But it's quite a big recital in 2 weeks…and I really wonder when I will stop dancing for an empty pair of seats."

The studio feels a little quieter after that. The air conditioner hums. A page rustles somewhere near your elbow. But none of that miniscule detail matters when you look at her, staring down at the paper like something will happen miraculously if she writes it in a magical notebook. Alas, it's not Death Note or the more positive allegory that probably exists somewhere.

Somehow, you do see yourself in her, doing things for someone you adore, only for them to not be…there, watching you. Sigh. Move on already, far out, it's been like 4 years now.

“Alright,” you say, sliding it onto the desk. “You know the terms.”

You open it, and go with the usual clauses: maximum seven days, face-to-face time covered, calls and messages included — the same formula perfectly crafted, really.

Suhyeon is way too excited to even let you finish your sentences, with the way she nods mid-explanation. She literally just signs her name quickly as soon as you finish talking, yet the handwriting is neat and confident. You sign beneath it, the scratch of pen against paper feels louder than usual.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then she stretches to the belly pocket of the hoodie, and pulls out a rather worn out ballerina shoe. Pastel pink no longer shines and soft, the poor lad is no more. The edges slightly frayed, the strings feel like it crumbles up instead of flowing freely.

"It's from my first ever recital." She writes.

Your fingers hover above the shoe before you pick it up. It’s lighter than you expected. Wow.

"Well, guess I'll be in your c—"

Your phone buzzes. You look down.

Jiyeon: Time to update your profile!

You slowly lift your gazes toward her, and she's already holding up her phone, with the camera app open. Grinning.

"Oh FUC—"

-

A few days before the recital, you find yourself parked outside her ballet academy late at night.

The place looks very different compared to the bright, elegant studios you usually imagine when people say ballet school. The building is still beautiful, sure, but at this hour it’s quiet. The tall windows glow warm from the lights inside, stretching long golden rectangles across the damp pavement outside. Somewhere down the street a laundromat hums softly, the smell of detergent mixing with the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt.

Your engine is off, the window already rolled open. Phone in hand, you are just scrolling aimlessly for the third time. Sigh. You could be back at the studio right now. Cleaning brushes. Priming a few old canvases you’ve been neglecting. Maybe finishing that pointe sketch you butchered earlier. But instead, your fingers end up leading your screen to your DMs with Suhyeon this afternoon.

Jiyeon: After practice… chicken?

You: You’re the ballerina. Isn’t that illegal?

Jiyeon: Only if someone finds out.

You: Your instructors might kill me.

Jiyeon: Well, protect me then, good friend.

And that's how you ended up here waiting patiently for your clie— wait no, that's rude to say that. Your friend. Yeah. (You're technically correct, but still.) It’s your new routine after accepting her request — unexpectedly becoming her chauffeur. 

The studio doors eventually swing open, and the first group of ballerinas comes spilling out into the night. Even across the street, you can tell they just want to rest — make up still on, loose hoodies, puffy jackets, sneakers, tote bags slung over shoulders. Their hair — usually tightly wound into strict buns — is messy now, strands falling around their faces. Some leave in pairs, some in loud groups of four or five, laughing about something that probably happened during the rehearsal.

None of them are Suhyeon though, so you keep watching in the van.  Every now and then someone glances toward the car parked along the curb. Probably wondering if you’re a driver, a parent, or some random guy waiting for someone. (Technically you’re all three.)

Finally, a familiar figure appears in the doorway. Puff— sorry, Suhyeon. But wow, even in casual clothes, she's not that hard to spot — straight spine, shoulder relaxed but not caved in. A tote bag hanging from one shoulder. No tight bun this time — just loosely tied.

But she's alone. You should come out and greet her, yeah? That sounds good.

Not so good when you hear voices nearby. A small group of ballerinas linger near the entrance, clearly not in a hurry to leave.

"…It's always weird me out." "Yeah, me too." "The instructors spend way more time correcting her."

"Right? Like the heck she's some top student." "Pleeeeeaasssee, she's nowhere near Kazuha."

The name does ring a be— ah! It's the top girl Suhyeon mentioned once before when you both were hanging out at her home garden again. The girl who everyone measures themselves against, even Suhyeon.

“It’s just favoritism.” “Exactly. If anyone deserves that level of attention, it’s Kazuha.” "Bet she's only there so that our academy can say we're inclusive."

Soft, obnoxious laughter follows before they fade away like the girls walking out. And Suhyeon is still standing there, a few steps away, and probably waiting for the sidewalk to clear before leaving.

All you feel is your heart seething out of anger and just regret. Regret to not walk over and tell them to shut the fuck up. Regret that you have to stop yourself to not taint Suhyeon's name and her hard work. What rumours can these snakes make when they see Suhyeon is being protected by a random guy they have never seen?

You know her position way to fucking well — exactly what happened to you with your ex.

So a deep breath you take. Let's not cause a drama.

You are simply here to make sure she doesn't go home thinking about those voices without one to fight back. And what you do first is to text her to know that you're here.

You: I'm in the parking lot, Puffy.

Her head turns immediately, and her entire face changes — a tired, neutral look melts into a warm smile. Her cheeks puff up as the corners of her lips go up. She lifts her hand and waves back, quickening her pace as she walks over.

You step out of the car and open the passenger door. "Hey there, Puffy."

Which, for your kind and gentleman-like manners, she rolls her eyes as she gets in.

The moment she sits down, she exhales deeply. You don't even need to ask to know how long the rehearsal was.

"So…Chicken?"

She pulls out her phone and types.

Jiyeon: Actually…ramen?

You glance at her. "Your instructors now WILL kill me."

Jiyeon: I really want ramen, though.

You stare at the message for a second before just…sigh. “Fine. But if your ballet career collapses because of noodles, I’m not taking responsibility.”

Her smile is convincing enough for you to start driving toward the best ramen shop you know.

-

Credit where it's due — even though Sakura works there, the ramen shop is actually really good. Which says a lot.

(Because if you judged the place purely based on her, you assume that the broth will be just the energy drink she stocks up over the months.)

The moment you slide the door open, the little bell above it dings softly. Warm air rushes out to meet you. Steam. Soy sauce. Garlic. The low comforting smell of broth that’s been simmering for hours. It’s a small shop with a small corner. A few tables along the wall. The kind of place that’s always slightly humid from boiling pots and never fully quiet until it's late night.

Immediately, her voice comes out from the counter.

"Oh?"

You look up. "Oh."

There she is behind the counter, hair tied into a lazy ponytail, sleeves rolled up, apron tied loosely around her waist like she half-committed to the job. One hand is holding a ladle. The other is resting on the counter as she leans forward with the enthusiasm of someone who just spotted gossip walking through the door. Her eyes flick to you, then to Suhyeon, then back to you.

“Oh?” she repeats, louder this time.

"Don't even."

For context: the ramen shop belongs to Sakura’s uncle. Family business (more accurately: the only place that willingly allows Sakura’s personality to exist behind a food counter without filing complaints.) She occasionally works here when she feels like it, which is about once or twice a week. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights.

“Well well well,” she says, tapping the ladle against the pot. “Look who finally brought a girl here.”

Suhyeon pauses beside you, and you instinctively shield her from your annoying friend/coworker. "Don't worry, she's annoying but harmless."

"I'm not annoying!" "You are."

You walk to the counter anyway and slide onto one of the stools, and Suhyeon sits beside you.

“You going to introduce us,” she says sweetly, “or should I just assume things?”

“You assume things anyway.” “Correct.”

Hah, this girl. "This is Suhyeon." And Suhyeon lifts a hand in a small wave.

Sakura watches her carefully for a moment, then notices the way Suhyeon reaches for her phone and types quickly.

Jiyeon: Hi. I’m Suhyeon.

Sakura blinks once, twice, and then: "Oh." Then her grin comes back even bigger. “Well that explains why he actually behaved himself for once.”

“Sakura,” you say flatly. “Can you please just bring me the usual and give Suhyeon extra toppings?”

Sakura ignores you completely. She leans closer to Suhyeon, elbows on the counter like they’re already friends. "How do you know this idiot?"

You open your mouth, but Suhyeon's fingers are faster.

Jiyeon: We're friends.

The kitchen behind bubbles quietly. A point boils. A fan hums. Then she slowly turns her head toward you. "You did not just bring a client to my ramen shop."

You shrug. "It's your uncle's"

"Don't even." "Hey, we want ramen."

She looks at you, then back to Suhyeon once more. "WAIT! Aren't you part of the family that pays for this guy's drawing?"

Suhyeon's eyes brighten up and enthusiastically nod her head, and not going to lie, it does lift your ego up quite a bit.

“Corrupting ballerinas now? Your employers become your clients, bro.” “Please cook.”

"Bitch, I haven't even asked what she wants for topics." Sakura turns to Suhyeon. "What topping would you like, Suhyeon?"

Suhyeon seems to scroll down something on her phone (A list, maybe?), and then turn around to show her. And uh…it feels like Suhyeon just throws whatever toppings she can think of on her head.

Jiyeon: Chashu, egg, corn, noodle, please.

Sakura can only look at you in bewilderment. "...Isn't she a ballerina?"

"She wants ramen."

Sakura leans forward slightly. “Does her instructor know about this?”

You shrug. And Sakura only laughs.

"Ok buddy, I will make it."

Suhyeon watches her go with quiet curiosity. Then she types something as you look over.

Jiyeon: She’s funny.

You snort. “She’s dangerous.”

From the kitchen Sakura shouts, “I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”

Her voice pierces through the usual sounds of broth boiling, ladles hitting the side of the pot, the sharp chop of a knife somewhere behind the counter (You really should check if there are any chopped fingers yet.) There's the usual hum of hers while she works, which is slightly concerning when she has something mischievous boiling up in her head.

A few moments later, she turns around with two bowls in her hand, the steam rises from them as an invitation. She sets Suhyeon's bowl down first, and holy moly, it's stacked. Rich broth shimmering under the light. Thick slices of chashu layered across the top. A perfectly cut egg. Corn floating around the edges. Extra noodles buried somewhere underneath the mountain of toppings.

Your bowl? Just a small bowl.

"…Why is mine so small?"

"You didn't say extra topping." "You always give me extra even when I don't ask!"

"Well, not today. They're all for Suhyeon." "Can I at least get another egg?"

"No."

You sigh but pick up your chopsticks anyway.

Suhyeon stares at the bowl for a second, probably calculating how much she can really eat until it's too obvious that she is on 'bulking season'. It seems to dissipate the moment you gesture her toward the bowl. And boy, she doesn't hesitate — First bite? Gone. Then another. Another. And another. Her shoulders drop bit by bit as the warmth of the ramen settles in.

Across the counter, Sakura watches her with her chin resting on one hand. "Starving?"

Suhyeon nods mid-bite, already going in for more. Satisfied with the answer, Sakura leans back, glancing between the two of you. "Big recital in a few days?"

Suhyeon nods, giving out three fingers as her mouth is busy sipping the broth. You translate instead as "three days."

Sakura whistles. "Oooft, crunch time."

“Which means she probably shouldn’t be eating this,” you add.

Sakura immediately points her chopsticks at you. "Shut up, carbs are cool."

"Do not become a fitness coach, I'm begging you."

Suhyeon laughs silently beside you, shoulders shaking. Feeling left out (probably), Sakura reaches behind the counter, grabs another bowl, and without asking helps herself to some broth and noodles straight from the pot. And she just sits down beside you two like she's part of the dinner now. (Well, she is, and always will be.)

“So,” Sakura says, leaning her elbows on the counter with a bowl of ramen in hand. “Are you nervous?”

Suhyeon pauses mid-bite, seemingly dropping her eyes slightly to the bowl. She reaches for her phone and types slowly. A lot of backspace, and a lot of typing, and a lot of stopping her own fingers before hitting send.

Jiyeon: A little.

"Good."

You raise an eyebrow. Huh? What? Even Suhyeon tilts her head.

"if you weren't nervous, it would mean you didn't care," Sakura slurps her noodles before pointing her chopsticks toward Suhyeon. “Nervous means you want to do well.”

Gosh, you hate to admit it, but Sakura is making a lot of sense right now, so you sigh. "She's not wrong."

“Oh wow. Write this down. He agreed with me.” "Shut up."

You glance toward Suhyeon. “Besides,” you continue, shrugging slightly. “You’ve been practicing nonstop. That’s what matters.”

"Of course." Sakura nods again. "And ignore loudmouths."

Your chopsticks pause mid-air. Suhyeon’s eyes flick upward. Sakura shrugs.

“You think ballet schools don’t have gossip?” she says. “Please. Any place with competition has idiots running their mouths.” She gestures vaguely with her chopsticks. “You just dance better than them. That’s the only comeback that matters.”

You glance sideways at her. “…That was surprisingly wise.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Suhyeon is quiet for a moment, until she slowly sets her chopsticks down fully.

Her phone appears again, typing longer this time. Much longer, until the message fills most of it when she turns the screen toward you both.

Jiyeon: I switched academies a lot growing up. Some instructors didn’t think I should be there. Some students didn’t either. So my parents moved me. Again, and again, and again. This one is the first place that feels like it might work, hopefully. So I just want to do well. If I do badly, it feels like it will make everything look like a mistake.

Sakura sets her bowl down with a small clink. “Hey.”

Suhyeon looks up to find Sakura pointing her chopsticks at her firmly.

“Listen carefully.” Her tone is still casual, but you know her enough that there's an undertone of seriousness there. “You dancing on that stage already proves you belong there.”

She gestures toward the ramen bowl. “You think people who don’t deserve it work that hard? And if anyone talks shit,” she adds, “they can come eat here and say it to my face.”

"Why your face?" "You're just going to stand there awkwardly."

"Fair."

Guess that talk was more than enough for Suhyeon to start eating again.

-

It's today.

The recital.

You may or may not have arrived earlier than the scheduled time. Not because you're excited (lies, you are very excited), just ... .because being late would mean people looking at you, and it still imprints deep into your soul, those judgmental eyes.

You sit among strangers and pretend you belong there. As much as you don't like being surrounded by (potentially) a crowd of pretentious people, Suhyeon needs a little support from those she is familiar with.

After many days of passing by the venue (well, more like Suhyeon dragging you around and introducing every crook of the building), you have finally taken a step into it, and it certainly makes you hyper-aware of everything you do. The way your shoes sound against the polished floor. The way your jacket doesn’t quite match the rest of the room. Even the way you hold the program — like if you grip it wrong, someone’s going to notice.

(They won't. No one's bothered to stare, but your brain doesn't care.)

Soft chatter fills the space, refined and effortless in a way you’ve never bothered to learn. People greet each other like they’ve done this a hundred times, most likely because they have. Names get thrown around casually like they mean something.

“Is Kazuha performing tonight?” “Of course. She’s the highlight.” “I heard her Black Swan last year was unreal.”

A room full of people who came expecting something flawless. So suffocating, this space is. Hence, distracting your self-consciousness, your fingers brush over the smooth paper of the brochure before flipping it open. Names. Roles. Acts. Your eyes skim past all of it until it lands on her name.

Ji Suhyeon, right there. No highlight. No emphasis. No little whispers about her in the room. Just…another line.

You give out a heavy sigh, before closing the program.

-

The lights finally dim, slow at first, then all at once.

Conversations don’t end so much as they’re cut off. Mid-sentence. Mid-breath. Like someone pulled a string and the entire room forgot how to make noise. Movements still in the same unnatural way, as if it had all been rehearsed beforehand. Even the air feels like it tightens, anticipation settling heavy across the audience that makes you sit a little straighter.

Then the curtain finally rises, and Swan Lake begins in white.

Act I moves in a controlled grace and beauty, yet it feels so…distant. The stage fills with soft light, the ballets move in clean and deliberate patterns. Every line is straight. Every extension is precise. It's honestly beautiful in a more untouchable way. Untouchable. You watch the formations shift, the symmetry change, the way every movement bleeds flawlessly into the next. Prince Siegfried comes out next. Then the court scene. It's all there. Perfect. So…perfect.

But you feel nothing.

Well, not really nothing. Your elbow rests against the armrest, your fingers loosely curled near your mouth as your gaze drifts. You follow the movement, sure, but absentmindedly. If anything, you're…bored.

Because she hasn't come out yet, even in act II: The Lake.

White swans flood the stage, and you don’t need to check the program again to know this is what everyone came for. You can see it in their posture: how they lean forward slightly, eyes sharpening, anticipation turning into eagerness.

Odette appears. Ah wait, sorry, Kazuha appears.

It's understandable why her name is widespread, with her soft and ethereal appearance. Controlled down to the smallest fingertip. Every movement floats. Every step feels more like floating. A kind of presence where people don't dare to let out their breath, in case they miss out on a rare sight.

Then, light whispers of praises. Soft and reverent.

“She’s incredible,” “That control…” "Worth the prices…"

It's all white noise to you. Your eyes keep glancing at the wings. Is it time yet…?

-

Somewhere between one breath and the next, Act III begins. Something in the air feels different. It's quite interesting that you feel that before you register the music sharpens. Lighting darkens just enough to stretch shadows across the theatre.

Then, she steps out. Ji Suhyeon. Black Swan. (So this is the secret role she refuses to tell you, huh.)

Everything else disappears. The dancers blur into movement without meaning. The stage shrinks, carved down to fit only her. Maybe because you have done anatomy study of ballerinas, or maybe because you hang out with her long enough to notice how she hesitates. To be fair, it's almost invisible. A fraction of a second where her step doesn’t land as clean as it should. Her shoulders hold tension. Her breathing comes just a little too sharp, like she forced it steady before stepping into the light.

It's funny. Everyone else is watching the idea of the Black Swan, yet you're watching the girl who brings the role into life. And she's…fighting.

Her first turn is controlled, not effortless. There’s weight and intention, then her arms cut through the air with precision, sharper yet grounded. She moves again with a spin and — oh shit, a slight imbalance. The shift in her center, the way she almost tips too far before pulling herself back in. The correction happens mid-motion, quick enough to hide from anyone not looking for it. She grounds herself harder into the stage, sharpens the next movement, pushes the expression further like she’s forcing something out of herself instead of letting it flow naturally.

And you finally pay attention to the whisper behind you. “She’s good.” “A bit tense.” "She has potential."

That clicks a memory in your mind.

"I can’t speak, but I can express myself with ballet."

This is to answer what you ask her, from an artist to another: What makes you do art?

But now you can finally see what she meant. Not the clean and perfect movements you usually associate ballet with. Not the effortless grace filling the stage before her. It's uneven, yet you find it more intrigued than anything else. Every sharp movement carries it. Every turn feels like it’s being forced into control rather than given freely. Her gaze hardens, not soft like Odette’s, but almost a stance, like she's saying something to herself.

Black Swan, from what you remember, is complex and multifaceted. She is portrayed as a seductive and captivating figure, often described as having a sensual and exotic nature. And that is certainly what you see from the Black Swan in front of you now. Her arms slice through the air again, sharper and faster. There’s no hesitation in the upper body anymore, just precision. Of course, her shoulders still carry tension. Her breathing still isn't perfectly hidden. And of course you notice it, but does it really matter when she owns it and turns it into something more deliberate. And that is more complex yet captivating at the same time.

You aren't sure when, but the audience stops comparing her to Kazuha. Not measuring techniques nor whispering critiques under their breath. They're just…watching.

She really does take their attention without a single word.

-

The applause doesn't come immediately. The entire theatre stays suspended in the final act.

And then it breaks, loud and sudden. Hands collide, people rise like something snapped them back into themselves. The sound fills everything, crashes against the walls, pours down from the balcony like it’s trying to make up for that one second of silence.

You don't move just yet, because she's still there, in the centre next to Kazuha, breathing. You can see it even from here, the rise of her chest, just a little too heavy. The way her shoulders don’t fully drop, like her body hasn’t gotten the message that it’s over. The tension clings stubbornly.

Only when the curtain falls, then you finally stand.

Suhyeon, they clap their hands for you now.

-

It's quieter backstage.

Everything that mattered stayed out there — the main character, the supporters, the audiences. What's left is the aftermath. And you know where to find the "villain" without much thought. Turn. Another turn. Then another turn.

And you find her sitting on the floor of the practice room. Alone and changed.

The Black Swan is gone like it never existed, replaced with an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame and loose pants that bunch slightly at her ankles. Her hair’s tied back, not neatly, just enough to keep it out of her face.

Back against the mirror, legs unevenly folded like she didn’t commit to a position before stopping altogether. One hand rests loosely against her thigh, fingers slightly curled. The other is planted on the floor beside her, keeping her upright more out of habit than need.

She looks…ethereal. A déjà vu of your first time meeting her in the garden.

So you just stand there and take it in.

The faint smudge of makeup near her eye. The way her breathing hasn’t fully settled yet. The almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers, like the performance, is still echoing through her muscles.

Then she notices you. Her eyes gleam up, and her cheeks puff up as she waves her hand.

You step closer, slow and deliberate. Close enough that she can see everything you do without having to move. It has been at the back of your mind of what you can do to make this girl…to make her effort feel more recognised. To reach her.

So…um…you raise your hand. First, you form a flat hand and touch your chin with your thumb. Then, you move your hand forward and away from your body. Flat hand down to other flat hand.

Good…

You don’t rush. You let each part land, because it's the singlehandedly most important phrase you have said ever in your life. Then the same hand makes a downward fist and taps it against the other fist twice.

…job.

Good job.

She blinks slowly, like the meaning reaches her first, then the intent, and then you. And somehow that makes her shoulders relaxed gradually. Like all the stress that has kept her tense the whole night. Her expression softens, the tension melting out of it in real time, and then…she smiles. It spreads quickly, unfiltered and almost startled in how real it looks. Her eyes brighten, with the corners crinkling slightly.

Her hand moves quickly, most likely out of excitement and habit. "Wait wait wait, I just learned that phrase."

Her hands stop mid-motion, and on cue, her cheeks turn red, probably realising her image at the moment. Then, she closes her lips as if she tries so hard to not laugh.

A second later, she reaches for her phone. Thumb swipes and quick taps, and then she angles the screen toward you.

Jiyeon: You practiced that?

You shrug, leaning one shoulder lightly against the mirror. "Enough to not embarrass myself."

She squints at you.

Jiyeon: You're already embarrassing. But thank you.

You don't answer immediately, because these aren't just words. It’s the way you notice how she looks at you while you read them, like she's anticipating your reaction, expecting you to downplay it.

"…you're welcome. I'm glad."

She nods to herself, a small one, before locking her phone and setting it aside again.

For a moment, neither of you move. The room hums quietly around you. The light in the corner flickers just slightly, enough to shift the shadows along the mirrors. Her breathing has mostly steadied now, but there’s still that faint leftover energy in her posture.

Then, she nudges your knee. Once. Twice.

"Hm?"

She gestures to you.

"Hm? I'm sitting."

She rolls her eyes (actually rolls them this time) then reaches forward, grabs your sleeve, and tugs.

"Jeez, you bossy puffy." You exhale through your nose, yet you adjust anyway, shifting your position so your back presses more fully against the mirror, legs stretching out slightly in front of you. "Happy?"

Her answer? Scooting closer, turns slightly, then leans back. Her head settles against your chest like it’s always been meant to be there, like this is just…where she goes now when she’s done holding herself together.  Your body adjusts faster, shoulders easing back against the mirror, one hand hovering awkwardly for a second before settling loosely at your side. Her weight sinks in, warm and solid. And she finally exhales, a long one. And she tilts her head back to look up at you. Upside down.

The Black Swan is fully gone, leaving you a puffy Ji Suhyeon in your embrace.

And it hits. That same angle and closeness. Your ex used to do that. Used to stare at you like she was trying to catch something slipping through your expression before you could hide it.

Tsk, can't believe that she still affects you till this day.

Guess Suhyeon noticed too, as the hand that rests against your thigh tightens the grip while she reaches for her phone again.

Jiyeon: You ok?

You shake your head. "It's nothing, don't worry."

Jiyeon: You always say that.

"It usually is."

She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push it either. Instead, she lowers the phone slightly, still holding it, thumb resting against the screen like she’s debating whether to say more.

She decides to press her head a little more firmly into your chest like a cat choosing comfort over answers. Her breathing slows further, evening out to a steady pace. You can feel it through the fabric of your shirt, the rhythm grounding in a way you didn’t expect to welcome it.

Jiyeon: I don't know if this is enough.

The soft glow fills the room, and your gaze drops to her. She's not looking at you anymore, just staring at the ceiling upside down. You don't ask who is "them", you already know.

"Hey."

Her eyes flick up slightly.

"You don't need to be perfect." you sigh, "You don't even need them to just suddenly change their minds. Um…I guess, you just need one moment where you don't look like you're about to run…and you had that tonight."

There's a longer pause. Her thumb hovers over her phone, then she types.

Jiyeon: What if it's just tonight?

"Then you do it again tomorrow…and the day after that, and the day after that." Your hand brushes lightly against her air. "You just need to keep proving yourself, like you have always done."

And she goes quiet again. No more typing. No more movement. Just steady breath.

Jiyeon: I'll try.

-

By the time you push the door open and step outside, the night has already settled in.

Cool air brushes against your skin, carrying that faint mix of asphalt and distant traffic. The hum of the venue fades behind you as the door swings shut, leaving only the quiet stretch of the entrance and the low glow of streetlights bleeding across the pavement.

Suhyeon lingers half a step behind you. Just…slowing down. Her phone rests loosely in her hand, thumb idly tracing the edge of it like she's still holding onto something from earlier. The oversized hoodie swallows her frame again, with the sleeves bunching at her wrists as she adjusts them unconsciously.

And then, she stops.

You follow her line of sight out of curiosity and….Kazuha? Wait, that is her.

Leaning against the metal railing just off to the side of the entrance, one foot crossed over the other, relaxed posture yet not careless. Even in her everyday comfy outfit, the composure retains — as if the stage never fully left her.

She straightens the moment she sees you two, and hone in her attention to Suhyeon immediately.

You don't think it's comparing, but it doesn't help Suhyeon who shifts beside you. Her shoulders pull in just slightly, slowly scoot next to you like she hasn't decided whether to stay or retreat.

Kazuha raises her hand and waves in a friendly arc.

Hi.

Oh, she said hi…? In sign language? Suhyeon seems to be perplexed too, with how she keeps blinking.

Kazuha continues, movements controlled but softer now, less formal than they were on stage. At this point, you lose it completely. Well, hands are thrown, movements are frequent. But you can't understand it (again, you only learned one praise), so what you're left with isn't the words themselves but the shape of the conversation, the movement, the space between the signs…and more importantly, Suhyeon's face.

Kazuha continues signing, her movements controlled and precise, but softer than they were on stage. Less performative and more…direct, like she's speaking to the Black Swan and only her.

And you see the effect.

Suhyeon’s fingers twitch against her phone, her grip loosening just slightly as her shoulders drop, not completely, but enough that you can tell that right now it didn't go the way she expected it to. Her eyes flick to you quickly, not asking for permission exactly, but checking, or asking for guidance on what to do next.

You don't ask what was said. Instead…it feels right to nudge her lightly with your elbow. "Come on."

She exhales, a small and almost silent one she lets out, and then steps forward.

You're left watching from the side. At first, her movements are careful, measured, her hands staying closer to her body as if she's still holding something back, her expression still neutral and guarded. Kazuha signs again, longer this time, and whatever she says causes Suhyeon's brows to draw together slightly, confusion flickering across her face before she responds, her own signs quicker and more questioning. Kazuha answers in return, short and firm, and that’s when Suhyeon goes still, her hands hovering for a moment before lowering slowly, her gaze dropping and then lifting again, not exactly meeting Kazuha’s eyes but no longer avoiding them either.

From there, the conversation softens.

Kazuha’s movements become less structured, and Suhyeon’s posture follows, her shoulders easing as the tension drains out in small increments. Her responses come slower now, not because she’s struggling, but maybe because she’s actually thinking about them instead of reacting, and the difference shows in the way her hands move with more intention.

There's another pause. But it doesn't feel so awkward this time. Then Kazuha signs something shorter, if you dare to say, more casual.

Suhyeon curls her fingers slightly around her phone again, thumb pressing against the screen like she needs something to hold onto while she decides, and then she looks back at you. You meet her eyes and hold them, not saying anything, just giving her a small nod.

She looks down, her phone lighting up as her thumbs move quickly across the screen, and then turns it toward you.

Jiyeon: She wants to hang out. Talk about ballet. Is that okay?

“Why are you asking me?” you say, your tone is light but steady enough that she doesn’t mistake it. And to be clearer, you nudge her forward slightly. "Go have fun with your new friend."

She exhales again, this time with a faint huff that is more relief. When she turns back, her hands lifting with less caution, like the relationship has loosen up for her to be a little more herself. Kazuha smiles, and the two of them fall into step together, their signs picking up as they walk, hands moving in the rhythm you still can't follow but don't need to. It looks like…Suhyeon can carry herself now.

You are certain she can take care of herself now the moment your phone pings up.

Jiyeon: Thanks for being by my side all this time. See you next time…good friend.

You stay where you are for a moment longer than necessary, watching as they disappear further down the path, Suhyeon’s posture gradually relaxing with each step until there’s almost no trace left of the girl who stood beside you just minutes ago, caught between pressure, hesitation and doubt.

Then you turn to your car.

-

By the time you step into your studio, the night has already settled. The familiar scent greets you immediately — paint, canvas, that faint chemical sharpness that never really leaves. It brings you back to your home faster than anything else could, pulling you out of the lingering echo of the theatre and into a space that you own.

The canvas is exactly right there where you left it.

It's her shoe. The one Suhyeon gives you as payment.

Even now, you can still recall the moment she handed it over. It sounds casual, like it was just an old thing she no longer needs. But you, of all people, know how hard it is to let go of something that means so much to you. Her grip lingered for a fraction too long before she pulled back, as if she had to gaslight herself it was okay to give it away.

Looking at the canvas again it looks….perfect.

Too perfect.

Every line is clean, deliberate, controlled down to the smallest detail, the kind of precision that usually satisfies you because it proves you got it right. The proportions are exact, the curvature of the arch carefully measured, the ribbons falling in smooth, elegant lines that look like they belong in a display instead. The shading is soft, seamlessly blended, giving the fabric a pristine finish that almost glows under the light.

It's polished and refined.

And that’s exactly why it feels so fucking wrong.

You remember the way the satin had dulled in certain places, the faint fraying along the edges where repetition had worn it down, the subtle discoloration near the toe where pressure built up over time, over countless movements, countless landings, countless moments where she forced her body to hold just a little longer than it wanted to. You remember how the sole didn’t look pristine but softened, shaped, moulded, carrying the imprint of every step she had taken in it.

This isn't that. Not even close.

Your hand reaches for the brush, the motion automatically and naturally. You just let it run its course — fracturing the smooth gradient, uneven stroke, pigments catching in places it wasn't supposed to, disrupting the clean surface you worked so carefully to maintain. Your brain itches to fix it immediately…

But you leave it exactly where it is.

Your movements become quicker. Shadows deepen in patches, mimicking the way wear accumulates over time, how certain areas darken under pressure while others remain lighter, how nothing is ever truly symmetrical when it’s been used and worn. Yes, that's it! The clean softness disappears. The ribbon draws your attention next, its curve too elegant, too intentional, like it was designed rather than lived in. You pause for a second, studying it, then drag the brush across it just enough to disrupt the flow, introducing a slight twist, a small imperfection in the way it falls.

You step back to see it as a whole.

It's not perfect anymore — asymmetrical, rough finish. Yet, it looks far closer to what you remember. The wear and tear, and the countless tribulations and ridicule that Suhyeon has gone through, you let it stay that way…

 …and hopefully it represents Suhyeon and her effort the best.

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Note:

Tada! Second part is here! Evidently, one of the more experimental fics I wrote too. Genuinely fun to write someone without being able to speak and I get to be creative with how I "voice" Suhyeon.

My apologies for the long wait with all the research and the IRL stuff going on. I can't guarantee when the next part will come out, but hope you all stay tuned!

Special thank you to @toshyun (the only reason I write Jiyeon, really.)

I have seen some good guesses from you guys regarding the mystery 4th person, so here's the next hint to help yall.

(HINT: a maknae)