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ggum-aki · 1 month ago

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SLURP

close friends - lee heeseung, koga yudai✧˚⋆˖ ࣪

𓈒ིུ ❤︎ ˖ ݁

“In which reader can’t hide the lustful feelings she has for her boyfriend’s best friend, and him, instead of getting jealous, decides to share”

‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x heeseung x k, threesome, dom! heeseung x dom! k x sub! reader (although heeseung is more in charge) no mxm action, drinking, cursing, lots of teasing, oral sex (f and m recieving), multiple orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, humiliation, dumbification, objectification, degradation, praising, unprotected sex, double creampie (don’t do this pls), dirty talk, explicit sex, aftercare (so important always!!)

Word count: 15.5k (it’s yudai and heeseung girls i can’t)

Notes: I went so insane with this one so please bare with me lmao, as always please remember everything that happens is consensual !! sorry for the mistakes english isn’t my first language. this one is for my lunéngenes !!

Hate comments will be deleted and blocked, like and reblogs are appreciated !!

Your relationship with Heeseung had always been easy.

From the very beginning, he made things feel simple, like love was something natural, something that didn’t have to hurt to be real. He was warm and steady, all soft hands and sweeter words, the kind of boyfriend that remembered the little things. He always kept your favorite snack in the apartment, knew the exact spot to kiss behind your ear that made you shiver, and held your hand even when no one was watching.

Heeseung didn’t play games, he didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t give you reasons to doubt him, not even once. He never made you feel small.

He spoiled you, completely.

He paid attention to things no one else would, how you always got sleepy after eating, how you liked your wine poured to the halfway point only, how you always looked at yourself in the mirror a little too long when you felt insecure. And he’d counter all of it, instinctively. Wrapping you up in a hoodie, refilling your glass just right, grabbing your chin gently and kissing your pout away like it was his only job.

In bed, he was a dream.

He took his time with you, didn’t just fuck you, he worshipped you. And when you begged for it rougher, meaner, filthier? He gave you that too.

Your pretty boy could turn dark in seconds. He’d pull your hair, make you cry, call you names so cruel your face burned—and he’d fuck you through every single one of your orgasms until you couldn’t remember how to say please anymore. But he always kissed you after, always whispered, “you did so good for me, baby.” He made you feel safe in the filth, loved, even when he was breaking you apart.

He got along with your whole family, watched football matchs with your father and helped your mother bake her signature apple pie, played videogames with your little brother and dollhouse with your little sister. You were sure he was the man of your life, and that you would marry him one day.

You never wanted anyone else.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Until K started spending more time around.

K was Heeseung’s best friend, had been for years, even before you were his girlfriend, they grew up together, went to the same college, even shared clothes sometimes. He was around so often it felt normal, his shoes by the door, his half-empty water bottles on the counter, his body draped across your couch like he owned the place. You were so used to his presence, and it never bothered you, not really, he was very sweet with you, always respectful, and you knew how good of a friend he was to your boyfriend.

He was different from Heeseung in every way. Older for a couple of years, taller for a few inches, louder when he laughed, rougher around the edges, casually confident in a way that made your stomach twist. Always teasing, always joking, always so present. Like, everyday. Sometimes he would even go pick you up after work when Heeseung couldn’t because he was at some dinner for his job. He was mostly a gentleman, although obviously sometimes you would hear him talk with Heeseung about the girls he slept with.

He didn’t try to charm you, didn’t even seem to care what you thought of him.

And maybe that was the problem.

You’d watch him from the kitchen sometimes, sweating in a tight shirt after a workout, gulping water like he hadn’t touched it in hours, the sharp lines of his jaw flexing every time he swallowed, his soaked, black hair sticked to his forehead, his plump lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His arms always flexed when he stretched, and he always stretched, veins popping under his skin, low groan leaving his throat.

And sometimes, when he caught your gaze, he’d smirk. Not flirty, not teasing. Just knowing, like he was aware of the way you looked at him, and he didn’t mind. Sometimes he would say “Do i look that bad today?” and you would chuckle, trying to play dumb.

You tried to ignore it, brush it off, blame it on the wine, the hormones, the stupid crushes people weren’t supposed to get once they were in love.

But sometimes, when Heeseung’s fingers were deep inside you, or when his cock was pressing into you just right, you’d close your eyes, and for just a moment, pretend.

You imagined K’s voice, rough and low in your ear. His hands on your hips, holding you still, the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress, deeper and rougher than anyone ever had.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love Heeseung, or that he wasn’t enough for you. He really was, you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a thought, just a fantasy. Like a lot of people used to have.

Something you’d never say out loud.

Not to anyone.

Heeseung had always been so good at reading people. Even when he was little, he knew when his father had a bad day at work, he knew when his mother was pissed about the noisy neighbours, he even knew when his first girlfriend cheated on him before even finding something weird.

Heeseung had always known.

He didn’t need you to say it, didn’t need to catch you staring, or find messages on your phone, or hear some guilty confession through your tears.

He just knew.

Because he was watching.

From the very beginning, before you even realized it yourself, he’d seen it. That flicker in your eyes when K walked into the room, the way your whole body subtly shifted, back a little straighter, chin tilted, lips just barely parted, thighs clenched together when K leaned over to show you something on his phone.

You never flirted, never crossed a line. You were a good girl, his good girl. But the way you looked at K? that wasn’t nothing.

And Heeseung saw it, every time.

He was an expert in you.

He knew every version of your body, how you moved when you were hungry, when you were tired, when you were horny. How you bit your lip when you were anxious, how your eyes glossed over when you were tipsy and trying not to let it show. He knew when you were lying, when you were daydreaming, when your thighs were clenched under the table because you were thinking about something you shouldn’t.

Heeseung knew you.

So of course, he noticed.

K was around a lot. His best friend, his brother. They’d known each other forever, trusted each other without question, he didn’t even remember a time of his life where K wasn’t teasing him and playfully bantering with him. He trusted him, like a lot, he was the only true friendship he’d ever had, and he knew that K would never do something that would hurt him.

And that’s what made it all the more entertaining.

He watched the way your eyes dropped when K stretched, the way your breath hitched when he muttered something low under his breath, the way your smile slipped into something dazed after a few drinks when K got too close.

And he saw the way he looked at you too. How he would chuckle at the silliest thing you’d say, how he would tease you just to see you blush and push his chest playfully, how his gaze would dropp even just for a small second through your body when you were in a bikini on a hot summer day. He didn’t blame him, you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and K was a man, after all.

So he never said a word.

Most guys would’ve lost their minds, picked a fight, accused you of cheating, thrown K out of the house or pulled you into a jealous, angry fuck just to stake their claim.

But not heeseung.

He found it cute, amusing, even. The way you thought you were hiding it, this quiet, little lust that lived just under your skin. He could see how hard you were trying to be good, how guilty you must’ve felt, how much it was killing you not to give in to it.

And more than anything, that’s what got to him.

The idea that you were holding back, not because you didn’t want it, but because you thought he wouldn’t let you.

Heeseung loved you, like really loved you. But his love wasn’t soft and selfless, not really.

His love was possessive.

He didn’t just want you for himself, he wanted every part of you, every thought, every fantasy. Even the most dirtiest, nastiest ones.

If you were going to want someone else, he wanted to know. He wanted to be there.

And with K? He didn’t mind sharing. That was his ride or die, and if he were ever to do something this nasty, of course he would choose him. It was something about his ego too, to make his best friend who was always so confident and cocky watching how the most beautiful girl ever crumbled beneath him.

He liked the idea of it.

Of watching you come undone between the two of them, overwhelmed, overstimulated, broken down to nothing. He wanted to see your mouth stuffed with K’s cock while you sobbed on his fingers. Wanted to hear you beg one of them to stop while the other kept going. Wanted to see your sweet little brain go blank, ruined completely, used until you didn’t even know which one of them was making you cum anymore.

And god, the aftermath.

He could already picture you, messy, leaking, limp and fucked-out on the sheets while they cleaned you up. You, teary-eyed and dazed, whispering, “thank you.” So grateful, so good.

He didn’t say anything yet, not out loud.

You weren’t ready, he wanted you to squirm a little more.

He wanted to watch you get desperate.

But he was planning.

It was late evening when you unlocked the front door and stepped inside, heels clicking against the hardwood. The apartment was dimly lit, the only real light coming from the glare of the TV screen and the soft blue LEDs lining the shelves. You were tired, hungry, and sleepy, it was a really long day at work, you hated that you had to work on weekends.

Then you heard it.

Laughter and the unmistakable sound of button-mashing filled the air. Manly voices so loud and so familiar. You dropped your bag by the door, sighing as you kicked off your shoes, already half-expecting what you’d see when you rounded the corner into the living room.

There they were.

Heeseung and K sat cross-legged on the floor, controllers in hand, faces lit by the rapid flashes of the screen. The two of them were in the middle of an intense round of something, they didn’t even glance up when you entered. Both of them in comfy clothes, messy hairs, the smell of their perfumes in the air.

You swallowed.

“Told you I’m better,” Heeseung grinned, tapping buttons at lightning speed.

“Only because you cheat,” K fired back, focused, leaning forward as his tongue peeked out in concentration.

“You’re just bad at this,” Heeseung smirked, elbowing him. The two burst into laughter, casual and at ease, just two best friends caught up in a game they’d probably played a hundred times before.

You stood there for a second, watching them, Heeseung’s soft, worn tee hanging off his frame, K in a sleeveless hoodie that showed off his toned arms. It was domestic. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

“I’m home,” you called out finally, stepping into view, a little smile on your lips, while you loosened your ponytail and walked towards them.

Heeseung’s head turned first, his smile wide, his eyes sparkly like they always were when he looked at you.

“Hey, baby,” he said easily, not even pausing the game. “How was work?”

You groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch behind them.

“Hell,” you muttered, already peeling off your jacket. They didn’t respond, too focused on the game, and you rolled your eyes playfully. Boys. “I’m taking a shower. You boys have fun.”

Then K glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “Welcome back, by the way.”

You winked and disappeared down the hall, feeling K’s eyes on you the entire way.

A little while later, the bathroom light flicked off and the soft pat of your bare feet padded into the living room again. You wore a silky little pajama set, tiny shorts barely covering the curve of your ass, and a matching cami with thin straps that did nothing to hide the way the cool air had your nipples poking through.

Heeseung looked up first. His gaze swept over you with familiarity, appreciation, and something playful. His lips curled up in a lazy smile as he leaned back on one hand, watching you make your way around the couch and settle down between them.

But K?

He hesitated—only for a second—but it was enough.

You saw it.

The way K’s jaw clenched. The quick flick of his eyes over your legs, your chest, your exposed skin. The way he tried to focus back on the screen, but his grip on the controller tightened just a little. His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something, then thought better of it.

You could feel the heat rolling off him.

Heeseung chuckled quietly. He didn’t say a word, didn’t call him out. Instead, he shifted closer to you on the floor, letting his hand rest on your bare thigh, thumb stroking lazily, like it was second nature.

It was soft. Innocent. But it wasn’t.

You saw the way K’s eyes flicked down to where Heeseung’s fingers moved, lingering. You could feel the tension in the air change, just a little.

Heeseung’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, like nothing was happening. Like he wasn’t fully aware of the little game he’d just started.

He leaned closer to you, pressing a kiss just below your ear, murmuring a teasing “Missed you, pretty girl,” while his fingers traced the edge of your thigh, just high enough to make a statement.

K didn’t speak, but his knuckles were white around the controller. His gaze was fixed forward, but his breathing had shifted, just a bit.

Heeseung smirked.

He wasn’t mad. Not jealous. Not even remotely.

He was amused.

And from the way his eyes glinted under the low light, you could tell, he was planning something.

Something big.

You had long since disappeared into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality, leaving the boys alone under the low light of the TV glow. The air was still warm with your presence, vanilla and something sweeter, something uniquely you lingering in the space.

Heeseung had gone quiet, his controller abandoned somewhere near the coffee table. K sat beside him, back against the couch, arms resting lazily over his knees as he stared at the flickering screen without really watching it.

They’d been talking for hours now, about everything, work, family, sports, and you, of course. Heeseung always yapped about how perfect you were and that he wanted to marry you. K was used to that, he always smiled and said “Don’t make me an uncle yet.” Not jealous, but supporting, like a good friend. But still, when Heeseung talked to him about you in bed, he saw how his breathing changed just a bit, not of awkwardness. Something else.

“You like her, huh?” Heeseung asked suddenly, voice casual, too casual.

K turned his head slowly, caught off guard. His eyes widened, brows frowned as if he couldn’t believe what he just asked.

“What?”

Heeseung smirked. He didn’t look at him right away, just reached over to grab his drink from the side table, took a slow sip, then met his best friend’s eyes.

“Y/N.”

K blinked, his face a mask of disbelief. He reached for his drink too, the air suddenly feeling so heavy.

“She’s your girlfriend.”

“I didn’t ask who she was,” Heeseung said, leaning back against the couch, stretching his legs out. “I asked if you like her.”

K scoffed and looked away, running a hand through his hair, then he scratched his neck.

“Bro.”

Heeseung just hummed, watching him now, really watching. The way K shifted in place, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. The way his eyes had flicked, too quickly, down the hall where your bedroom door was closed.

“You think I don’t see it?” Heeseung asked quietly, his tone lower now, edged with amusement. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at her when you think I’m not paying attention?”

K didn’t respond.

“She came out in that little pajama set,” Heeseung continued, like he was telling a story, slow and deliberate, “and your eyes were all over her. You didn’t even try to hide it.”

K shifted again, sitting a little straighter, jaw tight.

“You’re tripping.”

“Am I?” Heeseung grinned, all teeth now, a lazy kind of danger curling at the edges of his lips. He was having so much fun with this. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

That made K glance over, he tilted his head slightly.

“You’re not?”

Heeseung laughed softly. “Why would I be mad?” His voice dropped, gaze dark. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

K blinked.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re not denying it.” Heeseung leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees, voice hushed now, like it was something private. “I’ve seen the way she reacts to you. She gets all soft and shy around you. Different than with me.”

K’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t deny that either. Heeseung kept going, his tone turning sly.

“She likes you. Even if she doesn’t say it. Even if she tries to hide it. I see it. And I think you see it too.”

K let out a long breath, raking a hand down his face.

“This is fucking dangerous.”

Heeseung chuckled darkly.

“Yeah. That’s the point.”

There was a long pause. K was quiet now, no longer trying to argue, just sitting there, staring at the blank screen, like his mind had slipped somewhere darker. Somewhere more curious.

“And you’re seriously okay with that?” he asked after a moment. “You want me to—what—fuck around with your girlfriend?”

Heeseung leaned back again, arms spread along the couch, completely relaxed, like he’d thought about this a lot.

“I want to see what happens when we both push her. I want to see how far she’ll let it go. How far we can take it.”

K looked at him, really looked at him, like he was trying to read the real intention behind the words. Lips parted, in shock.

“And if she breaks?” he asked, voice quiet.

“She won’t,” Heeseung said confidently. “Not in a bad way, anyway.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “She’ll love it.”

Another pause.

K was breathing a little heavier now, not quite realizing it. His leg bounced once, the tension showing in small cracks, in the way he kept licking his lips.

Heeseung’s voice dipped lower, velvet-smooth.

“You want to see her like that, don’t you? All cock drunk and needy. Caught between us. Letting us touch her. Use her. Ruin her a little.”

K inhaled sharply, muttering under his breath, “Jesus, man…”

But there was no fight left in his voice.

Heeseung leaned forward again, eyes locked on him.

“Her birthday. We take her out. Tease her. You dance with her first, I’ll come in after. We push. We press. And we see what she does.”

K was quiet, processing. His fingers flexed where they rested on his knees. This was such a bad idea, it could ruin this friendship and your relationship forever.

But he thought about it, he imagined it. How you’d look between them, all broken and crying, how you’d look beneath him.

Then, slowly, like the idea had finally sunk into his skin, he gave a low laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re fucking twisted.”

“And you’re into it.”

K didn’t deny it this time.

The club was alive with the beat of the music, thumping through your chest, the lights flashing in dizzying patterns as you stepped out of the car. Your heels clicked against the pavement, each step carrying you into the night. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and cologne, and all eyes seemed to be on you as you made your entrance.

It was your birthday, your night, and you had every intention of owning it. You’d slipped into a sleek, form-fitting black dress that hugged your curves perfectly, just the right amount of daring without being too much. Your hair cascaded in waves, and your makeup was soft but sultry, just enough to make you look irresistible without trying too hard. You were the center of attention, and you loved it.

As you stepped into the club, the pulse of the music surrounded you. People were already gathered around the bar, laughing, chatting, their drinks sloshing in the air as the DJ spun tracks. Your friends crowded around you, congratulating you, complimenting your outfit, but your eyes were scanning the room.

Heeseung should be there anytime.

And you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement in your chest when you thought about him. Your boyfriend—the perfect, warm, loving boyfriend who had made sure tonight would be exactly how you wanted it. But even as your mind lingered on him, there was that edge of anticipation. That thought, that craving, for someone else.

It was impossible not to think about him. You had tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on your boyfriend, on what you had, but something about K always pulled you in. The way he moved, the way he grinned at you, like he knew exactly what you were thinking, what you wanted. Like he wasn’t just watching from the sidelines, but waiting for you to make the first move.

Your thoughts scattered when you caught sight of them, Heeseung and K, walking through the entrance together, side by side like two halves of the same whole. They were a striking pair. Heeseung in his tailored jacket, casually confident, dark hair falling just right as his gaze swept over the room. And K, a little more laid-back, in a tight shirt that did nothing to hide the muscles in his chest, his smirk cocky as hell as he looked around.

The moment their eyes met yours, you felt a rush of heat flood your body. Heeseung’s smile was soft, full of warmth as he made his way toward you. But K’s gaze? It was different. It was knowing. His eyes dropped down to your dress—just for a second—and then back to your face, where a small, almost teasing smirk danced on his lips.

Heeseung pulled you into a hug, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered something sweet.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he murmured, his hands resting on your hips. You melted into his embrace, your heart swelling at the love he poured into his touch. He was perfect. He always was.

But K? K was something else entirely.

He stepped forward, his body pressing just a little too close when he kissed your cheek. The moment his lips touched your skin, your breath hitched, a shiver running through your body at the heat of his proximity.

“Happy birthday, princess,” K said, his voice low and rich, sending a thrill straight to your core.

You fought the blush creeping up your neck, trying to focus on Heeseung, on him, the boyfriend who had given you everything. But K’s presence lingered like a slow burn, undeniable, exciting. You could feel his eyes on you, even as Heeseung pulled back and started talking to some of your friends.

K didn’t go far. He hovered around you, leaning against the bar, not too far from where you stood. Every so often, his eyes would flick to yours, like he was studying you. Like he was waiting for something.

The tension between the three of you was thick, and you could feel it in your bones.

But you were supposed to be enjoying your night. You’d been waiting for this, for months, and now, it was finally here. So you threw yourself into the party, laughing, dancing, drinking. But even as you swirled your cocktail, your attention kept drifting. It was almost magnetic, this pull between you and Heeseung, between you and K. And no matter how much you tried to ignore it, it was impossible.

The club pulsed with energy as you and your friends slipped further into the night. The drinks kept flowing, shots and cocktails passed around like water, and with every drink, your body felt lighter, more free. Laughter filled the air, mingling with the thumping beat of the music as the crowd swayed and danced under the neon lights.

Your friends were all in high spirits, each of them offering birthday wishes, compliments, and teasing comments about how you were the life of the party. The atmosphere was electric, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let go of the constant buzzing in your head, the one that made you question the simmering tension between you, Heeseung, and K. Tonight was about you.

But, of course, they were still there.

You caught K’s eyes across the room. He was leaning casually against the bar, a drink in his hand, watching you with that signature smirk. The one that always seemed to make your heart race a little faster.

You shook your head, trying to focus, but your thoughts kept drifting back to him. And then, as if on cue, Heeseung wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’m tired from training, baby,” he murmured, his voice warm and familiar. “You go ahead, dance with your friends.”

You couldn’t help but pout, turning in his arms to face him.

“But I wanted to dance with you,” you whined, eyes sparkling with a playful challenge.

Heeseung smiled, but it was that teasing, knowing grin.

“I’m too tired, babe,” he repeated, his thumb brushing against your hip. “Go have fun. You know I don’t mind.”

You raised an eyebrow, the tip of your tongue brushing over your lips. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Heeseung said with that same smile, but there was something in his eyes, something darker, almost predatory. “K can go dance with you.”

Your stomach flipped. You’d been thinking about K for most of the night, the heat in your veins already ignited by his presence, and now Heeseung was throwing him into the mix. But even more so, he was asking you to do it.

“Come on, I’m not gonna dance with him,” you said, your voice teasing, but your body responding to the thought anyway. “We’ll have to make it fun later.”

Heeseung chuckled softly, his hands still on your waist as he leaned in close, his lips brushing your neck for just a moment. His breath was hot against your skin.

“We will, baby. But for now—go have some fun. K’s waiting.”

So you sighed, already preparing yourself mentally. You turned to K, who was still leaning against the bar, his eyes never leaving you. There was that damn smirk again, and you knew exactly what was on his mind.

With a slight hesitation, you walked over to K. He grinned as you approached, taking your hand in his.

“Well, I guess you do need a dance partner,” he said, his voice low, the heat behind his words unmistakable. He pulled you onto the dance floor with him, and you fell into the rhythm of the music, the bass vibrating through your chest.

He was shy at first, a gentleman. Just dacing in front of you without really touching anything he shouldn’t. He chuckled as he saw you dancing, raising an eyebrow when one of your friends shoved a shot down your mouth.

K’s hands were on your hips, and you could feel his body heat radiating against yours. His movements were fluid, effortless, as he pulled you closer, guiding you as you danced together. The music was loud, the lights flashing in a rhythm that matched the pulse of your heart.

You tried to push down the thoughts swirling in your head, tried to enjoy the moment, but your body responded instinctively to K’s closeness. The way his touch lingered just a little too long, how his lips brushed against your ear when he leaned down to say something too soft to hear.

You were drunk. Or at least tipsy enough that your body wasn’t listening to your mind anymore.

The club was alive, the bass pumping in your veins, but all you could feel was the weight of the bodies around you.

You and K moved together, the chemistry undeniable. He guided you effortlessly, his grip on your waist firm as you swayed to the beat. Your movements were instinctive, body pushing against his as the music grew more intense. The alcohol buzzed in your bloodstream, making you feel light-headed, the world around you hazy, but it was K’s touch that kept you grounded, his fingers brushing along your sides with every sway.

And then, you felt it.

Heeseung’s presence behind you.

It was subtle at first, just the sensation of his warmth, his body just inches away from yours. But then, there was the undeniable press of his chest against your back, his hands slipping around your waist with his usual possessive confidence. His lips were by your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“You look so fucking good tonight,” Heeseung whispered, voice a soft growl that made your body shudder in response. His words were like fuel to the fire building inside you.

You were dancing with K, but Heeseung was there too, his hands pulling you closer as you felt the steady press of his hardening body against your back. It was almost like a game now. The three of you, caught in this mix of heat and need. K’s hands moved lower, gripping your hips, guiding you closer to him, and then you felt it, beneath his jeans, his hard cock brushing against you with every movement. And then Heeseung’s hands, those strong, steady hands, gripped you tighter, forcing you back into him.

You couldn’t tell who was doing what anymore, their bodies pressing into yours from both sides. The movement was primal now, fluid, as you rolled your hips between them, your body grinding, twisting in time with the music, desperate for more. Your breath came faster, chest rising and falling, the tension building to a point where you weren’t sure how much longer you could take it. You were sweating, like really sweating, strands of your hair sticking to your face as you lifted your arms and let the music and the heat guide you.

K was grinning now, that cocky, almost wicked smirk on his lips as his hands roamed lower on your body. His touch was demanding, not gentle, the way his fingers dug into your thighs, spreading them just enough so he could press closer. He didn’t say anything, but the way his eyes flicked to Heeseung told you everything. He wasn’t going to hold back either.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” K murmured in your ear, his words sending another shiver down your spine. You were lost in the feeling of their bodies surrounding you, hot, heavy, and insistent. There was no escape from the heat of them, no way to ignore the way they were practically grinding on you. Every part of you was on fire. Every part of you was aching.

Heeseung chuckled low behind you, his lips brushing against your neck as his hands gripped your hips with more force.

“She’s a little eager, isn’t she?”

K’s response was a quiet laugh, his hands now fully on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he slid his body closer to yours. You felt the pressure of both of their bodies, their hard chests, their toned muscles, pressed up against you. It was all you could do to hold yourself together as you moved between them, the rhythm of the music driving you, driving them.

You could feel K’s hardness pressing against your stomach, his breath hot on your ear as he kept you locked against him. But Heeseung? He was the one making you lose control. His hands were everywhere now, on your thighs, your waist, your chest. He was pulling you back into him, his body molding against yours as he whispered,

“You like this, don’t you?” Heeseung murmured, now dragging his lips down the side of your neck. “Having both of us pressed up on you. Feeling our hands. Our cocks.”

Your knees went weak.

It was a game now. A dangerous, intoxicating game of power, of control, and you were the pawn caught in between them, unable to escape. The way K moved against you was like fire, hot and reckless, every inch of him demanding more, but it was Heeseung who had you completely under his spell. His hands never stopped moving, sliding up your back, pushing you closer to K, making you press harder against him.

You didn’t know when it happened, but suddenly your body was on the edge, and you couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus on anything other than the sensation of their bodies on yours, K’s rough grip, Heeseung’s possessive hands, and the growing need inside you. The music pounded in your ears, but it was their bodies, their heat, that consumed you. You felt it, you were already soaked between your legs, your clothed core pulsing in need.

K’s lips brushed against your ear again, his voice a husky whisper. “You’re mine tonight,” he said, and there was something dark in his tone, something that made your heart race. “You know that, right?”

And just when you thought you couldn’t handle any more, Heeseung pulled you even closer, his lips now trailing down your neck as his hands roamed lower, squeezing your ass, pulling you harder into him. His breath was hot in your ear. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, low and steady. “You’re going to get everything you need. From both of us.”

Your body was on fire. Every inch of you was alive, and you couldn’t decide which touch you wanted more. The way K’s hands moved on your body, the way Heeseung’s lips whispered against your skin, it was too much. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe.

But one thing was certain: you were going to lose yourself in them tonight. And you didn’t care. You didn’t care who was in control, who was leading, who was following. All you cared about was feeling them, letting them have every inch of you.

The ride home was a blur of city lights and lingering touches.

You were nestled in the backseat between them, legs draped over K’s lap, your head resting on Heeseung’s shoulder. The alcohol had warmed your skin and softened your edges, but your mind was still clear. You were aware, of everything. Every glance. Every shift in tone. Every innocent touch that wasn’t really innocent.

By the time they got you inside, your heels were dangling from your fingers and your laugh was lazy and low. You were still tipsy, still happy about your party, but your mind was somewhere still on the dance floor, with the two men that were now walking behind you.

“C’mon, birthday girl,” Heeseung murmured, brushing his hand down your spine as he guided you toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you out of this tight little dress.”

You didn’t protest. Not even a little. You just let him walk you back, K trailing quietly behind with a small smirk on his face like he was already in on the plan. But you were a little gone to even care, you thought maybe he was just gonna say goodbye and leave.

But then, inside of the bedroom, he closed the door behind him.

Your knees weakened, and you glanced at Heeseung, but he just smiled, like telling you, trust me.

So you flopped onto the bed, dress riding up dangerously high on your thighs. Heeseung stood at the edge of the mattress, tilting his head down at you with that look, the one that always made your stomach drop.

“You comfy, baby?” he asked, voice smooth.

You hummed. “Mmm, kinda.”

Heeseung smiled, eyes flicking to K for a second, like they were on the same page of something you were unaware of, and you swallowed, confused for a second not really knowing what the hell was going on.

Heeseung’s voice slid you out of your thought.

“You look a little hot,” he said, fingers playing with the hem of your dress. “Tight clothes. Warm skin. Too many drinks.” He crouched beside the bed, brushing your hair back with practiced ease. “Let’s help you relax.”

You nodded, not really knowing what he meant. But you trusted him, so you bit your lip as he straigthened in front of you. Then his gaze met with K’s again. He grabbed your hand and made you stand up, your legs trembled — already — but he just chuckled, low, deep.

“Help her,” he said simply, voice thick with something unspoken.

You blinked, slowly turning your head toward K, who stepped forward, slow, measured, like he was approaching something fragile. His eyes met yours, and you couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, barely remembered how to breathe.

“Is this ok?” He asked, like already knowing the answer.

You tried to talk, but you were unable to find your voice, so you just nodded, slowly. His hands reached for you, careful and steady, fingers grazing your shoulders as they slid under the straps of your dress.

You shivered at the first touch.

Your skin was on fire.

The pads of his thumbs were warm as they brushed your collarbones, dragging the straps down, inch by agonizing inch. You watched his hands move like you were outside your body, like this couldn’t possibly be happening. K, your boyfriend’s best friend, undressing you with your boyfriend’s permission, with his blessing.

The straps slipped down your arms and your dress followed, slowly peeled from your skin like a secret being unraveled. It pooled at your waist first, then slipped over your hips as K knelt in front of you, hands steady, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check if you were still okay.

You were.

You were buzzing.

The dress fell to the floor, soft fabric brushing your ankles, and you were left in your tiny black lace set, barely-there panties and a matching bra, delicate and sheer. The air felt different on your skin now, cold in contrast to the heat rolling off your body.

You were so exposed. And they were still fully dressed.

But you didn’t want to cover up.

K’s eyes dropped lower, trailing down your body. His breath caught slightly when his gaze hit your thighs, then your chest. Deep, lustful, sparkly eyes making you squirm, that gaze you knew so well now completely wrecked. His hands hovered, still close but not touching.

“So pretty.”

You flushed, teeth sinking into your lip.

Heeseung stood behind you now, hands massaging your shoulders gently.

“She likes hearing that,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Tell her again.”

K leaned down slightly, one hand resting on the mattress beside your thigh.

“You’re so pretty, Y/N,” he repeated, eyes flicking up to yours. “I always thought so.”

Your breath hitched. You were so aware of your body now, of the way your skin buzzed under their eyes, of how seen you felt.

Heeseung’s fingers threaded through your hair from behind, tilting your head so he could murmur against your jaw.

“She’s been thinking about this for a long time. Haven’t you, baby?”

You whimpered, nodding. There was no way to hide it now, there was no reason to do so, you were shaking, hot, for them. For both of them. K’s hands had settled on your thighs now, thumbs stroking circles into the soft flesh as he leaned in just a little closer, breathing in your scent, feeling the heat coming off your body in waves.

“Tell him,” Heeseung whispered. “Tell him how long you’ve wanted him to touch you like this.”

Your face burned. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. It took you a second—longer than it should’ve—but when you finally spoke, your voice was small and breathy and real.

“I… I think about it a lot,” you confessed. “More than I should.”

K exhaled, almost like he’d been holding his breath. His grip on your thighs tightened just slightly. He smirked as if he’d known this answer for so long, his fingers felt burning against your sensitive skin, anticipation clouding your mind.

“And you don’t have to think anymore,” Heeseung said, dragging his lips along your neck. “You’re getting everything you want tonight.”

Your hands reached out on instinct, one tangling in Heeseung’s shirt behind you, the other curling around K’s wrist in front. You didn’t know who to touch, who to hold onto. It didn’t matter. They were both here, and they weren’t going anywhere.

K leaned forward slowly, his hands gliding up your sides to rest just under your bra. He looked up at you again, one last time, asking permission without a word.

You nodded, biting your lip.

And he peeled it off of you, slow, steady, every inch of exposed skin kissed by the cool air, your nipples tightening the moment they hit the air.

Heeseung hummed behind you, one hand reaching around to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your sensitive skin while his other hand slid down your stomach. Your head was spinning, not from the alcohol, not anymore, but from the heat building between your legs, the tension coiling tight in your gut, the weight of two pairs of eyes worshiping you like you were something sacred.

You felt your body lean forward without thinking, reaching for K’s shoulder to steady yourself, just so you could feel something, anchor yourself. His hand immediately came to rest on your thigh, solid, grounding, dangerous.

Heeseung’s hands slipped lower, brushing your sides, curving in around your waist.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin. “You like this?”

You nodded slowly.

“I can’t believe this is real,” you breathed, eyes flicking between both of them.

Heeseung kissed your shoulder.

“It is.”

K’s thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, just a whisper of a touch, but it made you jolt.

“You’re real,” K said softly, voice lower now. “And you’re perfect.”

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, your thighs twitching where his hand rested. You were already overwhelmed, heart pounding heart against your chest, hands shaky and clumsy because you didn’t know what to do.

Heeseung laughed, low and quiet.

“She doesn’t even know what to do with herself.”

“I think she’s just waiting for us to show her,” K murmured, not taking his eyes off you.

You whimpered.

“Lay back for us, baby,” Heeseung murmured.

Your legs felt like jelly, but you obeyed, your body already trained to respond to his voice. You sank slowly into the mattress, your skin prickling against the cool sheets. The room felt too warm and too cold at once, and you were still wearing your soaked panties while the rest of you lay bare, chest rising and falling as their eyes ate you alive.

K stayed at the foot of the bed, just watching, while Heeseung leaned over you, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your hip, his fingers brushing hair out of your face like he wasn’t seconds from ruining you.

“You’re so quiet, sweetheart,” he said with a teasing pout. “Nothing to say?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Just a whimper.

“Yeah,” K muttered, arms crossed now, head tilting. “She’s gone already, huh? We haven’t even touched her properly yet.”

Heeseung chuckled, and his hand slid down your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your panties.

“We don’t even have to. She’s already ruined.”

You squirmed under their gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together to ease the aching pulse there. But Heeseung tsked, pressing your legs gently apart with one knee.

“Don’t be shy now,” he said. “You were all over us at the club. Remember that?”

“Grinding like a little slut,” K added. “Like she wanted both of us to take her right there on the floor.”

You whimpered, covering your face with your hands. Your skin felt like it was on fire. A wave of shame covered you, too aware, too conscious.

Heeseung clicked his tongue.

“None of that. Hands down.”

You obeyed instantly, blinking up at him with wide, glossy eyes. Your whole face was red, your vision hazy, your lips parted as you tried to look for the air that had left your lungs minutes ago.

“Good girl,” he cooed. Then, he glanced at K. “Come here. Help me with these.”

K stepped forward without hesitation, hooking his fingers into your panties at your hips and pulling them down agonizingly slow. Heeseung leaned back to give him room, watching your expression the whole time. You tried not to squirm. Tried not to breathe too loudly. But when the damp lace peeled away from your core, you couldn’t help the shaky little gasp that escaped your lips.

Your bare pussy was in full display in front of them, and you felt it, soaked, glistening, needy. Their eyes settled between your legs and you almost moaned, they looked like they wanted to devour you.

“Look at that,” K said softly, his voice almost reverent now. “She’s fucking dripping.”

“Messy girl,” Heeseung murmured. “Is that for me, baby? Or him?”

You didn’t know. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t answer. They were looking at you like you were edible, like they were deciding who would bite first. And you had to look away for a second, biting your lip, it was just too much.

“She doesn’t even know,” K smirked, dragging a knuckle slowly up the inside of your thigh, so close. “That’s adorable.”

You cried out, tiny and frustrated, hips bucking just slightly, but they didn’t give in. K’s hand pulled away again. Heeseung leaned down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then higher, then higher, until he was just under your breast, still not giving you enough.

Your skin felt electric. Too tight. Every nerve was screaming. You could feel the throb between your legs with every beat of your heart, hot, swollen, soaked. Your hands gripped the sheets, trying to ground yourself, but there was no relief. Only them.

“You want something, sweetheart?” Heeseung asked, feigning innocence.

You nodded desperately, biting your lip. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. All you could do was feel, the aching void where their touch should be.

“Use your words,” K said from between your knees. “Come on. You were so brave before. You gonna go all shy on us now?”

You swallowed hard, chest heaving. You weren’t shy. You were ruined.

“I—I want…”

“What?” Heeseung purred, kissing the side of your breast now, his hand sliding lazily across your ribs, not even pretending to be in a hurry. “You want me to touch you? Or him?”

“Both,” you whispered, the word shaky and soaked with desperation. It was the only thing you could say. The only thing your brain could form. You needed them. Both of them. Everywhere.

They both stilled for a moment. Then smiled.

“Oh, baby,” Heeseung said, voice like a promise, “we’ll give you both. Just not yet.”

You wanted to scream. Your thighs clenched uselessly, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse. The air felt thick, heavy with sex and tension, and your body felt weightless, like you were floating just above yourself, trapped in a haze of arousal so sharp it hurt.

K leaned in again, lips brushing the inside of your thigh this time—just once—before pulling away. You sobbed out a breath, half a plea. A single kiss. His breath was hot, his mouth barely there, and then he was gone again.

“She’s so sensitive,” K muttered. “Bet one little lick would break her.”

“I know,” Heeseung grinned. “That’s why we’re not giving it to her yet.”

You whimpered, arching up, thighs shaking. Your whole body twitched. You couldn’t take much more of this. Your heart was racing, skin damp with sweat, muscles shaking. You were so close to something, but they kept you teetering, toes curled over the edge with no way to fall. You moned again, hips lifting off the bed in a futile attempt to chase K’s mouth, Heeseung’s hands, anything.

And Heeseung kissed your mouth, slow and deep, just to shut you up. Slow. Deep. Dominant. His tongue slid against yours, catching the little, broken moans slipping from your lips. He swallowed your sounds like they were his favorite thing. He kissed you like he owned you. And in that moment, you were his. Theirs.

Your thoughts had melted into static. Your whole body was shaking with need.

Then K’s fingers inched just a little closer, brushing over your folds, barely, and your back arched involuntarily.

“She’s leaking,” K murmured, sounding way too calm about it. “It’s fucking hot.”

Heeseung smiled, looking down at you like you were the most delicious thing he’d ever seen.

“You like his hands on you, baby?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Just a desperate nod, lips parted, hips twitching.

K’s hand dragged lower again, this time letting his knuckles brush directly over your slit. Just one slow pass. The contact was still light, barely-there—but it had your whole body jolting like he’d shocked you.

“Shit,” K breathed, licking his lips. “She’s so wet.”

“She’s always this wet,” Heeseung said proudly, dipping his head to finally take your nipple into his mouth, hot and wet, his tongue flicking slow. You gasped, arching into his mouth, and that movement ground your hips up into K’s palm again.

He pressed down just a little this time. Just enough pressure to have your legs shaking.

“Such a good little toy, huh?” Heeseung mumbled around your nipple, his teeth scraping softly. “She just lays here and takes it.”

“She loves it,” K agreed, dragging two fingers up your slit now, slow and intentional, but still not pushing in, still not giving you what you were aching for. “So fucking needy.”

You whimpered, your fingers clutching at the sheets, legs falling further open like your body had given up on pretending it had any shame left. There was none. Not anymore.

K leaned down, breath ghosting against your core now, and his fingers dragged back up, this time pausing to roll over your clit once.

You cried out.

But instead of doing it again, he just smirked.

“Sensitive.”

“Baby’s close and we haven’t even fucked her yet,” Heeseung said, switching to your other breast, leaving the first one wet and flushed. “Think we should make her come like this?”

K hummed.

“No. Not yet.”

“Cruel,” Heeseung chuckled.

“She likes it,” K said, eyes on you again. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

You nodded desperately, tears pricking at your lashes now.

“I—I do.”

“Good girl.”

Heeseung lifted his head and kissed you again, hard, tongue exploring into your mouth, catching the tiny moans you couldn’t stop anymore. While he kissed you, K dipped two fingers down again, slowly sliding between your folds, parting you, but still not going inside. Just stroking the slickness, rubbing over your clit in lazy, cruel circles that made your thighs twitch and your hips jerk helplessly up into his hand.

He pulled away again just when you felt the edge rushing up, again.

“No,” you gasped. “Please—”

Your body wasn’t yours anymore. It was theirs. Your thighs pulled open, lips parted, mind fogged over so thickly you couldn’t remember your own name, just the way their hands moved, the heat of their mouths, their voices curling around you like silk and static.

“Look at her,” K said, somewhere between amused and amazed. “Fucking wrecked.”

Heeseung was sitting beside you now, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he watched K kneel between your legs again, his fingers glistening with your arousal. They kept doing it. Kept breaking you.

“Touch her again,” Heeseung said softly. “Just like before.”

K obeyed, two fingers sliding up your folds with maddening slowness, stopping right before your entrance. He rubbed your clit in small, steady circles, too slow to satisfy, too perfect to ignore. It was excruciating. It was everything. You sobbed, the tension twisting tighter in your belly, so sharp it almost hurt. Every brush of his fingers felt like electricity, dancing through your nerves, tightening your muscles, building, building, and still—still—not enough.

“There it is,” Heeseung murmured, brushing the hair from your face, his thumb catching the tear that slipped down your cheek. “Poor baby. Thought we’d let you come already?”

You nodded desperately, lips trembling, throat too tight for words. A broken whine slipped out instead, pitiful and raw.

K leaned closer, breath fanning over your drenched heat.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” His voice was low and sinful, thick with amusement. “I can feel it.”

Your hips jerked up, chasing his mouth with desperation you couldn’t control. You needed more. Needed anything.

He chuckled.

Then he stopped.

You screamed, not from pain, not even from surprise, but from the soul-crushing frustration. It felt like your orgasm had been ripped from your body with both hands. Your back arched, hands clutching the sheets like lifelines, trying to force something to stay, to hold on, to push through. But it was gone. Again.

Heeseung caught your jaw gently, turning your face to his. “Shh, baby. Don’t cry. We’ll give it to you.”

“But you have to earn it,” K added from between your legs, his voice calm, unhurried, dark. “Beg.”

“I am—” you hiccupped, your breath stuttering. Your eyes were glassy, lashes sticky with tears. “I am begging.”

Heeseung tilted his head, lips brushing your cheek.

“Not properly.”

You whimpered, completely undone.

“Please, please let me come—I’ll do anything—please, I need it so bad, I c-can’t—”

You didn’t care how pathetic you sounded. Your voice cracked, thick with tears and lust and surrender. You weren’t playing anymore. You needed them. You were soaked, ruined, trembling, your core throbbing with every heartbeat, clenching around nothing. Your thoughts were gone, lost to the ache.

K pressed his fingers back to your clit, just for a second. You gasped, your whole body jolting like you’d been shocked. The edge slammed back into you so fast it made your head spin. But then—again—he pulled away.

You sobbed, body shaking harder now, mouth open and panting, chest rising in shallow breaths.

“Please,” you cried, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m yours—yours—just make me come, please—”

Heeseung groaned softly, and you could see the heat in his eyes. He loved this. Every broken syllable, every whimper, every drop of need you spilled for them.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, thumb brushing another tear from your cheek.

“She’s so fucking cute like this,” K said, dragging his nails lightly along your thigh. “Wrecked and begging.”

You couldn’t stop trembling. Your thighs were slick, trembling open and exposed. Your lips were swollen, aching. Your chest heaved with every breath, and there wasn’t a single thought left in your head. Only sensation. Only need.

“You think she’s ready?” K asked, dragging his fingers slowly down your stomach again, stopping just above where you were soaking the sheets.

Heeseung leaned in, kissed your jaw, your cheek, then finally your mouth, soft and filthy, tongue sliding against yours.

“She’s more than ready,” he whispered. “She’s dying for it.”

You nodded frantically, tears still clinging to your lashes. “Please—just let me—please—”

They watched you. Not touching. Letting you feel it, that raw, trembling need.

“You hear that, man?” K said, his tone full of that same wicked playfulness. “She’s begging.”

Heeseung smiled darkly. Then finally—finally—he lowered his hand and pressed his fingers to your clit, hard and fast and perfect.

You gasped, the pressure making you twitch, your hips jerking uncontrollably.

Then K’s tongue dragged a long, slow stroke up your entrance, licking up every drop you’d soaked the sheets with. You screamed, thighs closing around his head, hands clawing at the sheets as the pressure snapped back into place, coiling so tight in your belly you thought you’d explode. Heeseung’s fingers rubbed in tight, relentless circles, precise and brutal, every stroke sparking across your nerves like lightning. K’s tongue flattened against your entrance, licking into you deep and slow, before flicking up to swirl around your clit, fast, wet, hot.

And your body—your ruined, aching, hypersensitive body—couldn’t take it.

You broke.

The orgasm slammed into you without warning. Not a wave. Not a build. It was a detonation, a sudden, violent unraveling that ripped through every muscle, every nerve, every thought you had left. You screamed, loud, wrecked, raw, as your back arched clean off the bed, legs locking around K’s shoulders. Your vision blurred, went white at the edges, stars exploding behind your eyes as the climax consumed you completely. Every inch of your skin burned with it, your thighs shaking, your fingers digging into the sheets, your mouth open and gasping as sobs mixed with moans.

It didn’t stop.

Heeseung’s fingers kept working you through it, dragging it out until it hurt, until your body was twitching helplessly, until the pleasure spiraled so high it blurred into pain and back again. K moaned against you, tongue still tasting everything you gave him, still stroking the softest parts of you until your entire body felt like it was buzzing.

“Fuck,” Heeseung breathed, watching you come apart. “That’s it, baby. That’s what I wanted.”

“She’s so loud,” K muttered, voice muffled between your thighs. “She came so fucking hard…”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering, body still convulsing in tiny aftershocks as your orgasm slowly, so slowly, began to fade.

Heeseung leaned over you again, brushing his lips against your cheek, your ear.

“You did so good for us, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Took it so well.”

K finally pulled back, and your legs dropped open limply. You were soaked, trembling, boneless, your skin damp with sweat, your throat sore from crying out. You felt like you were floating, detached from your body, your chest rising and falling in rapid little gasps.

You were still trembling when they moved. Your body, spent from that first orgasm, had sunk halfway into the mattress, slick and flushed and utterly wrecked. And yet, somewhere in that dizzy, floating haze, you were still aching for more.

Your thighs twitched weakly. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts. Your eyes, half-lidded and glassy, blinked slowly as you watched Heeseung stand up at the edge of the bed.

He peeled off his shirt first, slowly, deliberately, dragging the fabric up his torso, exposing inch after inch of taut, golden skin. Defined lines of muscle rippled with the motion, his abs tightening as the shirt passed over them. His chest rose and fell evenly, a light sheen of sweat catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

You didn’t even realize your mouth had parted.

Then K stood too, pulling off his own shirt in a single motion, and you swore your lungs stopped working.

He was just as cut. Broad chest, sharp waist, shoulders so wide they made your throat dry. His skin was smooth and pale in the low light, collarbones carved, veins just starting to raise on his arms. And the way he looked at you, those sharp eyes dragging over your limp, naked body like he owned you, it made something inside you twist painfully.

“Oh, she’s drooling,” Heeseung said with a slow, cruel smirk. He reached down and cupped your chin with two fingers, tilting your face up to him. “You like what you see, baby?”

You tried to answer, but your lips were dry, trembling. A soft, pathetic sound left you instead, half a whimper, half a moan.

“She can’t even talk,” K laughed darkly. “Already so gone, and we haven’t even started.”

Heeseung let go of your chin and reached for the waistband of his jeans, dragging them down over his hips, revealing thick thighs and the obvious bulge straining in his briefs. He stepped out of them slowly, giving you time to look, to take in every inch of him. When he got rid of his boxers, you lost it even though you’d seen him so many times before. He was so thick, so hard, so perfect. His cock was veiny, red tip glistening in precum. Your mouth watered, it had been days since you last tasted him, and you wanted him now.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

And when K followed suit, tugging his own pants down, you made a sound, soft and broken. You felt it in your core, in your throat, in the very center of your chest. Like you couldn’t hold it in. He was even more perfect than you’d imagined. His cock was just a little thicker than Heeseung’s, but so close in size, and so hard too, he stroked himself a few times and you clenched your thighs together again.

Their bodies were unreal, built, hard, warm, male in every way that made your thighs clench and your mouth go dry. Every shift of their muscles made you twitch, every shadow dipping into the contours of their torsos made your breath catch.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes wide, voice hoarse.

“She’s shaking,” Heeseung said, clearly enjoying every second of your unraveling. “And we haven’t even touched her again.”

K moved closer to the bed, dragging two fingers up your shin, slow and light.

“You ever seen anything like this before, sweetheart?” he asked, voice syrup-smooth and low. Same cockiness as always, but you didn’t care, he was so hot being confident.

You couldn’t answer. Your mind had gone static, short-circuited by the way their skin looked, by the sheer presence of them standing there, cocks hard and heavy, muscles carved like statues and eyes glued to you like prey.

Heeseung sat beside you again, this time fully naked, and cupped one of your breasts in his hand, thumb brushing over the pebbled nipple.

“You’re drooling,” he murmured again, more gently this time. “So fucking cute. You wanna touch us?”

You nodded, barely able to keep your head upright.

K leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Then you’re gonna let us take you. Again. And again. Until that pretty little head of yours forgets everything but us.”

Heeseung leaned close too, his hand still teasing your chest, his lips brushing your jaw. You closed your eyes, leaning at his touch.

“You’re going to be good with K, baby?” He asked as K crawled in the bed and kneeled in front of you, until his thick length was just a few inches away from your flushed face.

You swallowed, and he winked an eye at you, that same smirk in his lips. So you nodded, glancing at Heeseung, who now was grabbing your thighs, spreading you open again, face lowering between your legs and you trembled as his breath crashed with you skin because you were still so sensitive.

Heeseung talked against your skin again, hands brushing your thighs, and you squirmed.

“Suck his dick, baby. Just as good as you do with mine.”

You nodded again, slowly this time, eyes flicking from K’s face down to where he knelt in front of you, his expression unreadable but hungry. You could feel his gaze settle over every inch of you, heavy and hot, like he already knew what was about to happen and was savoring it.

Heeseung’s hands gripped your thighs more firmly, holding you open, holding you still. His breath ghosted over your skin and you twitched, still hypersensitive, still trembling from the last time they’d brought you to pieces.

Then, with shaky hands, you wrapped them around K’s length. You stroked him slowly, mostly because you weren’t in your state of mind right now, and he hissed between his teeth, you looked up at him, eyes watering, before stretching your neck just a bit, until your lips met with the tip of his cock. And you liked, slow, wet, dragging your tongue along his member, tasting him, and you almost moaned because — finally—, you’d been thinking about this for such a long time. One of his hands landed in your head, but he didn’t push, yet. You opened your mouth, wrapping your swollen lips around his tip, and you sucked, just a couple of times, salty precum on your tongue. Finally, you relaxed your jaw, he was thick, very thick, so it was hard for you to adjust, but you did anyways, taking him deep until he touched your throat, but you gagged around him, and breathless chuckle let his lips.

Between your legs, Heeseung raised an eyebrow, his fingers brushing your inner thighs, skin soaked because of your recent orgasm, and you twitched, sighing through your nose.

“C’mon, baby, that’s the best you can do? I’m sure you don’t want to disappoint him, mh? Take him deeper, cmon, choke around him.”

You pulled back, chest heaving as you caught your breath, glanced up at K and he was smirking, he raised his chin like telling you, commanding you, to take him deeper. So you sighed again, opening your mouth wide and he grabbed your hair tight before thrusting his hips forward, sliding inside of your mouth with one hard hit, cock all the way down your throat, and you suppressed a gag, tears falling down your cheeks.

“Fuck.” he hissed, not waiting anymore before starting to rock his hips, his thick cock bumping inside of your mouth, the hot flesh on your tongue, saliva falling from the corner of your lips “Such a warm, perfect litte mouth.”

Your throat burned, eyes watering as you adjusted to the rhythm he gave you, rough and unrelenting, like he’d waited forever for this moment. K’s grip in your hair was firm, keeping you steady as he moved, muttering curses under his breath that made your skin prickle with heat.

Your hands dug into the sheets, trying to ground yourself, but there was no escape from the sensation, his pace, his voice, the way Heeseung was still between your legs, watching. Always watching. But he didn’t stay still, no, with a mischievious smirk, he spat, right onto your pulsing core, and you flinched, gagging around K’s cock. You didn’t have time to protest, it was just too much, you were still sensitive, but he didn’t care, he licked long, slow, along your soaked folds, moaning against your pussy, nose brushing your swollen clit, and hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread for him. You whined around K’s length, shutting your eyes feeling your legs tremble.

“Look at her,” K groaned, tilting your face just slightly so Heeseung could see the tears on your cheeks, the dazed shine in your eyes. “She’s taking it so well. Choking on my dick like the dirty bitch she is.”

Heeseung made a sound low in his throat, fingers stroking your pussy, as he moved his tongue in messy circles, his warm tongue making you arch your back,

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, and your stomach flipped at the praise. He lifted his head, face all a mess of your fluids and his spit, and you rocked your hips looking for more pleasure, for more of his tongue against your pulsing pussy. Whining, mouth still full of his best friend’s cock “So sensitive.” Heeseung murmured, voice thick with something close to awe. “She can barely take it.”

“She’s doing fine,” K muttered, his tone rough. “She likes it. Don’t you, baby?”

You tried to nod, but even that felt too much, your body taut like a wire, nerves overstretched and begging for relief. You felt like you were floating, not entirely present, held there only by the heat of their voices and the ache curling low in your belly.

K then started to thrust his hips faster, rougher, deeper, and you moaned around him as your fingers reached for his thighs for balance, because it was just too much, you couldn’t think straigh, not when he was face fucking you this good, not when Heeseung was eating you out like an starved man. Every touch felt like lightning under your skin. You were trembling again, toes curling against the sheets, eyes glassy and unfocused. Your body was heavy with the weight of everything they’d given you—and everything they still held back.

“Fuck, that’s it. Cry around me like the little filthy slut you are.” K’s voice was rough, deep, bathed in lust, his jaw was clenched, his hand gripped tight in your hair, a vein popping from his neck, sweat falling along his forehead, his eyes dark, fixated on you, on your mouth, how you sucked him sloppy and messy.

“She loves her mouth full of a thick cock.” Heeseung chuckled — actually chuckled— against your pussy, wet sounds of his mouth eating you, and then he shoved two fingers between your folds, you cried out, pulling back from K’s cock as you sniffed.

“P-Please— Too much” you thighs were shaking, every beat of your racing heart matching the pulsings of your soaked pussy in Heeseung’s mouth, and he just ignored your pleas, curling his fingers inside of you as his tongue worked messy over your clit.

“You can take it, c’mon. You wanted it so bad before.”

You whimpered, and K grabbed your hair again and shoved himself inside of your mouth once again, you choked, more tears falling from your eyes as you took him so deep the head of his cock was crashing against the back of your throat. He groaned, letting his head fall backwards as his hips rolled onto your face, faster, rougher.

“You like being used, don’t you? You like when we make you feel small.” He thrusted into your mouth erratically, and you moaned again when Heeseung shook his head and eat you out so good, the knot in your lower belly already building again, and you squirmed, overwhelmed, your whole body aching.

“You’re gonna let him ruin your pretty face, baby? Let him cover you, c’mon, do it K, don’t let her waste a single drop.” Heeseung spat right on your clit and you actually tried to scream around K’s cock.

He didn’t wait anymore. His orgasm came with so much force, hips hitting your face tight as he groaned guttural, his cock twitching and throbbing inside of your mouth. He took it out, warm drops of creamy strands falling on your cheeks, your forehead, your mouth. And you took it, like the good girl you were, because you wanted him to know how much you loved his taste.

“You took me so well, you were born for this baby.” K whispered.

But Heeseung kept working on your pussy, mouth full of your fluids and licking fast and messily around your clit as his fingers thrusted in and out of you. So good, so skilled, so deep. And when he gently reached your g-spot, your body couldn’t take it anymore.

The tension snapped, and the world fell out from under you.

Your back arched off the bed, a cry torn from your lips, sharp and helpless. Everything burned—white-hot and blinding—like your body had forgotten how to exist outside of the pleasure. The wave crashed over you, pulling you under, and all you could do was hold on. Wet strands of fluids soaking the sheets, soaking Heeseung’s face, his hair, his arms, it was a mess and you were shaking and gasping for air.

Your heart pounded, your limbs shook, tears clung to your lashes, and through the haze, you felt Heeseung’s hands holding you down, anchoring you. Kissing your hips like you were something holy. Whispering things you couldn’t understand.

“Fuuuuck. That’s so fucking hot.” K’s chest moved up and down as his orgasm still pulsed in his body, and Heeseung circled your clit slow, like wanting to prolong yours, but it was too much, you were aching, overstimulated.

“You came so much for us baby, you soaked me.” He kissed your inner thighs, and you whined.

“T-Too much, it’s too much—”.

“Poor thing can’t tell if she’s begging us to stop or keep going.” K’s hand caressed your hair, and you closed your eyes. You felt Heeseung moving again, but your body was already failing you, unable to move.

You wanted them to keep going, you wanted them to use you until you couldn’t take it anymore. But your body felt already so weak, you couldn’t ever raise your head, your face still covered in K’s cum.

But then you felt him, Heeseung grabbed your waist, manhandling you without any problem because your body felt so light, and you didn’t protest, you let him flip you over, ass lifted as your knees threatened to break, but you just buried your face in the pillows, arching your back creating that curve you knew he loved so much.

“You said you could take it, didn’t you? You begged for it. What happened, sweetheart?” His tone was sweet, but you could almost hear the smirk in his face.

K just laid by your side, back against the head of the bed, you felt his warm fingers on your body, on your back, on your breasts, on your ass, and you glanced up to meet with his hard cock again, he was stroking himself as Heeseung knelt on the bed behind you, hands gripped tight to your hips, helping you keep balance because you were still trembling.

“Why don’t we show K how much fun do we have, mh? Can you take it, baby? You’re already so fucked, but i know you can. Let’s show him who this pussy belongs to.”

You couldn’t talk, you had already forgot every word in your brain, so you just hummed, weak, low, broken. Because even overstimulated, trembling, body already wrecked, you felt how you pussy clenched needy when Heeseung’s cock brushed your folds, and unconsciously rocked your hips towards him.

“There it is, my greedy little whore.”

And then he slammed into you, with one hard, deep thrust, and you screamed, feeling his thick length stretch your sensitive walls, your pussy aching but clenching around him so good.

Every inch of your body was drawn tight with heat, nerves frayed, mind hollowed out by everything they’d done to you. What they kept doing to you, Heeseung’s familiar and perfect cock inside of you, K’s fingers were slow, deliberate, dragging along your sides like he was memorizing the shape of you, while his other hand still moved lazily over his throbbing cock. He was watching you so closely. Watching the way you buckled, the way your breath hitched each time Heeseung moved behind you and crashed his hips with your ass.

And Heeseung, he was nothing but steady hands and low growls, fingers digging into your hips, holding you like he knew you’d fall apart without him. Like he wanted you to. You whimpered when you felt him press against you again, the heat of him thick and unforgiving. Your knees wobbled, the overstimulation building sharp in your spine. Everything was too much, and not enough.

“She’s gone,” K muttered, amused, dragging his thumb across your cheek. “Completely fucked out.”

“Still moving though,” Heeseung answered, voice low against your back. “Still chasing it. Greedy little thing. She’s clenching me so tight.”

Your breath hitched as Heeseung’s hands slid up your waist, grounding you just enough to keep you from floating away. You didn’t know how you were still upright, your arms had long since given out, and your thighs trembled beneath you, overstimulated and slick with heat. Every part of you was humming, nerves exposed like open wires.

And then Heeseung moved, rougher, fully fucking you now. Just enough to make you jolt forward with a gasp, the motion sparking through your spine like electricity, wet sounds of your skins crashing, loud moans leaving your lips and more tears falling down your face.

“F-Fuck!”

You clung to the sheets, chest heaving. K was still in front of you, stroking himself slow and lazy, gaze fixed on your face, your trembling lips, the dazed, glassy look in your eyes.

“She’s barely hanging on,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice thick with something close to awe.

Heeseung laughed under his breath behind you, fingers curling tighter into your hips.

“She loves it like this. Don’t you, baby?” His voice dipped, almost tender. “All dumb and dripping and so, so full.”

You couldn’t respond, not with words. Just a soft, broken whimper as your body arched back into his grip, your skin flushed and oversensitive. You felt like you were vibrating, like the whole world narrowed down to the slow drag of fingertips across your thighs, the press of heat behind you, the thick cock slamming into your g-spot over and over, the low rasp of their voices echoing through the haze. And then Heeseung’s fingers found your clit again, and you sobbed.

“You feel it?” Heeseung murmured, leaning over you, his chest against your back, lips brushing your shoulder. “How close you are again?”

You nodded, tears clinging to your lashes, and he hummed in approval.

“That’s it, princess,” K said from in front of you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

And you did.

You let go. Let the pleasure crash over you like a wave, your body shuddering, breath catching, as you tipped over the edge again. Overwhelmed. Overworked. Completely undone in their hands. Your pussy clenched so tight around him and he started rocking his hips erratically, the sound so obscene, the image of K stroking himself in front of your face.

Heeseung didn’t hold back, he fucked into you one last time and came with a long, loud groan, the veins of his neck popping, his head thrown back, his fingers gripped so tight in your hips that it burned. He spilled inside of you, warm, familiar, so good. His cum filled your insides, and you whimpered when he pulled out just to see how it leaked between your folds.

Your body felt weightless, boneless. You collapsed against the sheets, chest pressed to the mattress, cheek turned to the side as your breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. You could still feel every pulse of your release echoing through you, your skin sensitive to even the faintest touch.

Heeseung leaned down, his lips ghosting over your ear as he smoothed a hand along your spine.

“You did so good for me, baby.” He kissed your temple, slow and sweet, like he hadn’t just completely ruined you.

You felt the mattress shift as he moved, making space. You tried to lift your head, to figure out what was happening, but you didn’t have to wait long.

K was there, his presence a wall of heat behind you, hands already settling on your hips. You trembled, overwhelmed and desperate all over again.

“She’s shaking,” he said softly, thumbs brushing circles into your skin. “She’s so warm.”

“She’ll take it,” Heeseung replied from beside you, fingers tangling in your hair again. “She always does. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded. Slowly. Willingly.

K leaned over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other still stroking along your thigh. His mouth hovered near your ear, his breath making your skin pebble.

“Tell me if it’s too much”.

His voice was different now, low and rough, but gentler. And somehow, that made the anticipation even more unbearable. You felt everything, his touch, the shift of his weight behind you, the slow drag of his fingers down your spine, the tension in your stomach coiling tighter and tighter with every passing second. You were already buzzing, already teetering on the edge again, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

He flipped you over with so much ease too, as your body was literally floating at this point, and you saw his face, his beautiful face covered in sweat, his hair sticked to his forehead. You just smiled, but so softly, because even that movement was just too much for you. Then K grabbed your thighs, gently, but still tight, pushing them against your chest, spreading you open. You felt your sensitive and overstimulated pussy pulsing again, still leaking Heeseung’s seed. He watched it too, and just smirked.

“So fucking ruined.”

K looked down at you like you were something fragile and filthy all at once, something he wanted to break and treasure at the same time. His chest rose and fell, sheen of sweat catching the low light, and when he leaned forward, your breath caught.

He kissed you, his kiss was different from Heeseung’s. It was dirtier, more primal, needier, messier. Tongue and theeth and spit, and you took it all, moving your lips against his messily because you didn’t even know what your were doing. But his taste was so sweet, his lips so plush, and your pussy clenched again, needy, still.

Your legs were folded high, thighs trembling against your own chest, held there by his strong grip. You felt exposed—utterly undone, and yet so warm beneath his gaze. You could barely meet his eyes when he pulled back.

K’s hands were so big on your legs. Firm. Confident. But he wasn’t rushing. No, he was watching, taking in every inch of you, every tremor, every ragged breath.

“She’s a mess,” Heeseung said from the side, his voice filled with that same smug affection, his fingers tracing circles over your knee. “And she loves it.”

You couldn’t argue. You didn’t want to.

K leaned down, close enough that his breath fanned across your cheek.

“You ready?” he asked softly. “You want more?”

It was ridiculous to nod, your body was already undone, used, spent. But you did. Slowly. Desperately.

He shifted forward, and you braced yourself, your breath catching, hands curling into the sheets, your body thrumming with too much sensation, too much emotion. Every nerve was alive. Every thought was him. Every muscle in your body anticipated the next wave of heat, of pressure, of overwhelming pleasure.

And then he slid inside of you, and you grabbed his arms and digged your nails in his skin, because he was a little thicker than Heeseung, but it felt so good, he stretched your already used walls, and you moaned again, broken, weak. He let out a long groan, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw, you could feel every vein inside of you.

“So fucking tight and perfect.” His voice was broken too, and he grabbed your hips before thrusting with a strong pace, his cock disappearing inside of your dripping walls, your fluids and Heeseung’s making it so sloppy, but so good.

“She’s that tight even after i used her. She’s fucking perfect.” Heeseung was laying besides you, hands caressing your head like telling you, i’m here.

K’s pace was relentless, but not cruel, just deep, steady, intentional. You couldn’t stop the noise that left you, somewhere between a sob and a moan, as your body rocked with every thrust. You felt so full, every inch of him dragging against your walls, already raw and overstimulated, and yet somehow still aching for more.

Your nails stayed dug into his arms, not even consciously, just gripping, clinging. Your body was fire and static, too much and not enough all at once.

K’s head dropped for a second, forehead pressing into yours as he groaned through gritted teeth.

“God, you feel unreal,” he muttered, his breath mixing with yours. “So warm. So fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered, your vision blurring, not from tears, not really, just from being so far gone. It was all too much, but you didn’t want it to stop.

You felt Heeseung’s hand still in your hair, soft, grounding, thumb stroking your cheek. His voice was lower now, close to your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Let him feel what I get every night.”

You whimpered, a broken sound, your hips twitching helplessly beneath K’s hands. It was like your body didn’t know how to stop responding, your walls clenching around him like a desperate plea.

K growled low in his throat, hips stuttering for a second.

“She’s pulling me in, Heeseung,” he muttered, almost in disbelief. “She’s so—fuck—she’s milking me.”

You could barely process what they were saying. Everything blurred into heat and pressure and the stretch of him, the way he filled you like he belonged there.

Heeseung tilted your face toward him, kissing your cheek, then your mouth, gentle and filthy at the same time.

“You’re taking him so well. So fucking good for us.”

You tried to say thank you, or more, or maybe just please, but all that came out was a whimper as your body began to shake again, that unbearable, electric pull winding low in your stomach.

K’s pace shifted, growing rougher, not cruel, but urgent, like he was chasing something just as desperately as you were. Your thighs trembled against your chest, the angle making everything feel sharper, deeper. Every time he sank into you, it felt like the air was being stolen from your lungs.

You could feel your body giving out under the pleasure, legs shaking, hands slipping from his arms to the sheets beneath you as your strength began to fail, overwhelmed. Your voice cracked on a moan, high-pitched and broken, because it was too much. Heeseung’s hands came to hold yours, threading your fingers together like he knew. Like he needed to anchor you there, in the middle of it all.

K was watching your face now, eyes low and dark.

“She’s so gone,” he muttered, chest rising and falling fast. “Look at her. Just letting me use her.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, your mind was white noise, your skin buzzing. It was dizzying, this kind of pleasure, and it kept climbing and climbing.

Heeseung turned your face to his again, pressing another kiss to your mouth, slow and deep.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he whispered, voice like syrup. “Gonna let him make you fall apart for us?”

You whimpered, nodded, whimpered again. Your body was tightening, curling into itself with every thrust, every brush of K’s skin on yours. The pressure building was unbearable, like something divine pressing down on your spine, on your lungs, curling through your stomach like heat and static and hunger.

Then, without warning, it snapped.

Your body seized, a scream tearing from your throat as the climax ripped through you, stealing your breath and blinding your vision. Your walls clenched down around K hard enough to make him gasp, his grip on your thighs tightening like a vice.

You heard them both, soft groans, curses, something between awe and desperation, and then K followed, hips jerking once, twice, and then he groaned long and low as he lost control inside you. His seed filling you up, mixing with Heeseung’s, and you sobbed again, so full, so warm.

Your body stayed arched for a moment before collapsing completely, trembling and limp. Heeseung caught you, K cradled your legs, and you just breathed, fast and shallow, lips parted, every nerve still buzzing like it didn’t know how to stop.

They were quiet now, warm hands running across your skin like they were putting you back together.

Your body was still trembling faintly, every muscle loose with exhaustion, your skin sticky with sweat and everything else. The room had gone quiet now, no more panting breaths or choked cries, just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustling of sheets.

You felt like you were floating.

Not in that hot, frantic way from before, but in something softer. Slower. Your mind wasn’t spinning anymore, just drifting in the warmth of their touch.

Heeseung moved first. You didn’t even realize he’d slipped out of bed until you felt the edge of the mattress rise slightly. A moment later, the soft weight of a warm towel pressed gently between your legs. You winced a little, flinching from the sensitivity, but then you heard his voice, low, apologetic.

“Sorry, baby. I know you’re sensitive… I’ll be gentle.”

And he was. Every motion was careful, slow. Not clinical, not rushed. Just loving. He didn’t speak much as he cleaned you up, but his eyes never left your face, and his free hand kept stroking your thigh in slow, grounding circles. You realized he was watching you for signs, if you were okay, if you needed anything, if he needed to stop.

K shifted beside you, still catching his breath, but then he was pulling the comforter up around your shoulders, tucking it in gently, like you were something breakable. His hand brushed sweaty strands of hair off your face.

“You ok?” he murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You blinked slowly, and nodded.

They moved around you like gravity didn’t quite apply, touching you gently, reverently. Hands stroking your arms, your hips, your face. Heeseung kissed your shoulder. K pressed a soft kiss to the back of your hand.

“You did so good,” Heeseung whispered, climbing into bed beside you again. “So perfect.”

Your throat tightened at that, not from lust, but from something gentler. Something heavier. The praise hit differently now. After everything. You weren’t crying, but your chest ached in that familiar, post-release way. Too many emotions tangled up with the afterglow: love, trust, vulnerability, relief.

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything at all. Just reached out, weak fingers curling into Heeseung’s chest, anchoring yourself to him. He was warm. Solid. Safe.

K settled on your other side, his chest pressing to your back. His arm looped around your waist without hesitation, holding you gently but firmly, like he was making sure you knew you weren’t alone.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

You were. Only a little. Not from fear or discomfort, but from the come-down. From the sheer overwhelmingness of it all.

“I got you,” Heeseung murmured. “We got you.”

The words sank into you like warmth through your bones. You closed your eyes, breathing them in. You’d never felt so wrecked and so cherished at once, your body wrung out, your heart full.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, you were listening to their breathing, lulled by the rise and fall of their chests against yours, K warm and steady behind you, Heeseung’s heartbeat beneath your cheek, and the next, the weight of exhaustion pulled you under completely.

Your breathing evened out. Your lashes fluttered closed. You let go.

K noticed first.

He glanced down, the softest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he saw your lips slightly parted in sleep, your fingers still curled in Heeseung’s shirt. He smoothed a hand down your back one more time, then looked at Heeseung across you.

“I should go,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “She’ll wake up and… I don’t want things to be weird.”

Heeseung met his eyes. His fingers were still drawing lazy shapes on your bare shoulder.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, just as soft. “She didn’t want you to leave before. She won’t want you to leave now.”

K’s brow furrowed.

“Still, it’s her space—”

Heeseung almost laughed, he just fucked you and now he was overwhelmed by being the third wheel.

“You’re my best friend,” Heeseung interrupted gently. “And she… she cares about you too. Don’t overthink it.”

K hesitated. Then looked down at you again, all soft edges and slow breathing, your body tucked safely between theirs.

“You really think it’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t,” Heeseung said, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, you look like you’re gonna fall asleep any second.”

K rolled his eyes, but his body relaxed, and he let himself settle again, his arm still resting around your waist. He watched you for a bit longer, watched your lips twitch in sleep, your brows smooth, your chest rise and fall, then exhaled deeply.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Just for tonight.”

Heeseung didn’t answer. He just shifted closer, wrapping both arms around you from the front, brushing a kiss to your forehead. And without thinking much more of it, K pressed one to your temple from behind.

Then the room fell into silence again. Not awkward. Not tense.

Just quiet. Safe.

And somewhere in the middle of the night, your body found its way back into both of theirs—Heeseung’s chest at your front, K’s legs tangled with yours from behind—your heart beating steady between theirs.

The three of you, tucked together in the quietest kind of peace.

Wooof, my first time writing a threesome i hope it’s not too bad :( HOPE y’all love it, i’m so weak for these two men

#ggum.aki recs #BARK BARK BARK #im feral #got my friend into &team recently #AND MAN SHE LIKES K #(i thought she’d like nicho)#[nicho was her fav when i showed her the go in blind concept pics]#BUT THAT MEANS SHE WONT TRADE ME K IF SHE PULLS HIM #&team smut #enhypen smut #koga yudai x reader #lee heesung x reader #k x reader #heesung x reader

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ggum-aki · 3 months ago

Text

so this broke me…

Until I die...

Pairings: Boyfriend!Hongjoong x Fem!Reader

Genre: Heavy Angst, drama, infidelity, illness.

wc: 12,7k

Summary: You loved him more than anything, even when you knew he was slowly falling out of love with you. You kept quiet through the heartbreak. Through the illness. You worked through your pain and smiled so no one would worry. But when your time began to run out, you did the only thing you could do: Leave something behind for each person you loved.

Warnings: Angst (heavy), Terminal illness/death of main character, Grief and loss, Medical descriptions (mild, non-graphic) Infidelity (Hongjoong cheats on reader) Emotional abuse/neglect from a romantic partner, Depressive thoughts/emotional pain, Bittersweet ending

a/n: Hi, lovely readers! I just want to start by saying… yes, I did cry while writing this. And yes, I do enjoy writing angst.

I know, I know—maybe I need help. Or a hug. Or both. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it (even if it broke your heart into a thousand sharp little pieces).

If you liked it, please let me know—scream in the comments, throw tissues at me, or, you know, ask me to write more angst. I’ll probably say yes and suffer through it again for you 🥲

Join my Taglist: Here

“I’m sorry, what?” You ask again, slower this time, your voice barely a whisper.

The words don’t sound real. They hang in the air like fog, thick and heavy, impossible to breathe in.

The doctor shifts forward, his eyes full of practiced sympathy.

“Your tests confirm late-stage Acute Myeloid Leukemia,” He says gently. “It’s... blood cancer, Miss Kang.”

Blood cancer.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. You blink once. Twice.

Blood. Cancer.

That can’t be right. You only came here because you’d been dizzy for a few days, a little fatigued. Bruising easier than usual, sure, but you thought maybe it was just anemia. Or a flu. Overwork.

Not cancer. Never cancer.

He keeps talking, though you barely hear a word.

“There are some medical options,” He continues, his tone careful. “Low-dose chemotherapy, mostly for symptom control at this stage. A possible stem cell transplant, but the success rate is low given how advanced it is. We can also refer you to hospice care to prioritize your comfort—”

His voice fades. Distant. Like he’s underwater.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor, and your hands are gripping the edges of the chair even though you can't feel them anymore.

You should be crying. You should be panicking. But your brain... it’s stuck on something else.

Three months. ATEEZ’s comeback is in three months.

You’re part of the production team. There’s producing meetings, recording timelines. You promised to check Hongjoong’s revised lyrics tomorrow—he worked so hard on that track.

You can’t die. Not now. Not when things are just getting good for them.

And Yeosang. Your brother’s birthday is next month. He’s turning twenty six. You haven’t even gotten his gift. He mentioned wanting a custom watch—it was expensive, but you were going to surprise him.

And then, of course, Hongjoong.

Your boyfriend. Nearly two years together, though lately he’s been... distant. Busy. Distracted. You haven’t even told him how sick you’ve been feeling.

You blink again. Was it really just a flu?

Your nails dig into your palms.

Cancer.

You're dying.

But all you can think about is how you’re going to fit chemo into a production meeting. How you’ll cover for your absences so no one—especially he—notices.

You don’t want to be a burden. You just want to hold onto what little you have left.

“Miss Kang?” The doctor’s voice pulls you back. You force yourself to meet his eyes.

He’s waiting—waiting for you to fall apart, maybe. Waiting for grief to flood in.

But all you say is: “Can I go now? I have a deadline.”

He hesitates “Of course. But we do recommend starting treatment as soon as possible—”

“I don't want any, don't want to be a burden.”

You stand. Your knees nearly give out, but you mask it with a quick breath and a weak smile. Your hands are trembling as you gather your things. You don't even remember putting your bag down.

As you step out into the hallway, the lights feel too bright, the world too loud. Your phone buzzes.

Joongie🖤: Studio all night. don't wait up.

You stare at the message, expression unreadable.

Cancer. Blood cancer. You’re dying.

But all you reply is: “Okay, love you.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You’re in the booth with Mingi and Seonghwa, helping them smooth out a harmony layer on the bridge. The air is dry, heavy with the static buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the condenser mic.

You’ve run the track three times now—your eyes are tired, your head pounds, and there’s a high ringing in your ears you’ve been trying to ignore since morning.

You press the intercom “One more run, okay? Then we’ll double it and move on.”

They both nod, focused and trusting. It’s a rhythm you’ve shared for years. But just as Seonghwa hits the high note and Mingi drops into the lower octave, it happens.

A sharp sting behind your nose. Then a slow, warm trickle.

You blink.

Red.

It stains your fingers before you realize what’s happening—your hand comes away wet. The blood drips onto the soundboard, splashing across the control dial.

“Shit—” You mutter, jerking your head up.

Seonghwa is the first to notice. His expression shifts in an instant from focused to horrified. He yanks his headphones off and rushes out of the booth, pulling tissues from the stack beside the mixing desk.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” He asks, gently pressing the tissues to your face. His hands are warm and steady, but his voice is tight with concern.

“I’m fine,” You say quickly, trying to laugh but your throat is dry. “It’s probably just the heat. You know how weather messes with your sinuses sometimes.”

Seonghwa doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at you. And in that moment, you know he doesn’t buy it, not really. The little crease between his brows gives him away.

Before he can press further, the booth door creaks open. Mingi’s head pops out, brows raised.

“What happened?”

“Just a little nosebleed,” You call out, raising a hand with a thumbs-up, blood still drying on your knuckles. “Nothing major. Give me a sec and we’ll get back to the recording.”

Mingi hesitates, his gaze flicking between you and Seonghwa, who’s still crouched in front of you with stained tissues.

“You sure? You look… pale.”

“I’m always pale,” You tease with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Studio lighting hates me.”

They chuckle a little, but it’s thin. Tense. The kind of laugh you give when you want something to be normal, even though it clearly isn’t.

You clean the soundboard with a tissue, careful not to smear the blood further. Your hands are trembling just slightly, but you hope neither of them notice.

And then, just like that, you sit back down, press the intercom, and say:

“Let’s go again.”

The room is quiet for a beat. Then Mingi sighs and slips the headphones on. Seonghwa does the same, reluctantly taking his seat. He watches you for a second longer before turning away.

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You don’t explain the pounding in your chest or the ache crawling up your legs.

You just breathe, press play, and pretend that nothing is wrong.

But you can feel their eyes on you now—careful, worried, watching.

And for the first time this week, you wonder how much longer you’ll be able to keep pretending.

⋆

It’s almost midnight when you finally step into the smaller recording studio, the familiar hum of wires and soft glow of monitor lights greeting you like an old friend.

Hongjoong is already there, seated at the mixing desk, headphones draped around his neck, scrolling through the demo layers with an expression you know too well.

Focused. Detached. Somewhere far away from you, even though you’re in the same room.

You haven’t seen him properly in days—just quick glances in hallways, brief texts about edits or schedules. It’s been weeks since he kissed you goodnight. Months since you felt like you had his full attention.

Still, tonight matters. It’s your first one-on-one session in over a week. Sure, it’s for work. But it’s him. And you’ve missed him so much it aches.

You walk in quietly, clutching your notepad and tablet. Your legs feel like lead. Your bones hurt. You would give anything to sleep, just sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

But none of that matters now. Because he’s here. And you want to be here with him.

“You’re late,” He murmurs without turning around.

You blink, caught off guard “Only by five minutes.”

He doesn’t answer. Just clicks into the instrumental and adjusts his mic levels.

You set your things down and take your place behind the desk, syncing the track. Your fingers move on instinct, but your vision blurs slightly when you glance down, the lights of the soundboard feel too bright, the colors too sharp.

“You look tired,” Hongjoong says, finally glancing at you. His tone isn’t warm. It’s not concerned. It’s just… an observation.

“I am,” You answer honestly, letting the words hang between you. You’re hoping—just hoping—he’ll soften, just a little.

Ask why. Ask what’s wrong. But he doesn’t.

He shrugs “We all are.”

Right.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek “Let’s do a run-through, yeah?”

He nods once and heads into the booth, you hit record.

The beat pulses through the speakers, his voice layering smoothly over the base. He’s good, always has been, and this track is personal for him. You can feel it in the way he bites down on each verse, dragging emotion into the syllables.

And yet, as he sings about struggle and perseverance, about finding light in the dark, your chest burns. You wonder if he means a single word of it anymore.

The second take ends. He peeks out of the booth, resting his hands on the doorframe.

“How’s the timing?” He asks.

You try to answer, but your mouth feels dry. Your head is pounding. The room is spinning just enough to make you feel unstable.

You clear your throat “It’s good. You hit that second verse cleaner this time.”

He nods. No smile. No praise. Just a nod.

You stare at him for a second longer, heart thudding, and finally whisper, “I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop it. Small. Vulnerable.

He blinks “What?”

You force a smile “I said the mix is almost done. Just need to level out the chorus.”

Lie. Coward’s version of the truth. He doesn’t press. Just turns away, going back to the booth.

You exhale, shakily. Look down at your hands. They're trembling again. You close your eyes and rest your head in your arms for a second, just a second, but Hongjoong’s voice through the mic pulls you back up.

“Don’t sleep on me,” He says—light, almost teasing.

But there’s no affection behind it. No warmth.

Just a reminder.

You're not his girlfriend tonight. You're the producer.

You swallow the lump in your throat and press record again.

And you wonder how it’s possible to be this close to someone you love and still feel so completely alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s rare to have a quiet evening, let alone a meal outside the studio. But Yeosang insisted.

“You’ve been skipping too many dinners,” He said when he called. “I’m picking you up at seven. No excuses.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue, not today. Not after another dizzy spell in the breakroom. Not after you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the pale, fragile version staring back.

So now, you're sitting across from him in a small Japanese restaurant, the kind you both used to visit when you were younger.

It’s warm, quiet, the kind of place that smells like miso and nostalgia. He orders for both of you—he always does—and you let him, too tired to pretend you care about the menu.

He chats about Ateez's schedules, about San’s newest obsession with cooking, about the funny disaster that was Wooyoung’s attempt at laundry this week.

You nod and laugh in the right places. But your limbs are heavy, your stomach barely handling the miso soup you’re swirling in front of you.

Then it happens. You reach for the cup of tea, and your hoodie sleeve slides up. Just a few inches.

But it’s enough.

The yellow-purple bloom of the bruise on your forearm is stark against your skin, impossible to miss.

Yeosang goes still. His eyes lock onto it, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything, just stares.

Then his voice drops, cold and quiet “What happened to your arm?”

You freeze. Quickly pull your sleeve back down.

“It’s nothing,” You say with a too-fast shrug. “I—uh—I hit it on the kitchen counter a few days ago.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t believe you.

“In the kitchen?”

You nod “Yeah. Just… clumsy, you know?”

He leans back in his seat slowly, watching you carefully now. His jaw tightens.

“You sure that’s it?”

You blink “What else would it be?”

He doesn’t answer. But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That horrible, fleeting thought that passes through his mind.

Did someone do this to you?

Did he?

“Yeosang,” You say quietly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” He lies, voice tight.

“Yes, you are. And I promise, no one hurt me. Especially not Hongjoong.”

You smile. It takes effort. It hurts.

He doesn’t smile back “I’m your older brother,” He says after a long silence. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

You nod “Of course.”

But the truth is already rotting inside you. It’s in your blood. Your bones. The way you can’t even finish a bowl of soup without feeling like you’re going to collapse.

And it’s killing you—slowly, quietly.

And you're lying to the one person who would do anything to save you.

—

The mirrors are fogged at the edges, the air thick with the rhythm of stomping feet and sharp breaths. The members of ATEEZ are halfway through the final run of their choreography when San finally calls for a break, dropping to the floor with a dramatic groan.

“Five minutes,” The choreographer calls out. “Drink water. Stretch. Don’t die.”

Yeosang wipes the sweat off his forehead, reaching for his water bottle, but his eyes keep flickering to Hongjoong—the leader sitting off in the corner, completely checked out, thumbs tapping away at his phone like the world around him doesn’t exist.

He sighs. Something’s been off for weeks—with you, with him.

The bruise on your arm flashes in his memory again. Too dark. Too fresh. Too big for a simple kitchen bump.

He swallows and turns to Seonghwa and Mingi, who are stretching nearby.

“Can I ask you guys something?” He says, keeping his voice low.

Mingi nods, looking up “What’s up?”

“It’s about my sister,” Yeosang says slowly, choosing each word. “Has she seemed… off lately to you?”

The moment the question leaves his mouth, Seonghwa stills. Mingi, too. Then Seonghwa shifts, sitting up straight.

“What do you mean by ‘off’?”

Yeosang hesitates “She had this bruise on her arm this afternoon. Big one. Said it happened in the kitchen, but... I don’t know. She’s pale. She barely touched her food. She looked like she was going to fall asleep at the table.”

Mingi makes a noise—not quite surprised, not quite confused “Dude,” He says, glancing at Seonghwa. “She had a nosebleed the other day. In the recording booth. Just started bleeding mid-take.”

“And she said it was because of the heat,” Seonghwa adds with a frown. “But I don’t know, man. She looked exhausted. Like, barely-standing, exhausted.”

Yeosang’s expression darkens “She told me she was fine. Said she was just tired.”

“She’s always tired lately,” Seonghwa murmurs. “She’s not okay.”

Mingi nods “You think something’s going on? Like… is she sick or something?”

“I don’t know,” Yeosang admits. “But I’m going to find out.”

In the silence that follows, they all glance toward Hongjoong.

Still glued to his phone. Still tapping out replies, smiling faintly at something on the screen—completely unaware of the conversation happening a few feet away.

“Should we tell him?” Mingi asks quietly.

Yeosang watches Hongjoong for a long beat. Then he shakes his head.

“He won’t care. Not right now.”

Seonghwa frowns “You think something’s going on with him too?”

Yeosang doesn’t answer. Because he already knows the truth—or at least part of it. He sees the distance.

The coldness. The way you still light up when you talk about Hongjoong, like you’re trying to convince yourself he's still the man you love. And the way Hongjoong barely even looks at you anymore.

He sees it all.

And he’s afraid of what it might mean.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

You drop your bag by the entrance and lean against the wall, breath trembling. Your whole body aches—not the usual muscle strain or fatigue from long days. It's deeper. Like your bones are rotting from the inside out.

You peel off your hoodie slowly, wincing as the sleeve sticks to the sweat on your arms. Bruises decorate your skin like splattered ink. New ones, old ones, all unexplained.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

No shoes by the door but your own. No low humming from the kitchen. No Hongjoong.

You told yourself he was busy. You keep telling yourself that.

You shuffle to the bathroom and stare at your reflection. Your skin is pale, almost gray under the fluorescent light. You look like a ghost wearing your face.

There’s blood on your upper lip. Again.

You don't even flinch this time. You just grab some tissues and press hard. Your nose is getting used to this.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Another voicemail from the hospital. You press play.

“Hi, we’re following up on your last test results. We strongly advise reconsidering treatment options. The sooner we start, the better your chances of—”

You press delete. You already told them no.

What’s the point of prolonging what can’t be saved?

Chemo would only destroy what little normalcy you have left. The hair, the strength, the time—what’s the use if there’s no real chance? If you’ll die anyway?

You sit on the floor. Cold tiles against your back. The room spins for a second. You blink through it. You open the notes app on your phone. Not to write a letter—not yet. But you type a single sentence:

“If I die tonight, would he even notice?”

You don’t cry. You’re too tired to cry. Instead, you crawl into bed in one of Hongjoongs’ shirts, and you curl up with your sickness like it’s the only thing that hasn’t abandoned you.

You whisper into the dark “I don’t want to die like this.”

And you fall asleep with the taste of blood in your throat and nothing but silence to hold you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s nearly 2 a.m. The building is quiet, everyone else long gone. You’re still in your small studio, slouched in your chair, eyelids burning from hours of staring at the screen. You rub your temples, lean back, and play the track again.

Your eyes narrow. It’s missing something. Hongjoong’s verse. The one he promised to send by midnight.

You glance at the clock: 2:07 a.m. With a tired sigh, you drag yourself up and out. He’s probably still in his studio, working like always. Maybe he forgot to hit send.

Maybe… you just want to see him.

You walk quietly through the hallway, your oversized hoodie sleeves covering your trembling fingers. You’re exhausted, nauseous, and your body feels like lead—but you’re used to that by now.

When you reach his studio door, your hand pauses mid-air. It’s not fully shut. A crack of light seeps out.

Then you hear it.

A sound. A laugh. A muffled moan.

Your heart stops. Slowly, too slowly, you lean closer. Maybe he’s watching something. Maybe someone left a video playing. Maybe—But when you press your eye to the crack and tilt your head—You freeze.

She’s on his lap. Arms around his neck. Lips on his throat. His hands on her hips, his head thrown back, mouth open, soft groans escaping.

Your stomach flips violently.

He whispers something. Something soft, a voice you haven't heard in weeks—the way he used to talk to you.

“You’re driving me crazy, baby. Can’t get enough of you.”

Your world tilts. You don’t scream. You don’t make a sound. You take a step back. And another. And another. You walk away before they can see you. Before he can see what he’s done.

Your hand covers your mouth, the hallway spinning around you.

You stumble back to your studio. The file’s still open. Hongjoong’s verse still missing. Like you’re missing.

You don’t cry. You don’t delete the track. You close the laptop gently, like it’s fragile.

Because if you break one thing, you might not stop.

⋆

The next day, you show up right on time. Hair brushed, hoodie clean, headphones slung around your neck.

No one would guess that you barely slept, that you spent the night curled up on the studio floor because you physically couldn’t make it home.

Hongjoong arrives ten minutes late. He barely glances at you when he walks in, phone in hand, cap low over his eyes.

You smile at him anyway. Smile. Even if it’s broken. Even if he doesn’t look at you.

“You ready to record your part today?” You ask, tapping your notes like your heart isn’t crumbling.

He nods casually, pulling out his water bottle and warming up his voice “Yeah. Just the bridge, right?”

You hum in agreement, adjusting the mic settings “Mmhm. Also… just checking, you still remember about our dinner on Friday?”

That catches his attention for a second. He looks up “Dinner?”

Your stomach knots. Your hand tightens around the pen “The one I booked a month ago. That place near the Han River? You made me promise not to cancel, even if work got heavy?”

A pause. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes “Ah… yeah. Of course I remember. I’ll be there.”

And just like that, he goes back to humming into the mic.

You nod, smiling again.

Of course he’ll be there. Of course he said that.

Because you’re still pretending. And he’s still pretending. And both of you are very good at acting.

But that Friday it wasn't what you expected to be.

You spent two hours getting ready. Even put on makeup, something you haven’t done in weeks. Your legs feel like glass, and your skin is bruising under your sweater sleeves, but you still curl your hair and pick the perfume he once said he loved.

You arrive early, of course. The restaurant is soft-lit, romantic. There’s a tiny candle flickering on the table you reserved a month ago.

You order water. You wait.

Fifteen minutes.

Thirty.

An hour.

You check your phone. No messages. No calls. No apologies.

The candle flickers lower. The server comes by for the third time and finally asks, gently:

“Would you like to order something? Or…?”

You smile at him “No, thank you. I think… I’m not really hungry anymore.”

You pay for both meals you didn’t order, just in case he shows up later.

When you get home that night, your phone finally buzzes. You’re already curled under your blanket, still wearing the clothes you picked for your date.

Joongie 🖤: "Sorry. Something came up. We’ll reschedule next month."

You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn’t break, it simply stops trying. A bitter chuckle slips from your lips.

“I’ll probably be dead next month.”

And then you roll over and close your eyes.

Alone.

—

The soft creak of the front door wakes you.

Your eyes flutter open, your body sinking deeper into the mattress before you force yourself up. Every bone protests. Your limbs feel too heavy, your joints throb. There’s a ringing in your ears again—low, constant—like a warning.

But still, you sit up. Because it’s him.

Maybe you’re foolish. Maybe you’re still waiting for the version of him who once held your hand in packed rooms, who left sleepy kisses on your forehead, who whispered “I love you” like it was sacred.

Maybe you’re just hoping he’ll look at you the same way again.

Barefoot, you walk across the cold floor. Your oversized sweater slips from one shoulder, the fabric brushing against skin that bruises too easily now. The lights in the living room are dim, but you see him.

Hongjoong. Standing near the coat rack, pulling off his hoodie with a long, tired sigh.

You stop in the doorway “Where were you?” Your voice is soft. Not angry. Just… quiet. Worn down.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers “Working.”

You glance at the clock. 3:47 a.m. You scoff—not with bitterness, but disbelief.

“It’s almost four, Hongjoong.”

That makes him turn, eyes sharp with irritation.

“I have a comeback on my fucking shoulders. Of course I’m staying late.”

The words bite, but you try to swallow it down “I know, I— I wasn’t trying to—”

“I already said sorry,” He snaps, tossing his hoodie carelessly onto the couch. “Don’t start nagging me about forgetting the damn dinner.”

“I’m not,” You murmur. “I just… didn’t think you’d actually come home tonight.”

That’s all you meant. Just that. Not an accusation. Not even a disappointment. Just honesty.

But something in him bristles like you lit a match near his fuse. He turns fully to you, and for a second, the air leaves your lungs. You smell it—faint but distinct—alcohol.

And worse, you see it: darkened skin just above his collar, smudged and uneven, red-purple hickeys that his t-shirt doesn’t fully cover.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Still… you say nothing. Because if you speak, you might scream.

“You are complaining,” He says suddenly, voice rising. “That’s all you do lately. You’re always tired, always acting like the world’s ending—”

“I’m not acting—” You breathe, voice cracking. But he doesn’t let you finish.

“We’re all tired,” He barks. “You think you’re the only one going through shit? Everyone’s stressed. Everyone’s working. But no one else is dragging it around like some pathetic excuse.”

That word—pathetic—splits something in your chest.

“I didn’t know I was an excuse to you,” You whisper.

He scoffs like you’re being dramatic “God, you’ve been so exhausting lately. You don’t even look like yourself. You’ve lost weight, you’re pale all the time, you’ve got these dark circles under your eyes. You look… sick.”

You are sick.

But he doesn’t know that. Because you never told him. Because he never asked.

“If something’s wrong with you, just say it already,” He huffs. “Stop walking around like some damn ghost expecting me to coddle you.”

You feel it in your chest now—the slow, suffocating sting of grief folding into itself.

Your voice breaks when you speak again “It’s been almost a month since we really talked. Since we existed together. I planned that night for us, Joong. I just… I miss you.”

He looks at you like he’s staring through a window. Cold. Detached.

“See? Complaining again.”

Your heart splinters. And in that moment, you understand.

He’s already gone. He left you long ago. Now he’s just looking for reasons to make it your fault. You nod, almost imperceptibly. Your throat burns, but you force your lips into a flat line.

“Okay,” You whisper. “Sorry.”

And you walk away. Back to your room. Back to the bed made just for the two of you—that’s held only one body for weeks now.

You collapse onto the mattress, curling into yourself. And this time, you don’t hold back the tears.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three days have passed since that night.

Since the night you finally let the tears fall—not because of the war inside your blood, but because of something far more painful: losing Hongjoong.

You hadn't realized how much he meant to you until the silence between you turned permanent. You hadn't cried for your illness… but for him, you broke.

And since that night, things have only gotten worse.

The nosebleeds are more frequent now. Your bones ache just from getting dressed. Bruises blossom across your skin from the gentlest touch, like a whisper of pain stitched into every cell.

The dizziness never leaves, and somewhere deep inside, you know: You're running out of time.

So you start moving. You make a list in your head of the things that matter. The things you must do before it’s too late. And at the top of that list… is Yeosang.

Today, you drag Yeosang to the largest mall in Seoul, ignoring his annoyed sighs as he follows you across the marble floors.

He mumbles something about how the two of you should be at the company, you doing the last track’s reviews and how he should be at the dance studio.

But you wave it off with a smirk and keep pulling him along until you’re both standing in front of a luxurious watch display.

You point at the glass case and ask, “Which one do you like?”

Yeosang looks at you suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly “Why are you asking me that?”

You grin “Just pick one.”

He frowns, shifting his weight onto one foot “You don’t have to buy me something expensive, you know. My birthday’s not even here yet, it’s in three weeks.”

“I know,” You reply, voice soft but steady. “But I want it to be ready by the exact day. It’s custom-made, so it’ll take time.”

Yeosang sighs, though there’s a small smile tugging at his lips now “You’re impossible.”

Still, he looks at the collection and nods toward a sleek silver watch with delicate engraving.

“That one. It’s simple. I like it.”

You nod back, but before you can say anything else, the world sways under your feet.

Your vision goes fuzzy, the lights above blurring into streaks of white. You try to blink it away, try to steady yourself… but your body gives out before you can say a word.

Yeosang catches you before you hit the floor.

—

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor fills the hospital room, calm and cold. Yeosang sits beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if holding himself together.

He’s been sitting like that for almost two hours now, unmoving except to occasionally glance at your pale, unconscious face.

He didn’t panic when you fainted. Not at first. He carried you to the car, drove like a madman, shouted your name again and again. But nothing prepared him for what the doctor would say.

When the door finally opens, Yeosang stands immediately. The doctor asks him to step outside, but Yeosang shakes his head and says flatly.

“Just tell me. Say it here.”

There’s a pause. Then the doctor exhales slowly “Your sister has acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” He says quietly. “Advanced stage.”

Yeosang doesn’t move. The words don’t make sense. They bounce around in his skull like static.

“No,” He mutters. “She would’ve told me. That’s not— She… she would’ve said something.”

The doctor’s expression doesn’t change “She was diagnosed two weeks ago. She refused chemotherapy, declined transplant and long-term treatments. She didn’t want to go through the medical process.”

“She didn’t want to fight?” Yeosang snaps, his voice cracking. “Why wouldn’t she fight?”

“She made it very clear she didn’t want to burden anyone, she just accepted the risks.”

Yeosang takes a sharp breath, but it doesn’t reach his lungs. He turns his eyes toward you again.

You look so small. So still. The same girl who used to sneak into his bed as a child whenever there was thunder.

The same one who’d sing off-key just to make him laugh. The one who held his hand during their parents’ worst fights and promised she’d always be there.

Now she was slipping through his fingers. And he hadn’t even noticed.

The doctor continues gently, “At this stage… it could be days. Maybe weeks. But it’s impossible to know. All I can say is… it won’t be long.”

Yeosang lowers himself into the chair again, slowly this time, as if his body can no longer hold him up.

His throat burns. His hands are shaking.

You, his little sister—the only person in the world who never asked him to be perfect, never judged him, never left—you were dying. And you didn’t even tell him.

Tears pool in his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t hide them. Doesn’t wipe them away.

He reaches out and takes your hand in his. It’s cold. But he holds it anyway, like maybe if he holds tight enough… you won’t let go.

—

You feel it before you see it—the weight of the world pressing down on your chest, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your eyelids flutter, slow and reluctant. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar… white, bright, sterile.

A hospital.

You sigh softly through your nose. So much for hiding it a little longer. Turning your head slightly, you already know who’s sitting there. You can feel him.

Yeosang.

He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands, shoulders trembling. Silent sobs rack through him like he’s trying to hold in a scream that’s been locked inside his ribs for too long.

You blink, the sting in your eyes not from the room’s brightness but from what you’re seeing.

Yeosang is crying.

Not angry. Not yelling. Not scolding. Just crying.

And not the kind of crying you’ve seen when a choreography goes wrong or when stress cracks him for a second. No, this is deeper. Rawer. His heart is breaking in real time.

You know exactly why. And for a second, guilt slices through you sharper than anything the illness ever has. He must’ve talked to the doctor. He knows.

You swallow, throat dry. You try to speak, but your voice is barely there.

“Yeosang…”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, lifts his head, and his eyes lock onto yours like you’re a ghost he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. And then—in one breath—he breaks.

He doesn’t say a word. He just stands and wraps his arms around you.

Carefully.

So gently, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he squeezes too hard. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and you feel the wet heat of his tears soak into your hospital gown. His hands grip your back, trembling with everything he can’t say out loud.

You freeze, caught in that fragile second between comfort and collapse.

Because this is Yeosang. Your brother. Your protector. The one who always had it together, who never let anyone see the cracks in his armor. And now he’s holding you like the world has ended.

And in his eyes… maybe it has.

“I thought I had more time,” You whisper, your hand weakly brushing over his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He still doesn’t speak, only pulls you closer, and you feel it—the ache in his breath, the sobs he still tries to swallow down even now, even here.

You try to smile “I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

A shaky breath escapes him, and you finally hear his voice—hoarse and cracked and barely above a whisper.

“Why didn’t you let me fight with you?”

That’s when your heart shatters. Because there’s no good answer to that question. Only a dozen broken excuses, that you didn’t want him to suffer, that you didn’t want to be the burden, that you didn’t want to see pity in his eyes.

That you wanted to protect him.

But now he’s holding you like he’s the one who needs saving. You lean your head against his shoulder and let yourself cry too, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” You murmur. “I didn’t want you to watch me fall apart.”

His arms tighten just enough to make your breath catch “I’d rather watch you fall apart… than lose you without even knowing you were slipping away.”

He’s never said anything so honest to you before. He’s never needed to.

And now you lie there in his arms, the beeping of machines ticking off seconds you can’t promise to survive, and think about all the things you wanted to do—all the people you have to say goodbye to.

But for now, you let yourself just be his sister.

And let him cry.

Because sometimes, even the strongest ones break.

—

It’s been nearly twenty minutes since the tears finally stopped. Yeosang still hasn’t let go of you, but his sobs have faded into soft, steady breaths against your shoulder.

You rest your cheek gently against his hair, fingers combing through the strands like you used to when he couldn’t sleep as a kid. It’s soothing, for both of you.

Neither of you says anything for a while. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, you murmur, "Please don’t tell anyone."

He doesn’t move. But after a second, he replies quietly, "Why not? They’re your friends. They deserve to know."

You feel your throat tighten. He’s right, in theory. But theory doesn’t count for much when you’re the one dying.

"You should at least tell Hongjoong," He adds. "He’s your boyfriend."

That word—boyfriend—makes you freeze.

Is he?

The silence in the room grows louder. Because it’s not a matter of labels. You know the truth, or at least the truth that hurts the most.

He isn’t really yours anymore.

He’s probably out right now, laughing with her, forgetting how your fingers used to trace his skin, how you used to fall asleep listening to the rhythm of his breath.

He hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once since that night.

You blink away the burn behind your eyes "Especially him," You say, quieter now. "Don’t tell him anything."

Yeosang pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are tired, still red "Why not?"

You manage a hollow smile, one that doesn't quite reach your lips. "Just don't."

"Okay," Yeosang says gently.

You shrug, gaze drifting toward the window. The world outside is still spinning, oblivious to what’s happening here.

"Thank you."

Yeosang doesn’t argue. Instead, he just nods slowly and rests his forehead against yours.

"I’ll carry it with you." He whispers.

And you close your eyes—because even if your time is running out, for now, you’re not alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You turn your head away, your voice no stronger than a breath.

“I don’t want to eat.”

Your fingers tremble where they clutch the blanket, but you hide them beneath the sheets, as if that will make you seem stronger than you feel.

Yeosang lets out a soft sigh, gentle but tired. You hear the quiet clink of the spoon as he places it back down on the tray.

“Sweetheart…” He says, reaching to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. “Just a little, okay? You need to eat.”

You don’t answer right away, the smell of the soup making your stomach churn.

“I don’t feel like it,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the wall across from you—anywhere but on him. “Everything tastes like metal.”

“I know,” He whispers, his voice tight with worry, “but you have to try.”

You hesitate. Then, without meeting his gaze, you sit up slightly and open your mouth. Just one bite.

He smiles weakly, bringing the spoon up “There’s my good girl.”

The warmth of the soup hits your tongue, bland and bitter, and you swallow with difficulty. It’s not the food that makes your eyes sting.

It’s the look in his.

It’s been three days since the doctors told you it was no longer safe for you to go home—not with how easily your body is giving up on you.

The dizzy spells, the nosebleeds, the bruises from brushing against doorframes… the way your bones feel like they’re crumbling from the inside out.

You wanted to protest. You had plans. You had things to finish.

But Yeosang insisted, and he hasn’t left since.

He comes early, brings you coffee even though he knows you barely sip it anymore, and forces you to take at least three bites of every meal.

After breakfast, he leaves for the company—but never without kissing your forehead like he used to when you scraped your knees as a kid.

He returns before nightfall, sometimes with books, sometimes with that sad smile he tries so hard to make look hopeful.

He sleeps on the couch in your hospital room now, no matter how many times you tell him to go home. He never listens.

And you love him for it. But the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, is a steady ache in your chest that no painkiller can touch.

Every time he walks through that door, every time he hides his puffy eyes behind a joke, every time he tucks your blanket up to your chin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish overnight…

You feel like a burden.

Like the weight of your dying is something he carries more than you do.

You glance at him now—his hands fidgeting with the spoon, his jaw clenched like he’s trying not to say something too heavy for the room.

You want to thank him. You want to tell him to stop. You want to ask him to leave before it gets worse.

But instead, you whisper, “Sorry.”

Yeosang turns his head sharply “For what?”

You shake your head slowly, sinking deeper into the pillows “For making you stay. For making you watch me like this.”

His face crumbles for a second, and then he gently places the spoon back on the tray and leans forward, taking your hand in both of his.

“Hey,” He says, voice trembling, “You’re not making me do anything. I’m here because I want to be. I’m here because I’m your brother. And I love you.”

His fingers tighten around yours “You’re not a burden. You’re the only reason I’m holding it together.”

Your lips part, but the lump in your throat makes it impossible to speak.

And still… the ache doesn’t go away.

Because no matter what he says, you see it in his face. The fear. The grief. The knowing.

You’re slipping, and he knows it.

⋆

The energy in the company feels… off.

It’s subtle at first. A quiet kind of absence. Like someone turned the volume down on the whole room.

You haven’t shown up in days—no messages, no check-ins, no complaints about how overworked you are, or how the coffee always tastes like burnt water.

Just silence. A hole in the atmosphere no one seems to want to name yet.

“Did she take a sudden vacation?” Wooyoung mumbles, peering at the shared project calendar on the studio screen. “She didn’t say anything to me…”

“She didn’t say anything to anyone,” Seonghwa answers, brow furrowed as he scrolls through his texts. “I messaged her two nights ago. No reply.”

“She didn’t even complain about Mingi messing up the last track?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly alert.

Seonghwa shakes his head “Nothing.”

That alone is strange. You always replied to Seonghwa. Even just with a thumbs up or a meme. The realization settles heavily between them.

Then there’s Yeosang.

He’s here, technically. Sitting through meetings, nodding at updates, eyes staring at whatever screen is in front of him.

But he hasn’t made a single joke all week. He hasn’t even complained about the lunch orders.

And his eyes… They’re always red. Always tired. Not the ‘I slept late’ kind of tired—the kind that looks like he’s been fighting off the weight of the world.

They all noticed the bandage on his hand too. A small thing, easily missed—except he’s been picking at it, like his mind isn’t even in the same room as his body.

In the recording studio, he flubs his lines. Not once, not twice—four times. Yeosang never messes up. Never.

By the fifth take, he mumbles an apology and pulls off the headphones, muttering something about needing air before walking out.

Silence follows him.

Wooyoung exchanges a look with Seonghwa “Something’s wrong.”

Seonghwa’s jaw is tight, his voice quiet “Yeah.”

—

The company building was quiet after hours, the fluorescent lights casting a cold glow over the empty hallways.

Most of the staff had gone home, but Seonghwa was still around, sorting through choreography notes.

Wooyoung, who’d gone to grab something from the vending machine, passed by one of the practice rooms when he caught sight of a familiar figure slumped in the corner, motionless.

He paused “Yeosang?”

No answer. He pushed the door open slowly, the faint sound of choked breathing slipping through the silence.

“Yeosang?” He repeated, softer this time.

That’s when he saw him. Yeosang was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, knees pulled up, face buried in his hands.

His shoulders were shaking, his breaths ragged, and the tears—God, the tears—were pouring silently, as if they had been held in for far too long.

Wooyoung froze, the can of soda slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor.

“Yeo…”

Seonghwa heard the noise from down the hall and came quickly. When he stepped into the room and saw the sight before him, his heart dropped.

Yeosang didn’t even lift his head. He couldn’t.

He had held it together for days—for weeks. Through the hospital visits. Through the sleepless nights. Through every forced smile he gave the others so they wouldn’t ask questions.

But the moment he was alone, the weight became too heavy. Too sharp.

“Yeo,” Wooyoung said again, crouching down, touching his shoulder. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Yeosang finally looked up, and both Seonghwa and Wooyoung felt their breath hitch. His eyes were bloodshot, cheeks damp, mouth trembling as if every word was a mountain.

“She’s dying,” He whispered.

Wooyoung blinked “What?”

Yeosang clutched his phone like a lifeline, and slowly, with shaking fingers, turned the screen toward them.

Your hospital ID. Your name. Your patient band. Your photo with that tired smile.

“She’s in the hospital,” He said, voice cracking. “It’s—it’s cancer. Blood cancer. And she didn’t tell anyone. She kept working like nothing was wrong. She didn’t even try treatment. She said she didn’t want to suffer.”

He paused, his whole body trembling.

“The doctor told me… she could go at any moment.”

The room went silent.

Wooyoung staggered back onto his heels, lips parted in shock “No… no, she’s—she was just here last week. Laughing. Messing with me in the recording studio. She can’t—she can’t be—”

“She is,” Yeosang choked out. “She is, and I—I have to watch it happen. Every day I go there and she smiles like she’s okay, like she’s not falling apart in front of me.”

Seonghwa stepped forward, heart clenched, crouching beside him. He wrapped an arm around Yeosang’s shoulders, grounding him with quiet strength.

“You’ve been going through this alone?”

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Yeosang admitted, voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to make it real.”

Wooyoung wiped at his eyes, trying to process the hurricane of grief building inside his chest. “Why didn’t she say anything to me…? I would've—”

“She didn’t want to be a burden,” Yeosang interrupted. “That’s what she told me. Can you believe that? She’s dying and she’s worried about burdening us.”

There was nothing else to say for a moment. Just silence. Just three broken hearts on a practice room floor.

Then Seonghwa pulled Yeosang into his arms fully, holding him tight as his tears returned full force. Wooyoung leaned in too, hand gripping his arm.

“You’re not alone in this,” Seonghwa whispered. “Not anymore.”

“We’ll be there,” Wooyoung added. “For both of you.”

And in the quietest part of the night, Yeosang let go.

He let it all out—the pain, the fear, the helplessness—into the hands of the only people who could understand.

Because this wasn’t just grief.

This was love. Cracked and bleeding.

And it was real.

⋆

There’s a sound tugging at you from sleep.

At first, it’s faint—like a whisper underwater. A low hum of voices and the quiet, broken rhythm of someone trying not to cry.

Then it gets sharper.

“…She’s sleeping, be quiet,” You hear Yeosang murmur, his voice strained.

“But how the hell am I supposed to—” Another voice cracks, shattering mid-sentence.

You frown softly, your eyes still closed, floating somewhere between consciousness and exhaustion. Then a sniffle. Then a choked sob. Muffled. Held in.

And you know. You know before you even open your eyes.

Slowly, you peel your lids open, vision blurry under the hospital room’s dim light. Your throat is dry. Your body aches in ways you’ve gotten used to.

But it’s not the pain that takes your breath—it’s the sight in front of you.

Three figures. Yeosang sitting at your bedside, pale and silent, his hand loosely holding yours. And just beside him, Seonghwa and Wooyoung.

Seonghwa’s eyes meet yours first, full of something that looks like mourning. As if you're already gone. His lips press into a thin line.

But it's Wooyoung who crumbles. The moment he sees your eyes flutter open, he breaks. A sob escapes his throat, and he covers his mouth with his hand as tears stream down his cheeks.

His body shakes. He turns his face away, ashamed, but it’s too late—the dam is broken.

“Woo…” You whisper, your voice barely there.

He walks toward you like a storm—fast, trembling, desperate. Then he collapses to his knees by your bed, burying his face in the side of your blanket.

“You idiot…” He cries, voice muffled. “You absolute idiot… how could you hide this from us?! From me?!”

You don't answer right away. You can't. Your heart aches more than your body, watching him fall apart like that—loud and vulnerable, the way only Wooyoung ever is.

Yeosang says nothing, but his hand grips yours tighter.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” You murmur, your voice cracked like broken porcelain.

Wooyoung lifts his head just enough to look at you. His face is blotchy and red, eyes swollen, expression unreadable at first—until the grief turns into something else: anger.

“You think we care about that?!” He snaps, voice shaking. “You think I’ve known you since middle school just to not be there when you're going through this?!”

His voice rises, but Seonghwa gently places a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Wooyoung exhales hard and leans his head back against the bed, still crying quietly.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper.

And it’s the worst part. Not the illness. Not the bruises on your skin or the ache in your bones.

The worst part is seeing the people you love grieve you while you’re still alive.

Yeosang leans forward, pressing his forehead to your hand.

“No more hiding,” He says, voice hollow. “You don’t have to be strong alone anymore.”

You let out a shaky breath and close your eyes again—not from fatigue, but to keep the tears from spilling.

Because now it’s real.

And somehow… that makes it both more painful and more comforting at once.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next four days pass in soft, slow pieces—moments stitched together by the quiet devotion of those who now carry your secret.

Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Wooyoung take turns by your side like clockwork. They don’t ask for permission—they just do.

Wooyoung bathes you gently, humming old songs to distract you from the cold water on your sore skin.

Seonghwa brings you freshly cut fruit, sits by the window, and reads aloud to you with his warm, steady voice—something about the way he does it makes you forget your body is failing.

And Yeosang, always Yeosang, feeds you when you’re too tired to lift a spoon and whispers things like, “just one more bite for me, sweetheart,” as if you’re still the little sibling who used to follow him around in your pajamas.

They do all of this without complaint. Without hesitation. Without letting you see the weight they carry.

But you see it anyway.

You see it in how Seonghwa avoids your eyes when you ask about the company. How Wooyoung’s jokes come slower, quieter. How Yeosang never lets go of your hand, even when he thinks you’re asleep.

On the second day, you ask them for a notebook and some pens. There’s no ceremony to it—just a quiet request.

“I need to write some letters,” You say, voice raspy.

They don't ask what for. They don’t need to.

Wooyoung brings you a sketchbook with thick pages and a pouch of pens in every color.

“So you can make them beautiful,” He says with a sad smile.

Each letter you write feels like another piece of your soul laid bare. You try to make them lighthearted—full of warmth, small memories, little jokes.

But they always end the same: with the words you’ve never been brave enough to say aloud.

Goodbye.

—

Meanwhile, the atmosphere at the company is growing tenser by the day. You’re not there. You’re not answering messages. No one's said why.

The boss knows you're taking “medical rest,” and the production team was told it's just temporary.

But Hongjoong isn’t buying it.

You were supposed to finish the final arrangement of the last album track. The deadline is breathing down everyone’s neck. And you—the one who usually sleeps under the mixing desk with a cold coffee and a blanket—have disappeared.

He hears whispers. He sees Yeosang come in with dark circles under his eyes, sees Wooyoung miss rehearsals for the first time in months. Seonghwa walks around like he’s carrying glass in his chest.

But no one says a word.

“Where the hell is she?”

Hongjoong snaps one afternoon, slamming his phone on the table in the production room.

“Everyone’s working their asses off and she’s just—resting?”

Yeosang freezes at the doorway. Seonghwa looks away. Wooyoung’s jaw clenches so tight it trembles.

But they say nothing. Not because they want to keep your secret. Because you asked them to.

Because you begged, “Don’t tell him. Not yet. Please.”

And so they bite their tongues. They swallow the pain. They let Hongjoong’s words slice into them without defending you.

Because the truth would shatter him.

And you're not ready to break his heart.

⋆

Your phone vibrates weakly against the metal bedside table. The screen lights up in the quiet dark, just past midnight.

Hongjoong.

You stare at the name. Your thumb hovers.

It’s been a week.

A week of silence. A week of not answering, not checking messages, not daring to reach out first—hoping, just a little, that he’d miss you.

That he’d notice your absence. That he’d call not out of obligation, but out of care.

You told yourself you wouldn’t answer. But hope is cruel, and you're too tired to fight it tonight.

You slide your thumb across the screen and whisper, “Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Where the fuck are you?”

Your breath catches. No hi, no how are you, no I miss you. Just fury, sharp and cold.

You blink, heart sinking, already wishing you hadn’t picked up “Hongjoong…” You murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m—I needed time. I’ve been—”

“Yeah, clearly. Taking a rest while the rest of us carry your weight?” He scoffs. “Do you think this is some kind of fucking vacation?!”

You flinch. The IV line tugs slightly against your arm as you instinctively curl in on yourself.

“I wasn’t—It’s not like that—”

“You still haven’t finished the last track. Do you know how unprofessional this is?”

He laughs bitterly, cruelly.

“If you don’t deliver by next week, I’ll tell the board you’re useless. Take a permanent rest from work. Let’s see how that feels.”

It hits like a knife.

You want to scream I’m dying. You want to scream I love you. You want to scream Please don’t do this to me—But you don’t.

Instead, your eyes blur as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Then his voice softens—not with affection, but with venom too practiced.

“Stop being a burden and do your fucking work.”

Your heart cracks clean in half. The silence that follows is unbearable.

You don’t hang up. You don’t cry. You just let the line go dead when he ends it.

And then the quiet comes back. But it’s not peaceful anymore.

It’s the kind that echoes every horrible word back to you—again and again—until you’re left with nothing but the sound of your heart breaking… in a body already falling apart.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next morning, the sunlight sneaks through the pale hospital curtains, casting soft gold over your bed. You barely feel it. Your bones ache. Your chest is still tight from last night.

But you hide it.

Yeosang is gently spooning porridge toward your lips.

“Just a little more,” He says softly, eyes tired.

He hasn’t slept well. You know he cried again—his lashes are still a little wet. You don’t ask. You just open your mouth and obey, like a good patient.

When he finally packs up to leave for the company, brushing your hair with his fingers like he used to when you were little, you smile.

“I’ll be okay,” You lie.

He hesitates “Call the nurse if you need anything.”

“I will.”

You wait until the door clicks shut before you call for the doctor.

“I need to go out for a few hours,” You say, sitting upright, your voice steadier than it should be. “Please. Just a few hours. I’ll be with a nurse. I… have things to finish.”

The doctor stares at you for a long time. You don’t offer more. You just meet his gaze with quiet determination.

Finally, he sighs “Only for a few hours. The nurse goes with you the entire time. No arguments.”

You nod "No arguments."

—

Stop 1: The Watch Store.

The clerk greets you with a warm smile, not noticing the slight tremble in your legs as you step inside.

“I’d like to pay for the custom watch I ordered online,” You say, pulling the receipt from your pocket with careful hands.

“And can you have it delivered on June 15 to this address?” You slide Yeosang’s name and home address across the counter.

The clerk nods, typing it in “Anything else?”

You hesitate, then smile faintly “Can you write a note to go with it? ‘For my favorite person: Happy Birthday, Yeosang. Love you always.’”

—

Stop 2: The Bakery.

The scent of sugar and yeast hits you like a memory—birthday mornings, surprise celebrations, shared laughs in the break room.

“I’d like to order a cake for June 13th,” You tell the girl at the counter.

She types as you speak “Message on the cake?”

You nod “Congratulations on your comeback, I’m so proud of you.”

She smiles “That’s sweet! Where should it be delivered?”

“KQ Entertainment. Lobby.”

—

Stop 3: The Funeral Home.

The room is sterile. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

The woman speaks gently as you browse “Do you… know what you’re looking for?”

You nod. A simple white coffin. Lilies. Nothing overdone.

You hand her a photo—one from your last birthday. You look healthy in it. Radiant. It’s the version of yourself you want them to remember.

“If it happens… soon,” You say quietly, “please use this photo.”

The woman places her hand over yours. You don’t flinch, just nod.

—

Stop 4: KQ Building.

You step in quietly through the side entrance. The guards recognize you, but they don’t question your pale complexion, or the nurse at your side. One of them greets you with a smile.

“You’re back,” He says. “It’s been a while.”

“Just for a bit.”

You walk slowly to the studio. No one sees you, they’re all working.

You sit in the recording room, headphones on, and finish the track Hongjoong demanded.

The lyrics blur in your mind, but the melody comes through clearly, like it had always been there—waiting.

When it’s done, you transfer the final version to a small silver USB. You stare at it for a second, then scribble something on a post-it.

“Sorry for the burden.”

You place the USB gently on Hongjoong’s desk and slip away before anyone notices you were even there.

The nurse doesn’t ask anything. She just holds the door for you as you step out into the spring air.

For the first time in weeks, you feel light. Not because anything is better. But because the end is near.

And you’re doing everything you can to leave it all behind… quietly, beautifully, on your own terms.

—

The studio is dimly lit, the same soft blue LEDs casting lazy shadows over the mixing console and shelves lined with half-finished demo CDs.

Hongjoong walks in, a coffee in one hand, the girl clinging to his other arm. She's giggling, wearing his hoodie like it's hers. Maybe it is, now.

He sets the coffee down, sighs as he slumps into his chair "Finally," He mutters, spotting the silver USB on the edge of his desk.

The small, square post-it clings to it. Your handwriting is instantly familiar—even now, he knows it better than his own.

"Sorry for the burden."

He reads it once. Then again. But his face doesn’t change.

No flicker of concern. No softness. No guilt.

"About time," He mutters, peeling the note off and tossing it into the trash without a second glance.

The girl beside him leans over his shoulder “Is that the track you needed?”

He nods, plugging the USB in “Yeah. She finally sent it in.”

There’s no thank you. No message sent. No question of where you've been or how you are.

Just a press of the spacebar. Play. Adjust. Pause. Replay. Work, as usual.

And the girl? She curls up on the studio couch, pulling out her phone, completely unaware—or perhaps uninterested—that this is a song made by someone slowly dying. Someone he once said he loved.

He doesn’t mention you. Not once. Just hums along to the melody you spent the last of your strength finishing.

The very one that will help complete their comeback.

Without you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The hospital room is quiet, cloaked in the fading light of a late spring afternoon. The soft hum of machines fills the background, broken only by the gentle scratch of your pen against paper.

You’re finishing the last letter—the most difficult one. The one addressed to him.

‘To Hongjoong,’ You write, your hands trembling.

Tears blot the page before the ink can dry. You bite your lip to keep from sobbing, but it doesn’t help.

The words come slowly—not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts too much to say it.

When you finish it, you fold the letter slowly, tuck it into an envelope already addressed with your shaky handwriting. You place it on the small box next to your bed—all your letters, sealed and organized.

Wooyoung promised he’d deliver them if something happened. And you believe him.

The sun has dipped lower now, and Yeosang is gathering his things. He's dressed for filming, eyes tired, voice gentle.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks for the fifth time.

You nod, smiling “Yeah.” He lingers near the bed, hesitant. “Yeosang?”

“Hm?”

“…Thank you. For loving me. For staying. For making me feel like I wasn’t dying alone. You’ve been… everything.”

He frowns, stepping closer “Hey—hey, where’s that coming from?”

You reach for his hand, your grip so much weaker than it was even days ago “Just wanted to say it… in case.”

His throat bobs “You’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be scared.” You smile, tired but genuine. “Just remember that I love you. More than anyone in this life. You’ve made it beautiful, Yeosang.”

He bites his lip, eyes welling with emotion “You’re coming home. We’re going to beat this, okay?”

You nod, even though you both know it’s a lie.

He kisses your forehead gently, holding your hand longer than he should “I love you too,” He whispers, his voice cracking. “So much.”

Then he’s gone.

You watch the door close, and for the first time, the silence feels too big. You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of it all settle into your bones.

No more strength. No more words.

Just you.

You don't know how much time you spend looking at the ceiling, but you let out the softest breath like a whisper no one hears.

Your hand slips from the blanket.

The monitors slow… Then stop.

You die in that room—quiet, still, surrounded by goodbye letters and the sunlight you were always chasing. No one holds your hand. No one’s there to whisper your name.

And your biggest fear comes true.

You die alone.

⋆

"Okay, take a ten-minute break, everyone!" The director calls out after the choreography for the second verse wraps.

The room exhales all at once—a chorus of panting breaths, damp hair, and bodies sinking into the floor.

Some members collapse onto the ground, others shuffle to grab water bottles, sweat clinging to their skin.

Hongjoong claps his hands with a grin, voice laced with adrenaline “This is it, guys. This comeback... it’s going to be amazing.”

Everyone nods, smiling through their exhaustion, the air buzzing with the thrill of creation.

Until—

“Excuse me,” A staff member calls out gently, stepping into the rehearsal room, holding a phone in both hands.

Her voice wavers “I’m sorry to interrupt but… Yeosang-ssi, your phone’s been ringing nonstop since the last take.”

The room stills. Yeosang, who had been toweling the sweat from his neck, turns slowly. His brows draw together in immediate concern.

“From who?” He asks, walking toward her.

She hands the phone over, and he stares at the screen.

Six missed calls. All from an unknown number.

Seonghwa shifts on the floor, his stomach tightening. He and Wooyoung lock eyes.

They know something is wrong.

Yeosang doesn’t wait. He calls back with shaking fingers. The call connects after a single ring.

“Mr. Kang?” A voice answers gently—too gently. “We’re calling from Seoul National Hospital. I’m afraid we have… very difficult news.”

Everyone around him stops moving.

Yeosang’s throat tightens “W-What happened?”

“We tried—Mr. Kang, we tried everything, but… we couldn’t save her.”

The silence that follows isn’t quiet, it’s screaming.

“We’re so sorry for your loss.”

Yeosang’s knees buckle. He drops the phone mid-sentence, a choked sound tearing from his throat as if someone reached inside him and pulled out his soul. His body hits the floor with a dull thud, hands clawing at his chest.

“No… no—no, no, no, no,” He gasps. “She—no, she was okay this afternoon, I fed her—she smiled at me—she—”

“Yeosang?” Wooyoung is already by his side, falling to his knees, grabbing his friend’s shoulders as Yeosang sobs, broken and raw.

Seonghwa picks up the phone and listens numbly as the hospital confirms the worst. His face drains of color. He doesn’t speak—only slowly lowers the phone, trembling like a leaf.

“She’s dead?” Wooyoung whispers, his voice hollow.

Yeosang doesn’t answer. He can’t. He curls into himself, the wails coming now—full, loud, gut-wrenching. The kind of crying that tears your throat open, the kind that sounds like it shouldn’t come from a human being.

Everyone in the room freezes. Even Hongjoong goes pale, stepping forward slowly.

“What’s going on?”

Seonghwa finally turns to him, red-eyed and shaking “She’s gone,” He whispers.

“What?”

“She’s dead, Hongjoong.”

And that’s when it clicks.

The song. The way Yeosang had been acting like the world was ending. The way you had disappeared without telling him anything.

Hongjoong staggers back as if slapped. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even blink.

The words hang in the air like smoke: She’s dead.

They echo. They twist. But they don’t land.

He’s still standing in the center of the room, the choreography lights overhead casting long shadows down his face, but his eyes are unfocused, lost.

Yeosang is still crying—a broken, hoarse sound that scrapes at the walls. Wooyoung is holding him, whispering something against his temple. Seonghwa’s hands tremble at his sides as he stares at the floor.

But Hongjoong… He just blinks.

Dead? You can’t be dead.

You’re dramatic. Emotional. Reckless. But not dead.

He remembers the last call. The venom in his voice. The impatience. The threat.

He remembers not saying I love you back. Not once. Not even when you begged with silence.

He walks out of the studio like a ghost, no one stopping him.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s raining.

Because of course it is. Not a torrential downpour—just the kind of quiet drizzle that clings to black umbrellas and feels like the sky is crying in your place.

The room is quiet. Almost too quiet for a funeral. Like no one dares speak in fear of breaking the spell.

The casket is closed. Sleek. White. Lined with the delicate flowers you chose yourself.

There’s a photo framed above it—the one from your last birthday. You look beautiful in it. Young. Alive. Eyes sparkling.

Too alive to be gone.

Yeosang stands beside your casket with swollen eyes and a hollow heart. He hasn’t left your side since the doors opened.

Seonghwa is next to him. Rigid. Pale. The type of grief that looks like discipline but is actually just survival.

And then there’s Wooyoung. His eyes are glassy but dry—because he’s been holding something more important than tears: A small box.

Your box.

Inside, letters.

One for each member. Sealed, with their names written in your delicate handwriting.

As the ceremony ends, he moves silently, one by one.

First to San. He presses the envelope into San’s hand and doesn’t say a word.

San reads your name on the letter and immediately breaks. His shoulders hunch forward, and he walks away before anyone sees the tears come.

Then to Mingi, who clutches the letter to his chest and nods, trying to swallow the sob threatening to escape.

To Jongho, whose eyes glisten but lips stay shut.

To Yunho, who takes it gently, fingers trembling, and whispers, “Thank you.”

To Seonghwa, who doesn’t even blink—he just holds it and whispers, “I’ll read it when I’m ready.”

To Yeosang, whose fingers brush yours one last time before taking the letter. He holds it to his lips. Doesn’t speak. Just cries again.

And finally—To Hongjoong.

Wooyoung walks up to him slowly, jaw clenched. He hesitates—just for a second—before holding the letter out.

Hongjoong doesn’t take it. He stares at the paper like it might burn him. His face remains blank.

“She wrote it for you,” Wooyoung says, quiet, almost cruel. “You should read it.”

Hongjoong lifts his eyes, slow and tired “I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

The envelope slips from Wooyoung’s hand into Hongjoong’s. And for a long moment, Hongjoong just stares at it.

Your handwriting. Your last words.

To him.

His fingers close around it. He doesn’t cry. But his jaw locks, and his throat moves in one hard swallow.

The only thing he says is a whisper: “…I’m sorry.”

—

Later that night, the funeral is over. The sky is still weeping.

Hongjoong sits alone in his studio.

Not working. Not writing. Just sitting.

The letter sits on the table in front of him, untouched for hours. He’s been staring at it, afraid to open it, afraid to feel.

But eventually, his hand reaches out, slow and almost hesitant—like touching it might make it all real.

He breaks the seal. Your scent hits him faintly—that soft perfume you always wore—and already he’s breathless.

The paper shakes in his hands as he begins to read.

“To my love, my HongJoongie…”

That’s still how I think of you. Even after everything. Even now, even as I’m writing this with trembling fingers and bruised lungs. You’re still my Joongie.

I think I always knew.

About her.

The way your messages got shorter. How your voice lost that warmth. The way your eyes wandered, even when I was speaking. The way you smiled… just not at me anymore.

But I never asked. I didn’t want to break what was already cracking. I didn’t want to hear you say it, because then I couldn’t pretend anymore.

So I chose love. I chose you. Even when it hurt.

Hongjoong’s chest caves in.

His eyes blur. He wipes at them, but the shaking won’t stop now. He keeps reading, slower.

You were supposed to be my person. My safe place. I would’ve given everything just to be loved by you a little longer. Even if it meant swallowing all the pain. I wanted to be with you until the end, Joongie.

But the truth is…

I think you were already gone before I ever left.

He chokes. His hand flies to his mouth, like it might stop the noise rising in his throat.

But it’s too late.

A sharp sob rips from him. He bends forward, clutching the paper like it’s your hand and he can still hold on somehow.

The words blur.

But he forces himself to keep going.

You know, I used to be afraid of storms. The thunder always made me cry when I was little. But I grew out of it eventually.

I wish I could say the same about the fear of dying alone.

That one never left.

And now… I can feel it, Joongie. I can feel the end coming closer. And it’s cold. It’s terrifying. Because I think I’ll be alone when it comes. And I don’t want to be.

I don’t want to die without you.

Hongjoong breaks.

Completely.

No more holding back. No more numbness. Just grief. Ugly, gut-wrenching grief.

He collapses onto the floor, letter crumpled to his chest, sobbing like a man being ripped apart. Because he was supposed to protect you.

He was supposed to love you, stay with you, be there—through the storms, through the end.

But he let someone else into his bed while you were writing goodbye letters and choosing coffins.

He let you die alone.

And now there’s no song, no track, no apology that can bring you back.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

One Month Later

The company building is alive with quiet celebration.

It’s the day of the long-awaited comeback—photos are being taken, staff buzzing with excitement, members preparing for interviews and performances.

There are smiles.

But none of them quite reach the eyes.

Your absence is still a wound, deep and unhealed.

They all feel it — the silence where your voice used to be, the space you once filled so brightly now left hollow.

Then, somewhere between conversations and flashing lights—

“Delivery for Kang Yeosang?” A courier calls from the entrance.

Yeosang, confused, steps forward and takes the small, neatly wrapped box. His name is written in your handwriting.

There’s no mistaking it. His hands tremble. He opens it slowly.

Inside is a custom-made silver watch, the exact model he once told you about in passing—the one he never expected anyone to remember. The dial engraved with tiny, delicate script:

"For my favorite person: Happy Birthday, Yeosang. Love you always.’”

He stares at it, unable to speak. His chest tightens painfully.

Tears gather. A quiet, broken sob slips from him. Seonghwa puts a hand on his shoulder—and they don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

Across the building, another courier arrives.

“Delivery for KQ Entertainment – Congratulations Cake?”

The receptionist, puzzled, takes it.

It’s a beautiful cake—white and gold, elegant. The top reads in delicate frosting:

“Congratulations on your comeback. I’m so proud of you all.”

The members gather around it slowly, recognizing the handwriting on the card beside it before anyone speaks.

No one touches the cake. No one can move.

Wooyoung’s eyes well up first “...She planned all this,” he whispers. “Even when she knew she wouldn’t be here.”

Jongho’s jaw clenches. San turns his back to hide his tears. Mingi cries openly.

Hongjoong is the last to arrive, holding your letter in his pocket—worn and read a hundred times.

He sees the cake. He sees Yeosang clutching that watch like it’s the last thread of you left in the world.

And for the first time in days—He crumbles.

He sinks to his knees beside the table, staring at the cake, whispering your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak.

Because love this deep doesn’t disappear when you die.

You gave them all a part of you to keep.

Even him.

Even the one who broke you, and it’s only now that he realizes… You were the only light any of them ever needed.

And you were gone far too soon.

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#ggum.aki recs #ateez angst #kim hongjoong fanfic #ateez fanfic #ateez #ateez x female reader

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