INTERLUDE: Me Know Me Love Me

Fifty-eight ways to shine - For you who will meet your most perfect time - Not, not, not yet, but 

Yuna's alarm blared at exactly 7 AM, her own voice cutting through the villa bedroom in that specific breathy tone she'd perfected, and for a solid ten seconds her brain couldn't process why the fuck she was hearing herself sing before she'd even opened her eyes.

Oh. Right. Her unreleased solo. 'Yet, But'.

She'd set it as her alarm three weeks ago when the demo had finally been approved, back when she'd still been riding the high of hearing the finished track for the first time and thinking holy shit I sound hot in this. Which she did. The breathiness in the chorus, the way her voice caught on certain syllables, that whole sexy-confident-vulnerable thing the producers had helped her nail - she'd listened to it on repeat for two days straight and decided she needed to wake up to that energy every morning.

Also, technically, it was practicing. If anyone asked why she had her own unreleased solo as her ringtone and alarm, she could say she was memorizing the phrasing, getting familiar with the rhythm, being professional and prepared for the eventual comeback. Very responsible. Very idol-like.

The fact that she mostly just liked hearing herself sound that good was irrelevant.

The downside - and she was realizing this now as she fumbled for her phone with one hand, eyes still closed - was that she'd completely forgotten to turn off her alarms for vacation. Which meant this was going to keep happening every morning at 7 AM sharp until she remembered to fix it, which, knowing her, would be approximately never.

Also, having her own unreleased solo as her ringtone had led to... a lot of missed calls. Like, a concerning amount. Because when someone called and her phone started blasting flawless, that's what you are in her own breathy voice, she'd just... let it play. She'd be standing in front of her mirror practicing angles for the upcoming MV shoot, checking if her waistline looked sharp enough during the chorus, making sure the crop top she'd picked for the comeback stage would show the right amount of abs and hips and ass when she did that body roll, and suddenly her ringtone would interrupt and she'd just... keep going. Let the call go to voicemail. She needed to verify that she looked as hot as she sounded.

The solo was dropping in two months - she had to make sure her body matched the energy of that breathy vocal, had to confirm that when she lip-synced in the mirror her expressions were sexy enough, confident enough, flawless enough to justify the song's whole vibe. She'd already been checking theqoo and Instiz religiously, monitoring what Korean netizens were saying about her recent performances, screenshotting the "Yuna's body is insane" posts from Nate Pann, saving the fancam compilations that guys she'd friendzoned kept DMing her with captions like "unnie you looked so pretty here ㅠㅠ" because yeah, she knew, she'd rewatched that particular stage fourteen times already.

Totally professional. Completely valid comeback preparation.

The fact that this meant she'd missed approximately sixty percent of her calls over the past three weeks was, again, a future-Yuna problem.

She swiped the alarm off and let her phone drop back onto the sheets, already drifting back toward sleep, back toward whatever she'd been dreaming about before her own voice had dragged her into consciousness.

Right. The dream.

The dream had been silly - something about gelato melting on her skin, strawberry or maybe champagne, one of those expensive flavors that tasted like summer and bad decisions - and she'd been half-awake, mid-stretch, when the alarm had interrupted. Now, settling back into the silk sheets, she registered what her body had been trying to tell her: thighs pressed together, wetness already pooling between them like her body had decided to start the party without consulting her brain first.

Which, okay, fine, she wasn't mad about it.

Morning. Wet. Iconic.

This was literally just how hot girls woke up, she decided, staring at the ceiling of her claimed bedroom while her fingers traced lazy circles over her stomach. The early morning light filtered through sheer curtains she'd hung yesterday - pink, obviously, because she had TASTE - and hit the silk sheets she'd brought from home at just the right angle to make everything look like a goddamn Barbie Dream House had exploded in here. Throw pillows everywhere. Her makeup scattered across the vanity in what she'd call "artful chaos" if anyone asked. That mirror she'd angled specifically so she could see herself from the bed because, like, why not?

She'd had this room for exactly one day and it already looked like Shin Yuna's Personal Territory: Do Not Enter Unless You're Hot.

Future me is going to look back at this villa and think: yes, THAT was the moment I became a woman.

She'd been saying that for three years, but whatever, this time she really meant it.

Yuna stretched again, arching her back off the mattress, and her sleep shirt - one of those oversized band tees she'd stolen from some guy whose name she'd already forgotten - rode up to expose her stomach, her ribs, the underside of her breasts. She watched herself in the mirror, tilted her head, adjusted the angle of her arm above her head. Better. More aesthetic. The kind of pose you'd screenshot if this were a movie about your life.

God, she was so hot it was literally unfair.

Her phone buzzed somewhere in the tangle of sheets and she ignored it, too focused on the fact that she was horny and had nowhere to be and the villa was quiet, which meant everyone was either still sleeping or already gone, and that meant she could be as loud as she wanted -

Actually, scratch that, old habits and all. Six years in dorms trained you to be creative with silence.

She rolled onto her side, then her stomach, pressing her hips into the mattress just to feel the friction, and okay, yeah, this was happening. This was absolutely happening. Her body had decided: horny, now, immediate action required.

Yuna groaned into her pillow - a little dramatic, a little annoyed, mostly turned on - and pushed herself up. Her shirt rode higher as she stood, bunching around her ribs, and when she stumbled toward the bathroom the villa's marble floors felt cool and perfect against her bare feet, this whole aesthetic contrast thing happening between the heat under her skin and the expensive architecture surrounding her.

She flicked on the bathroom light.

Caught her reflection in the mirror.

And stopped.

Oh.

Oh shit.

Her hair was a disaster - all bedhead tangles and sleep-messed waves falling across her shoulders in a way that should've looked terrible, probably did look terrible by normal standards, except it also looked kind of... hot? Like that specific "I just got railed" aesthetic except she hadn't gotten railed, she'd just woken up, which was somehow even better because it meant she looked like this naturally.

Yuna tilted her head, studying herself. Traced one finger along her collarbone, down to where her shirt's neckline cut across her chest. Her nipples were hard beneath the thin fabric, visible as two perfect points, and when she brushed her thumb over one of them she gasped.

Wait.

Why is this turning me on?

She knew why. She absolutely knew why. This was pure narcissism, getting wet from her own reflection, except knowing that didn't make it stop, didn't make her hand stop trailing lower, slipping under the hem of her shirt to feel the flat plane of her stomach, the slight curve of her hip.

"God, I'm a disaster," she whispered to her reflection, but she was already hooking her thumbs into her sleep shorts, pushing them down to pool at her ankles.

The bathroom counter was the perfect height. Cool marble against her ass when she hopped up, legs spreading automatically, and she propped her left foot on the sink edge for better access, better angle, better view of what she was about to do to herself.

Her pussy was already wet. Had been since she woke up, maybe before, and when she slid two fingers between her folds the slick heat made her bite her lip hard enough to hurt.

God.

She looked so hot like this.

One hand braced on the counter behind her, the other between her legs, face flushed pink in the mirror, lips parted around shallow breaths. This was peak visual content. This was the kind of image she'd save if she were filming, except she wasn't filming, she was just watching herself, mesmerized by the way her own fingers disappeared inside, the way her hips rolled forward seeking more friction.

Yuna pumped slowly at first. Lazy circles with her thumb over her clit while two fingers curled inside, hitting that spot that made her thighs tremble. She watched her own face in the mirror - watched the way her eyebrows drew together, the way her mouth fell open, the way her free hand came up to squeeze her breast through her shirt.

"Fuck," she breathed, and even her voice sounded hot right now, all breathy and desperate.

She added a third finger. The stretch made her gasp, made her eyes flutter closed for a second before she forced them open again because she needed to watch, needed to see herself come undone by her own hand. Her reflection was flushed now, chest heaving, hair falling forward to frame her face in this perfectly messy way that looked calculated even though it absolutely wasn't.

Her hips were moving on their own now. Grinding forward, fucking herself on her fingers while her thumb worked her clit in tight circles. The wet sounds echoed in the bathroom - obscene, filthy, the soundtrack to her narcissistic spiral - and she couldn't look away from the mirror, from the image of Shin Yuna finger-fucking herself in a luxury villa bathroom at what, seven in the morning?

Peak hot girl behavior. Absolutely iconic.

The orgasm built fast. She was good at this, had years of practice, knew exactly how to angle her fingers, exactly how much pressure on her clit, exactly when to speed up. Her thighs were shaking now, stomach muscles clenching, and she watched her own face in the mirror as she got closer, closer, right fucking there -

"Oh god," she gasped, and came hard, hips jerking forward, fingers buried deep while her whole body went tight and then melted, pleasure washing through her in waves that made her toes curl against the marble.

She slumped back against the mirror, breathing hard, fingers still inside herself and twitching with aftershocks.

That was... yeah. That was good.

Except.

Except she pulled her fingers out - slick and shiny, evidence glistening on her skin - and already her body was humming again. Satisfied for maybe thirty seconds before the restlessness crept back in. One orgasm down and she was somehow more turned on than before, like her body had just woken up and decided it wanted more, wanted everything, wanted something her own fingers couldn't give her.

"Are you kidding me right now?" she asked her reflection.

Her reflection didn't answer, just looked hot and flushed and ready for round two.

Yuna hopped off the counter, yanked her shorts back up, and tried to ignore the fact that she'd just masturbated to her own bedhead.

She had a reputation to maintain. Standards to uphold. She couldn't spend all morning getting herself off in increasingly narcissistic ways.

She could spend some of the morning doing that, obviously. Just not all of it.

The bathroom was all white tile and gold fixtures, the kind of luxury that made her feel like she was in a music video even when she was literally just peeing.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting on the toilet scrolling through her phone like a completely normal person doing completely normal morning things, except her shorts were around her ankles and her free hand was already sliding between her thighs before she'd even finished peeing.

Her phone lit up with group chat notifications. Multiple messages, rapid fire. Yuna squinted at the screen, still half-asleep, trying to process words while her body was already making other decisions.

Ryujin: guys im at the clinic lol
Chaeryeong: WHAT
Chaeryeong: ARE YOU OKAY
Chaeryeong: WHY ARE YOU AT THE CLINIC
Ryujin: chill its just routine
Ryujin: tho if anyone's keeping track of how many rounds i took last night id love to know
Ryujin: idk i lost count after the third rotation 💀

Yuna's eyes widened. Third rotation? What the fuck had Ryujin done last night? She'd disappeared from the barbecue early, and apparently she'd spent the night working through... what, an entire frat house? A whole villa of guys?

The competitive part of her brain immediately started calculating. Three rotations minimum. If that meant three rounds with multiple guys, that was at least... fuck, she couldn't do math right now, her hand was already between her legs and her brain was running on pure horny autopilot.

But still. Ryujin had outdone her. Again. Ryujin was at a CLINIC getting a full panel done because she'd gone that hard, and Yuna had spent last night in the villa doing absolutely nothing except scrolling through her own camera roll and going to bed early like some kind of boring person, which was pathetic and also irrelevant and also somehow making her competitive enough to get weirdly horny in a way she didn't want to examine.

She typed one-handed, her other hand still working between her thighs:

Yuna: unnie is your pussy okay??? 😭😭😭
Ryujin: my pussy is FINE
Ryujin: ur concern is noted and rejected

A small fart slipped out - totally natural, she was literally spreading her ass cheeks on a toilet seat after all - and she paused mid-scroll, fingers still between her legs, staring at her phone screen.

"Bless me," she giggled to the empty bathroom.

Then immediately went back to circling her clit like nothing had happened.

Chaeryeong: this is not funny!! ur at the CLINIC
Ryujin: manager-unnie is with me its fine
Ryujin: just being responsible ✨

Yuna bit her lip. Whatever. Ryujin could deal with her own pussy drama. Yuna had more important things to focus on - specifically, the fact that she was horny and sitting on a toilet and had a whole phone full of excellent material to work with.

This was so dumb. This was literally so dumb.

She didn't care.

Her Instagram feed loaded first - an explosion of filtered perfection, everyone looking their best, everyone pretending their lives were magazine-worthy - and Yuna scrolled past her members' posts (Ryujin at the gym, Chaeryeong with a latte, Yeji looking perfect as always), past sponsored content, past a few fan accounts, until she hit gold.

That actor. The host from last year's award show. Shirtless in his bathroom mirror, abs for days, that stupidly perfect jawline catching the light, the caption something about his workout routine like anyone actually cared about his workout routine when they were looking at him.

I had him, Yuna thought, and her fingers slid through her wetness easily, finding her clit without hesitation. I made him beg.

Which was true. She'd seduced him in the VIP section of the afterparty, let him buy her expensive cocktails and think he was being smooth, let him back her against a wall in some hallway and kiss her neck while she mentally calculated how long before he'd be desperate enough to do exactly what she wanted. Took him back to his hotel room and spent three hours reducing him to a whimpering mess - cocky confidence completely destroyed by her mouth, her hands, the way she'd ridden him until he was literally begging for permission to cum.

Men were so easy it was almost boring.

Almost.

Yuna circled her clit twice and then dipped two fingers inside, biting her lip at how wet she already was. Still slick from the mirror orgasm, still activated, her body running on pure horny autopilot at this point.

She kept scrolling with her free hand.

TikTok next. Her For You page knew her way too well - shirtless gym guys doing deadlifts, k-drama edits set to slow-motion romantic scenes, that one video of Sunwoo in the Calvin Klein ad that had been circulating for weeks. She paused on that one. Watched him smirk at the camera, all sharp jawline and bedroom eyes, and remembered Chaeryeong's spiral about him yesterday.

Yeah, okay, she could see it. He was hot. She'd probably fuck him if the opportunity came up and Chaeryeong wouldn't murder her for it.

Her fingers pumped faster, settling into the rhythm she'd perfected over years of efficient dorm-room masturbation. Quick, methodical, chasing that dopamine hit like it was a competitive sport.

Which, actually -

Her personal best was ninety seconds. That happened yesterday morning in her Seoul apartment, she'd managed it in under two minutes start to finish, and that included finding good material to look at - which was impressive considering she'd been on the clock, literally racing against their airport departure time because yeah, okay, she was horny and impulsive, but she wasn't going to make the entire group miss their flight to Jeju because she was too busy rubbing one out in her bathroom. Yeji-unnie would kill her. Well, not literally, but the disappointment in her eyes would make Yuna want to die, which was basically the same thing. She'd heard Ryujin banging on her bedroom door yelling "YUNA WE'RE LEAVING IN FIVE" and had just... gone faster. Finished with approximately ninety seconds to spare, threw on clothes, grabbed her suitcase, and made it to the van with wet hair and that specific post-orgasm flush that Chaeryeong had definitely noticed but was too polite to mention.

Could she beat that?

Although, okay, technically her ACTUAL most recent timed session had been on the actual plane to Jeju. In the cramped-ass airplane bathroom that smelled like chemical toilet cleaner and recycled air, barely enough room to turn around, and she'd still managed a respectable two minutes forty-three seconds despite having zero good material to work with - just her imagination and the memory of that Instagram model she'd hooked up with in Milan during Fashion Week.

The turbulence had helped, actually. Little bumps of the plane creating this random extra stimulation every time she hit an air pocket, and she'd had to bite down on her shirt sleeve to keep from making noise because airplane bathrooms had absolutely zero sound insulation and the flight attendant had been right outside.

She'd been weirdly proud of herself after. Like, that's adaptability. That's skill. Most people couldn't get themselves off in a tiny metal box at 30,000 feet with nothing but their imagination and some turbulence, but Yuna? Yuna was a professional.

Also she still hadn't joined the mile high club properly - like, with another actual person - and that was definitely on her sexy bucket list. Right up there with "fuck someone in a club bathroom" and "seduce a guy who doesn't speak Korean at all" and "try that thing Ryujin-unnie mentioned with the ice cubes."

Okay, focus. Current masturbation session. Stop thinking about your bucket list.

When she locked in like that, she was literally unstoppable.

Timer started. Hand back between her legs. Scrolling resumed.

Her camera roll was next - an absolute disaster of vanity and chaos, thousands of photos she'd taken of herself in various states of dress and undress, evidence of her own hotness carefully cataloged and stored. She had folders. She had a SYSTEM. "Evidence I'm Hot" was her main collection, but there were subcategories: "Good Outfit Days," "Gym Progress," "Sexy Accidents," and one very private folder labeled "DO NOT OPEN" that was absolutely getting opened right now.

Yuna tapped it.

Videos loaded. Her own face filled the screen - flushed and pretty and caught mid-moan in one clip, laughing breathlessly in another, biting her lip while her hand moved between her legs in a third. She'd filmed so many of these. Dozens, maybe hundreds, little thirty-second clips of her masturbating in various locations because she liked having proof of her own sexuality, liked being able to watch herself come undone, liked the narcissistic thrill of seeing Shin Yuna lose control.

She selected one at random. Hit play.

Video-Yuna was in bed, propped against pillows, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that had ridden up to expose her stomach, her thighs. The angle was perfect - phone balanced on something, pointed down at her spread legs - and she watched herself finger-fuck her own pussy with two fingers while her other hand squeezed her breast through the shirt.

Real-Yuna matched the rhythm. Pumped her fingers in time with the video, circled her clit when video-her did the same, breathing getting shallow when video-her started gasping.

This was peak degeneracy. Masturbating on a toilet while watching herself masturbate on video while still scrolling through more photos with her other hand. She was literally a disaster. A hot disaster. An iconic disaster.

Fifty-three seconds on the timer.

Her hips were rolling now, grinding forward into her own hand, and she had to brace her free elbow against her knee to keep the phone steady. The video showed her coming - back arching, mouth falling open in a silent moan - and Yuna felt her own orgasm building in response, this feedback loop of narcissistic arousal that probably said terrible things about her psyche.

The wetness between her legs was obscene. She could hear it - those slick pumping sounds mixing with video-her's gasping - and she added a third finger just to feel the stretch, to chase that edge of too-much that always pushed her over.

One minute twelve seconds.

Close. So close. Video-her was finished now, slumped against the pillows with a satisfied smile, and real-Yuna was right there, thighs shaking, fingers buried deep, thumb working her clit in frantic circles -

The phone almost slipped. She caught it with her chin, pressed it against her shoulder, kept scrolling one-handed nonchalantly through her camera roll while her other hand moved faster, harder, chasing that high.

Another video loaded automatically. This one was her in a bikini - different bikini, taken weeks ago on some beach - and she was adjusting the strings, tying them around her hips, except the angle showed everything, showed the way the fabric pulled tight against her pussy, showed the little damp spot already forming -

Yuna came.

One minute forty-eight seconds. Not her best, but considering she'd already orgasmed once this morning, pretty fucking impressive.

Her thighs clenched around her own hand, hips jerking forward as the pleasure hit in waves, and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from making noise because old habits and thin walls and roommate training. The orgasm rolled through her - sharp and bright and perfect - and she let her head fall back against the tile, breathing hard.

The timer kept running. She watched it hit two minutes before remembering to stop it.

Close enough. She'd count it as a win.

Yuna pulled her fingers out slowly, staring at the evidence glistening on her skin. Slick and shiny and absolutely filthy, and she was sitting on a toilet in a luxury villa after having just masturbated to videos of herself masturbating, which felt like it should be some kind of philosophical crisis except she literally didn't have the brain capacity to care right now.

She wiped her fingers on her discarded shorts.

Flushed.

Stood up and caught her reflection in the mirror again - face flushed, hair even messier than before, looking thoroughly fucked despite the fact that she'd done all the fucking herself.

"Yes," she whispered to no one, doing a little fist pump. "I'm literally unstoppable."

She showered fast. Hot water sluicing over her skin, washing away the evidence of her morning disasters, and okay yes she maybe spent a little too long with the detachable showerhead angled between her legs, but she stopped herself before it could escalate. She had PLANS. She had GOALS. She was going to find an actual human man and seduce him properly, not spend all morning in this bathroom having a one-woman sex marathon.

Probably.

The towel was soft and expensive against her skin when she stepped out. Everything in this villa was soft and expensive - the kind of luxury that made her feel like a main character in a movie about rich people doing rich people things. She wrapped her hair in the towel, grabbed the bottle of lotion from the counter, and started the post-shower ritual.

Arms first. Then shoulders. Stomach. The lotion smelled like vanilla and coconut, something tropical and vacation-appropriate, and Yuna worked it into her skin with practiced efficiency while mentally preparing herself for the beach hunt.

Confidence: check. Bikini: selected. Body: glowing and moisturized and ready to absolutely ruin some poor guy's entire life.

She moved to her legs. Started at her calves, worked her way up to her knees, her thighs.

That's where it got dangerous.

Her hands slipped higher, smoothing lotion over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and she felt it - that telltale pulse of arousal, that warmth spreading through her lower stomach that meant her body was gearing up for round three.

"No," Yuna told herself firmly. "Absolutely not. We're done. Hunt mode is activated. We need to save this energy for actual dick."

Her hands kept moving higher.

"Seriously! This is stupid. I literally just came twice. Twice! That's enough!"

Her thumb brushed the crease where her thigh met her hip.

She froze. Hand hovering right there, millimeters from where she was already getting wet again, her entire body screaming at her to just touch herself, just one more time, just a quick one and then she'd be satisfied, except she wouldn't be satisfied, she'd just want more, this was a pattern, this was a problem, this was -

Her hand stayed suspended in mid-air. Trembling slightly. So close to her pussy she could feel the heat radiating from her own skin.

Three seconds. She lasted three fucking seconds.

"Ugh okay FINE," she breathed, and her resolve shattered like glass. "Just a quick one. One more and then I'm done, I swear to god, one more -"

Who was she kidding? She was never done.

Yuna ditched the lotion bottle on the counter and braced both hands against the marble, spreading her legs wider. No time for aesthetics now, no performance, just pure need driving her hand between her thighs where she was already wet again, already slick and ready despite having finished less than five minutes ago.

This was a problem. This was definitely a problem. Normal people didn't orgasm twice and immediately need a third. Normal people had some kind of refractory period, some amount of time where their body was like "okay that's enough stimulation for now."

Yuna's body - which God had clearly spent extra time perfecting, at least in her opinion - had apparently missed that memo.

She fingered herself standing up - two fingers pumping fast and rough, no patience for buildup or teasing, just chasing that high again because apparently one more time would fix this, one more orgasm would satisfy whatever demon had possessed her libido this morning.

The bathroom mirror was right there. She could see herself if she tilted her head - legs spread, hand working between her thighs, face already flushed pink - and god she looked hot like this, looked desperate and messy and so perfectly fuckable.

Yuna bit her lip hard, added a third finger, felt the stretch and the pressure building already. Her free hand came up to brace against the mirror, palm flat against her own reflection, and she watched herself through half-lidded eyes while she fucked herself with increasing urgency.

Thirty seconds. Maybe less. Her thighs were shaking, stomach muscles clenching, and she curled her fingers up to hit that spot that made her gasp, made her hips jerk forward seeking more.

The orgasm hit sharp and sudden. She came with a strangled moan, forehead pressed against the mirror now, breathing fogging the glass while pleasure rolled through her in waves that felt almost too intense, almost painful in their brightness.

When it faded she was left gasping against her own reflection, legs trembling, hand still between her thighs.

Three. Three orgasms before eight in the morning and she was somehow MORE turned on than when she'd started.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" Yuna whispered to the mirror.

The mirror didn't answer.

She pulled her hand away slowly, stared at her fingers - slick again, evidence again - and felt that restless energy still humming under her skin. The orgasms weren't satisfying anything deep. They were just activating her more, winding her tighter, making her body scream for something her own hands couldn't provide.

She needed dick. She needed a man. She needed to feel wanted, desired, powerful, powerful in a way that went beyond making herself come in increasingly desperate locations, and this morning - this perfect, sunny, horny Jeju morning - she was going to find exactly what she needed.

"Fine," Yuna said out loud, pushing away from the mirror and reaching for a fresh towel. "FINE. We're doing this. Hunt mode: ACTIVATED."

She just had to look the part first.

The black bikini was a work of art.

Three pieces - top, bottoms, and a sheer black sash - all connected by delicate gold chains that draped across her ribs, her hips, catching the light every time she moved. High-cut bottoms that made her legs look even longer than they were, which was saying something because her legs were already, like, her main event. The top was barely there, two triangles of fabric held together by more chains, and when she adjusted it in the mirror, making sure everything was positioned exactly right, she looked like a goddamn Bond girl.

Or a Victoria's Secret Angel.

Or a very expensive yacht girlfriend.

All of the above, honestly.

Yuna practiced her surprised face - "Oh my god, I didn't see you there!" - with a slight lip bite, then adjusted. Too much? Not enough? She tried another version, this time with wider eyes and a softer mouth, the kind of innocent-but-not-really expression that made men stupid.

Perfect.

"Men are so easy," she told her reflection, tying the sash around her waist and watching how it clung to her curves. "Just look hot and make eye contact. It's literally a science."

She ran through her mental checklist:

Hair? Messy-on-purpose beach waves. Check.

Body? Tan, toned, strategically moisturized to look glowy under sunlight. Check.

Attitude? Main character energy, fully activated. Check.

Confidence? Through the fucking roof. Check.

She grabbed her phone - the pink case covered in puppies and hearts catching the light - and took one last mirror selfie. Flash. Click. Saved to camera roll. She had a folder called "Evidence I'm Hot" with like four thousand pictures in it, and this one definitely made the cut.

Then came the problem.

No pockets. Obviously. This bikini was three strategic pieces of fabric held together by gold chains and delusion - there was nowhere to put a phone.

Yuna tried sliding it into her bikini bottoms anyway, wedging the iPhone 16 Pro Max between the fabric and her ass cheeks. The phone was massive, the case even chunkier with all its three-dimensional puppy decorations, and the second she let go gravity remembered it existed.

The phone dropped.

Not out - the strings caught on her hip bones, held in place by sheer luck and the way the ties had settled - but DOWN. Straight down the crack of her ass into the fabric pocket of her bikini bottom like someone cannonballing into a hammock, and the weight of it stretched the material into this obscene sag that pulled the entire front of her bikini away from her body.

Yuna watched in the mirror, frozen in absolute horror, as her pussy became fully visible in the gap. The black fabric hung there, stretched taut by the weight of her phone, creating this ridiculous hammock situation where technically her bikini was still ON but doing absolutely nothing to cover anything important. The strings dug into her hips. The phone settled at the lowest point of the sag like a very expensive, very poorly placed counterweight.

She stared at her reflection.

Her phone stared back from inside her bikini, puppy case faces pressed against stretched fabric, its weight creating a view that would make her OnlyFans subscribers weep, if she were allowed to have one.

And then - because the universe had a sick sense of humor and also because she hadn't disabled raise-to-wake (because why would a chronically online hot mess do that) - the screen lit up. Her lockscreen wallpaper blazed to life in high definition: Yuna herself, obviously, from that View Map photoshoot last month where she'd worn the pink ribbed cardigan with glasses, hair half-up in that effortlessly pretty way, doing that side-glance thing that somehow managed to be both adorable and devastatingly seductive at the same time. Sultry eyes behind wire frames. Parted lips. One hand playing with her hair, the whole image radiating that specific "cute girl who knows exactly how not-cute her thoughts are" energy that had made the photographer nervously clear his throat.

The image was positioned perfectly in the phone's screen, her wallpaper-self staring up with that calculated seduction while the phone's angle - wedged at the absolute lowest point of her bikini's structural failure - created this absolutely devastating split-screen situation. Digital-Yuna doing her best "fuck me" eyes while real-Yuna's pussy lips were on full display mere centimeters above the screen, just as pink as digital-Yuna's ribbed cardigan and slightly parted from the triple-team fingerfucking she'd given herself moments earlier, the evidence of her morning absolutely visible in the way her flesh hadn't quite settled back together yet. It was like her phone was taking a selfie. Of her pussy. Using her own face as the background. The narcissism had achieved layers she didn't even know were possible.

"This is what I get for buying the Pro Max," she grumbled to herself.

Three long seconds of pure frozen mortification, and then she yanked the phone out - had to actually fish it out of the fabric pocket, fingers fumbling with the weight of it - and the bikini snapped back into place with an audible twap against her skin.

"Um. Okay," she said to her reflection, face flushed pink. "No phone then."

She set it back on the charging stand by the bed, telling herself this was actually fine, actually better even, because she'd need it later anyway to film herself when she was fucked silly and glowing, and having it fully charged would be way more practical than trying to carry it in a bikini that clearly had structural integrity issues.

Totally logical. Completely reasonable decision-making.

Okay. Beach time. Hot girl morning. The universe was about to deliver her a perfect specimen of male attention and she was ready to collect.

But not before unlocking it one more time to check the group chat. More messages had come through while she'd been struggling with structural engineering failures.

Chaeryeong: seonoo and i are doing tennis this morning if anyone wants to join!
Lia: stiill slleping sryy
Ryujin: im at the CLINIC remember
Chaeryeong: oh right!! hope everything is okay unnie 💕

Yuna typed quickly, balancing the phone in one hand while adjusting her bikini top with the other:

Yuna: going to the beach for some vitamin D 😉
Ryujin: get it girl
Chaeryeong: yuna its like 7am???
Yuna: early bird gets the worm or whatever

She hit send, set the phone face-up on the charging stand, and grabbed her sunglasses from the dresser.

The phone buzzed almost immediately. Then again. Then twice more in rapid succession.

Yuna didn't look back.

She slipped on her sunglasses - huge, expensive, the kind that said "I'm rich and hot and don't talk to me unless you're both" - and headed out into the early morning heat, the villa door closing behind her with a soft click.

The phone stayed on the nightstand, screen lighting up with new messages she'd never see. The charging cable glowed white. Notifications kept coming - Lia's 4am adventure, Chaeryeong's concern, Ryujin's clinic updates, all of it piling up unread while Yuna's pink bikini-clad figure disappeared down the path toward the beach, her sash fluttering in the ocean breeze, her long legs catching the sunlight, her ass swaying with each confident step.

The beach entrance was cinematic, because she MADE it cinematic.

Yuna walked down the wooden boardwalk with her hips swaying, her sash fluttering in the ocean breeze, her hair catching the sunlight like she was literally in a music video. Main character energy. Fully activated. The soundtrack in her head was something upbeat and sexy, maybe that Dua Lipa song about levitating, and she lowered her sunglasses just enough to scan the beach for options.

A seagull flew past.

She made eye contact with it.

You see this? she thought at the bird. This is how it's done.

The beach stretched out before her, all white sand and turquoise water and perfect vacation vibes, and Yuna took exactly three more steps before reality hit her like a freight train made of disappointment.

Where the fuck was everyone?

Okay, not everyone. There were people. There were lots of people, actually. Families setting up umbrellas. Old couples walking hand-in-hand near the water. Joggers doing their morning fitness thing. A whole dad-bod convention happening near the volleyball nets.

But hot guys? Single, fuckable, age-appropriate hot guys?

Well. Age-appropriate was a flexible concept. She wasn't picky about a few years in either direction. Or maybe more than a few. Look, if he was hot and made her feel like the only person on the beach - specifically made her feel pretty when he looked at her waist, her legs, all the parts she'd spent half an hour getting ready so people would look at them - then maybe she'd let him see the extras.

The thought made her grin.

But even by her extremely generous standards? Literally zero.

She checked her watch. 7:42 AM.

Oh.

Oh no.

She'd fucked up. She'd woken up horny and gotten ready and strutted down here like she owned the place, and she'd completely forgotten that hot guys didn't wake up before 10 AM during vacation. They were all still sleeping off hangovers from whatever party they'd been at last night - that RAVE actually, the one Ryujin-unnie wouldn't shut up about for an entire week leading up to this trip, the one where BLACKPINK performed, which, okay, Yuna was literally the president of the BLINK fanclub within ITZY (self-appointed, obviously, Ryujin claimed she didn't recognize that authority, whatever, Ryujin was just jealous of Yuna's dedication), and she'd wanted to go SO BADLY, like desperately, except she'd been in the middle of a 'situation' when tickets dropped.

Tuesday night. Or Wednesday morning. Right after their final comeback stage when she'd been running on pure adrenaline and stage high and had found that guy at the afterparty who'd actually known what he was doing, which was rare enough that she'd let him take her back to his hotel and fuck her until she literally couldn't remember her own name, let alone check her phone. She'd been too busy riding him, too busy making him beg, too busy taking victory selfies in his bathroom mirror at 4 AM with her hair a disaster and hickeys blooming on her neck, and by the time she'd finally surfaced from the post-sex haze and checked her notifications - seven missed calls from Ryujin, twelve texts in the group chat, one very pointed message that just said "BLINKS IN CRISIS MODE" - the entire thing was sold out.

And then. AND THEN. Ryujin-unnie had somehow scored TWO tickets and spent three days rubbing it in Yuna's face with that smug grin and those little comments like "Aw, maknae, you'll have fun at the villa though, right? While I'm seeing Rosé live? So sad you couldn't make it work," and Yuna had been THIS CLOSE to murdering her, actually looking up creative ways to hide a body on a tropical island on Pinterest, which in retrospect was never going to give her useful results but her brain just defaulted to Pinterest for everything and she hadn't thought that part through, except then Ryujin had decided - and this was the part that still stung, honestly - to take KARINA instead of her.

Karina. Who wasn't even ITZY. Who'd just happened to be texting Ryujin at the right moment, probably moaning about her breakup with that actor guy again - what was his name? Lee something? The way Ryujin put it, Karina had been mourning that relationship for like three months now, which would be touching and romantic except they'd only dated for six weeks. Six weeks. Yuna had food in her fridge older than that relationship - oh shit, which she'd forgotten to throw out before leaving for Jeju - and Karina was out here acting like she'd lost the love of her life. Which, okay, the guy was hot, Yuna would give her that, she'd definitely seen his shirtless scenes in whatever drama he'd been in, but still. The math wasn't mathing. That was a 2:1 mourning-to-relationship ratio. That was objectively unhinged behavior, and Yuna would know, because she was currently spiraling about missing a rave that happened last night while trolling for dick after masturbating for the third time to herself in the mirror in an hour, so her bar for "unhinged" was pretty fucking high. The thing is, Karina probably didn't even appreciate BLACKPINK properly, probably just went for the vibes or whatever, while Yuna would've actually CRIED seeing them perform because she'd been a Blink since predebut and had folders on her phone organized by member and knew all their b-sides and -

Okay. Okay, she needed to stop thinking about this or she'd get legitimately mad again, and that energy was NOT sexy, that energy was not going to help her find a guy to rail her until she couldn't walk.

The point was: all those hot guys were sleeping off that rave right now, or they were in hotel rooms with girls they'd picked up at said rave (probably not as hot as her, obviously, because Yuna was literally a ten on her worst day and an eleven when she tried), or they were literally anywhere except this beach at 7:42 in the goddamn morning.

Rookie mistake.

She tried the volleyball nets first. Three guys, all college-aged, all shaped like they'd never met a gym in their lives. One of them was wearing a fanny pack. A FANNY PACK.

"Sorry, next," Yuna muttered under her breath, adjusting her sunglasses before the lenses hid her eye roll. "Swipe." She wrinkled her nose in visible disgust and kept walking.

Then there was the guy passed out face-down on a towel near the water, literally still in last night's clothes, and another guy throwing up near the trash can while his friend patted his back.

"That's a no-no from me," Yuna said to herself, giving them a wide berth like they were diseased.

The next option was worse.

Middle-aged man. Speedo. Hairy chest. Making eye contact and holding it way, way too long.

Yuna's face went from "come hither" to "absolutely not" in point-two seconds flat. Olympic record for attraction-repulsion cycle. She turned on her heel and practically speed-walked in the other direction.

"God protects sluts and idiots," she whispered to the ocean, "and I'm both, so why is He testing me right now?"

Maybe this was karmic punishment for something. Maybe the universe was mad at her for that time she'd ghosted that guy after he'd flown to Seoul specifically to see her. Or that other time she'd made out with three different guys at the same club in one night, right in front of this cute trainee she'd been hooking up with. Or -

No. No, she'd done nothing wrong ever in her life. This was just bad timing.

She'd come back later. After 10 AM. When the hot guys had emerged from their caves.

Yuna was about to turn around, head back to the villa, maybe take a swim in the pool or something, when she saw him.

Decent face. Good shoulders. Tall enough. He was walking toward her with a surfboard under one arm, wetsuit unzipped to his waist, and okay, yeah, this could work. This could totally work.

She deployed the hip tilt. The casual hair flip. The "surprised" face she'd practiced earlier.

He noticed. He definitely noticed. He changed direction, walking straight toward her, and Yuna felt that little thrill of victory - see, she still had it, she was still hot, this morning wasn't a complete disaster -

"Hey," he said, smiling. American accent. Nice teeth. "You look like you could use some company."

"Oh my god," Yuna breathed, going for breathy and flirty. "I didn't see you there."

"Yeah?" He set his surfboard down in the sand, stepped closer. "You here on vacation?"

"Mhmm." She tilted her head, let the sun catch her face at the right angle. "Just for a few days. You?"

"Same. Just got here yesterday, actually. Been wanting to check out Jeju forever." He launched into what sounded like the beginning of a perfectly normal vacation conversation, and Yuna was already mentally planning how this would go - they'd talk for a few minutes, exchange numbers, maybe meet up tonight - actually, fuck it, why wait? She could probably just drag him back to the villa right now, back to her room, get what she needed and still have time to shower before anyone realized -

And then he said it.

"So I'm really into cryptocurrency right now. Have you heard about blockchain technology?"

Yuna's brain flatlined.

Like, complete system shutdown. Error 404. Nothing computed. Not a single word made sense.

He kept talking. Something about Bitcoin versus Ethereum. Decentralized finance. NFTs. Web3. The future of digital assets. His mouth was moving and sounds were coming out and Yuna was standing there with her flirty smile frozen on her face while her soul actively tried to claw its way out of her body through the back of her skull - carefully, though, because even in crisis mode her soul had the good sense not to damage these perfectly manicured nails.

Crypto.

He'd said the word "crypto" like it was a normal thing people discussed on beaches at 8 AM, like it wasn't literally the most unsexy topic in human history.

"...and that's why I think we're really at a pivotal moment for adoption," he was saying, gesturing enthusiastically with both hands now, completely oblivious to the fact that Yuna's eyes had glazed over approximately thirty seconds ago.

She tried to nod. Tried to look interested. Tried to do that thing where you tilt your head and make encouraging noises while your brain screams for mercy.

"Wow," she managed. "That's... yeah. Cool."

"Right? I knew you'd get it." He smiled wider, leaning in. "So what do you do? Are you in tech?"

"I'm in music," Yuna said automatically, and then realized that was a mistake because now he was going to ask which company and then she'd have to either lie or explain, and explaining meant prolonging this conversation, and she would literally rather walk into the ocean and drown than listen to one more word about cryptocurrency.

"Oh, sick! Have you heard about NFTs for musicians? Because I really think -"

"Actually," Yuna interrupted, backing up a step, "I just remembered I have a thing. A very important thing. Right now."

"Oh. Really?" He looked disappointed. "Maybe we could exchange numbers?"

"I would literally LOVE to," Yuna said, and patted her hips - the completely bare hips of a bikini that had never met a pocket in its designer life - before her face shifted through three distinct expressions in rapid succession: confusion, realization, then triumphant vindication. "But I left my phone at the villa! So tragic! Technology, am I right? Okay bye!"

She spun on her heel and power-walked away.

It would be a full thirty seconds before her brain caught up with the fact that she could've just... told him her number. That he could've repeated it back to her. That phones weren't actually required for the ancient ritual of number exchange.

But by then she was already halfway up the beach, and crypto guy was already a distant nightmare, and Yuna had convinced herself this was definitely his fault somehow.

She was walking back up the boardwalk at a speed that was definitely not casual, definitely not cool, absolutely ruining the sexy beach exit she'd planned, and she didn't care.

Crypto.

The word echoed in her head like a slur, like a disease, like a personal attack on her entire existence.

She said it out loud - "crypto" - just to confirm how terrible it sounded, and yeah, even worse the second time.

The universe was punishing her. This was definitely punishment. She'd done something terrible in a past life and now she was being sentenced to horny-but-unsatisfied purgatory where the only available men were either unconscious, geriatric, or financially literate in the most boring way possible.

Yuna trudged back toward the villa, her confidence thoroughly bruised, her ego slightly dented, and her body still thrumming with that unsatisfied need that the morning orgasm had only made worse.

This was supposed to be a hot girl morning.

This was supposed to be the beginning of her becoming a woman. Again. For real this time.

Instead she was walking back empty-handed, still horny, still disappointed, and trying very hard not to think about how she'd just been propositioned by a man who considered blockchain a form of foreplay.

The villa rose ahead of her, all white stone and blue tile and expensive architecture, and at least she could take a cold shower and regroup. Maybe everyone else was awake by now. Maybe they were having breakfast on the terrace and she could steal someone's mimosa and forget this morning ever happened.

Maybe -

She heard it before she saw anything.

Moaning.

Not subtle moaning. Not quiet, respectful vacation moaning.

Loud. Rhythmic. Absolutely shameless moaning coming from somewhere in the villa, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a headboard hitting a wall.

Yuna froze on the path, still too far away to see inside, just close enough to hear.

Oh my god.

OH MY GOD.

That was Yeji-unnie.

That was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent Yeji-unnie, and she sounded - Yuna's brain struggled to process it - she sounded wrecked. Breathy. That vocal fry thing she did when she was losing control. Soft gasps that built into louder moans, punctuated by lower, masculine groans that could only be Minho.

They were fucking. Right now. In the middle of the morning. And they were LOUD about it.

Yuna stood there like an idiot, bikini suddenly feeling way too revealing, while her unnie's voice carried through the open windows upstairs: "Yes - god, yes - right there -"

Her face went nuclear.

This was - she shouldn't be listening to this. She should walk away. She should give them privacy. This was none of her business and also extremely weird and also -

Also she was so turned on she could barely think straight.

Which was WRONG. So wrong. That was her unnie. That was Yeji-unnie having sex with her maybe-boyfriend-definitely-something, and Yuna shouldn't be standing here getting wet from the sounds alone, but her body didn't care about shoulds and shouldn'ts, her body just knew that someone was getting railed within earshot and she'd spent the entire morning trying and failing to find someone to do the same to her.

The headboard thumped harder. Faster. Yeji's moans got higher, more desperate.

Yuna needed to leave. Now. Immediately.

She practically ran to the villa's side entrance, the one that led to the pool terrace, because at least there she wouldn't have to walk past their bedroom door and risk making eye contact with anyone ever again.

The villa side entrance - the one by the pool that was SUPPOSED to be unlocked during the day - was right there. Salvation. Air conditioning. Maybe a mimosa to forget this morning ever happened. Or three mimosas. Or just lie face-down on the cool marble floors and let the universe know she was done participating in today's agenda.

Yuna tried the handle.

Locked.

She stared at the door like it had personally betrayed her, like it had woken up this morning and chosen violence specifically against her. This was not happening. This could not be happening. The universe was literally testing her at this point, running some kind of fucked-up social experiment to see how much horny disappointment one person could take before they just gave up and became a nun or something.

No no no no no, she tried again, pulling harder this time like maybe the door just needed some encouragement, like maybe it was shy and Yuna was used to boys being like that, except no it was definitely locked and she was definitely locked out and this was definitely a disaster.

"Fuck," Yuna whispered, pressing her forehead against the door. "Fuck fuck fuck."

No key card. No phone - she'd left it charging in her room like an idiot. There was a villa intercom by the pool entrance, one of those fancy mounted systems with a little screen, but using it meant buzzing up to the bedroom where Yeji and Minho were clearly still going at it, and what was she supposed to say? "Hey unnie, sorry to interrupt you getting your back blown out, but could you let me in?"

Absolutely fucking not.

She could wait. She could just sit out here on the terrace and wait for them to finish, except judging by the sounds still echoing from upstairs, they could be going for a while, and she was already overheated from the sun and the failed beach hunt and the mortifying experience of hearing her unnie sound like that.

The pool terrace was empty. Pristine. The infinity pool's surface was mirror-still, reflecting the early morning sky, and the sun was already burning hot enough that the tiles felt almost too warm under Yuna's bare feet.

Maybe the pool would help. Maybe if she got back in the water, let it drown out the sounds still echoing from upstairs, she could cool off and wait this out like a reasonable person.

Yuna slipped into the pool, let herself sink under the surface, eyes closed, holding her breath while the water closed over her head. Better. Quieter. The muffled underwater silence was almost peaceful.

Except she could still hear them. Even through the water, even with her ears submerged, Yeji's voice carried - distant and warped but unmistakable. The rhythm of it. The breathless desperation. The building intensity.

Yuna surfaced with a gasp, frustrated and overheated and somehow even more turned on than before.

This wasn't working. Nothing was working. She couldn't escape it, couldn't wait it out, couldn't just sit here in the pool pretending she wasn't getting wetter from the sounds alone than from the actual swimming.

She climbed out, water streaming off her body, and instead of sitting down to wait patiently like a normal person, she found herself walking to one of the loungers - the one positioned facing the ocean, away from the villa windows - and sitting down way too fast, her body already making decisions her brain hadn't approved yet.

I'm so dead if anyone catches me.

But she was so turned on it physically hurt, and she could still hear them - fainter now, muffled by distance, but still audible - and her hand was already sliding under the waistband of her bikini bottoms before she could stop herself.

Just once. Just quickly. Just to take the edge off.

She pulled the black fabric to the side, spread her legs, and sank two fingers inside.

Shin Yuna had been masturbating since she was fifteen - maybe earlier if you counted the exploratory stuff, the accidental discoveries that happened when you were just trying to figure out your own body - and she'd gotten good at it. Fast, efficient, quiet when she needed to be. She knew exactly what worked, exactly how to touch herself to get maximum results with minimum time.

This wasn't one of those times.

This was desperate. Messy. Her fingers pumped hard and fast, her other hand squeezing her breast through her bikini top before sliding down to rub her clit in rough circles. She was grinding into the lounger, hips rolling, creating a wet spot on the cushion beneath her, and she didn't care about being quiet or careful or anything except the building pressure low in her stomach.

The sun beat down on her exposed skin. The ocean crashed in the distance. Somewhere above her, Yeji's moans were getting breathier, higher, building toward what sounded like a really good finish.

"I could be louder than her," Yuna whispered to no one, and pressed her fingers deeper.

She could. She absolutely could. If that was Minho inside her instead of Yeji, she'd be screaming loud enough for the whole resort to hear, putting on a performance that would make her unnie's moans sound like amateur hour.

The thought made her clench around her own fingers.

Yuna bit her lip, arched her back, pressed her fingers deeper.

She was close. So close. Timing it, chasing it, trying to sync her rhythm with the sounds drifting from the villa. Yeji's voice was breaking now, that specific pitch that meant she was right there, and Yuna pushed harder, curled her fingers up to hit that spot, circled her clit faster -

Yeji came. A sharp cry, then breathless gasping, the unmistakable sounds of her unnie falling apart upstairs.

Yuna wasn't there yet.

Fuck.

She kept going, kept pumping, but the moment had passed. Her body was still wound tight, still desperate, but that perfect edge had slipped away when Yeji's sounds stopped. The competitive synchronization she'd been chasing was gone, and now she was just a girl finger-fucking herself on a pool lounger with no finish line in sight.

Above her, the villa went quiet. Post-sex silence. They were probably tangled together now, Minho holding Yeji, both of them coming down from whatever mind-blowing orgasm he'd just given her.

The image made Yuna's stomach twist with something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.

She pulled her fingers out, stared at them - slick and glistening in the sunlight - and felt the frustration build hotter than the arousal. Four attempts this morning. Four. And she still wasn't satisfied, still wasn't close to satisfied, and now she'd lost her chance to at least cum at the same time as Yeji, to prove something to herself even if no one else would ever know.

The quiet stretched. Seconds ticking into a minute, then two. Her pussy was still throbbing, still aching, and the break had only made it worse. Made her more aware of how empty she felt, how much she needed something her own fingers couldn't provide.

This time she didn't try for technique or timing. This time she just went for it - rough and fast and desperate, three fingers pumping while her thumb worked her clit in frantic circles.

This wasn't just horniness. This was something else, something tangled up with hearing Yeji sound like that, with jealousy and competition and wanting to prove she could be just as good, better even, if someone would just give her the chance.

She wanted to be wanted. Needed to feel desired in a way that went beyond her own hand between her legs. Needed validation that she was sexy and powerful and worth fucking properly.

Yuna added her pinky finger. Four fingers now, stretching herself almost painfully wide, and she had to muffle her moan against her own shoulder because this was too much, too intense, riding that edge between pleasure and pain that always made her come hardest.

The wetness was everywhere now. Dripping down her ass crack, pooling on the tiles beneath the lounger, coating her inner thighs in slick evidence of her desperation. Her hand was soaked - wrist, palm, fingers glistening in the late morning sunlight.

She tasted herself. Brought her free hand up to her mouth and sucked two fingers clean, eyes fluttering closed at the taste, salty-sweet and proof of her own arousal.

Then that hand went back to her clit.

Her hair was still damp from the pool, dripping water down her back and onto the cushion beneath her. The mix of pool water and arousal made everything slicker, messier. Her bikini bottoms were soaked through - impossible to tell anymore what was from the pool and what was from how desperately wet she was.

The mess was everywhere now. Water and arousal soaking through the cushion, dripping down to pool on the tiles beneath the lounger, coating her inner thighs in slick evidence of her desperation.

Her mind spiraled while her hand moved. Thought about Minho upstairs. Jesus. When had she started thinking about Minho? Since she'd heard him fucking Yeji. Since she'd registered the low timbre of his voice, the controlled power in those groans, the way he'd clearly been taking his time, building Yeji up slowly instead of just chasing his own orgasm. That's what made a man worth fucking - the ones who knew what they were doing, who treated it like an art form instead of a race to the finish. Thought about what he must look like right now, post-sex and satisfied, in Yeji-unnie's arms.

The pressure built again. Faster this time, sharper, like her body had been waiting for permission to let go. Her thighs started shaking. Her stomach muscles clenched tight.

Competitive instinct kicked in. She could win this. If she couldn't finish first, she could at least finish better, prove something to herself even if no one else would ever know.

Her thighs were trembling now. Stomach muscles clenched tight. The pressure building low in her belly felt almost unbearable, coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust of her fingers.

The sun was too hot on her skin, the lounger was soaked beneath her, and she was so fucking close now, right there, just a little more -

Her fingers hit just the right angle. Her thumb pressed down hard on her clit. Her whole body tensed, hovering on the edge of the best orgasm she'd had all morning.

So close. Right fucking there. Just one more thrust, one more circle, one more second -

The sound of a footstep on gravel.

She froze.

Every muscle in her body locked simultaneously. Fingers still buried three-deep inside her pussy, legs still spread obscenely wide, bikini bottoms pulled completely to the side exposing everything. Her hand on her clit went rigid mid-circle. Even her breathing stopped.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Her brain short-circuited. Complete system failure. No thoughts, just white noise panic and the horrible awareness of exactly how she must look right now - caught mid-masturbation, soaking wet, desperate and pathetic and completely exposed on a pool lounger in broad daylight. The squelch of her own arousal echoed in her ears as her fingers twitched involuntarily inside herself, her pussy clenching around them in confused protest at the sudden stillness.

This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. Maybe if she just stayed perfectly still whoever it was would leave, would walk away, would pretend they hadn't seen -

Slowly - so slowly it felt like torture, like her neck was moving through concrete - Yuna turned her head.

Minho. Minho-oppa. Standing there in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, hair still mussed from sex, looking like he'd just come downstairs for a casual post-sex swim and instead found his girlfriend's - well, not girlfriend, probably, maybe just the unnie he was clearly fucking the life out of - twenty-one-year-old maknae masturbating on the pool deck.

And he smelled like sex. Looked thoroughly fucked. The evidence of what he'd been doing for the last hour written all over his flushed skin, visible even from here - traces of cum still on him, his towel doing absolutely nothing to hide the half-hard cock already reacting to what he was seeing.

Neither of them moved.

Yuna's face went from normal to nuclear in approximately one second. Ears burning. Neck flushing. Chest turning pink beneath her bikini. Full-body mortification that started at her scalp and radiated down to her toes, which were still curled against the white cushion.

"M-Minho-oppa?!"

Her voice jumped two octaves. Cracked with panic. Sounded like she was asking a question even though the answer was obvious because he was right there and she was right here and this was happening and she was going to die.

She was going to actually die.

Right here on this pool lounger with her fingers inside herself and her bikini askew and her dignity scattered across the terrace like broken glass.

"I got LOCKED OUT, okay?!" The words exploded out of her in a rush, too loud, too defensive. "I went for a swim and didn't bring my phone or keys because I'm an IDIOT apparently!"

Minho just stared at her. His expression was unreadable. Probably because his brain was still processing what he was seeing.

"Chaeryeong-unnie left and Ryujin-unnie left and the door locked behind me!" Yuna kept talking, unable to stop, verbal diarrhea activated. "And then I came back and - do you guys have ANY idea how LOUD you are? Like I'm happy for you, truly, love that for unnie, but oh my GOD I thought someone was dying up there!"

She pulled her fingers out - audible squelch, oh god, why was there an audible squelch - and tried to fix her bikini, which was basically impossible because her hands were shaking and wet and everything was a disaster.

"So I went to the BEACH, right?" She was still talking. Why was she still talking? "To like, find someone. Anyone. But it's all old ahjussis and college boys who look like they've never seen a gym, and one guy tried to talk to me about CRYPTO -"

She said it like a slur. Like the worst possible insult.

"- so I came back and you guys were REALLY going and I was locked out and I just -"

Her hands were still trying to adjust her bikini. She wasn't succeeding. She was actually making it worse, smearing her own wetness across her stomach, her ribs, leaving glistening trails on her sun-warmed skin.

"I know you're Yeji-unnie's," Yuna said finally, voice going smaller. Defensive. "This wasn't about YOU, I was just -"

She made the mistake of looking up.

Really looking.

Minho's towel wasn't doing a very good job of hiding anything. Specifically, it wasn't hiding the very obvious erection tenting the white fabric, and Yuna's eyes went straight to it like a heat-seeking missile before she could stop herself.

Oh.

Oh.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips - automatic, instinctive - and she saw the exact moment he noticed, saw his jaw tighten, saw something flicker in his expression that made her stomach flip.

She was still mostly naked. Still spread out on the lounger. Still dripping wet in multiple ways, with the evidence of what she'd been doing literally pooled on the tiles beneath her and smeared across her skin.

And he was looking at her like -

Like -

Yuna's breath caught.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad.

And the way she was looking at him told a very different story than the one she'd just tried to tell.

Author's Note

Did anyone catch the title? It's a riff on Gossip Girl's iconic "You know you love me" sign-off, except filtered through Yuna's absolutely shameless narcissism. Because of course Yuna would make Blair Waldorf's manipulative confidence into something about how hot SHE is.

So anyway this chapter: imagine Barbie and Blair Waldorf in Spring Breakers, then Yuna made it her "Yet, But" music video. That's the vibe I was going for. I wanted you to feel like you were literally scrolling through her camera roll at 3am. Those rapid-fire selfie sessions, the luxury brand tags, the way her thoughts just spiral into run-on sentences that never stop because why would they, she's got more to say and also she's horny and also did you see how hot she looked in that mirror? The "literally" every three words, the parenthetical chaos, the whole overstimulated Gen Z internal monologue thing. If you felt trapped inside a 21-year-old's compulsively horny, ADHD-coded brain while she's masturbating on a toilet and timing herself, I succeeded.

Anyway, I love her. She's a handful and a disaster and I would die for her. Hope you enjoyed four orgasms, a bikini malfunction, and the world's most competitive toilet masturbation session. (Also: I've never written anything this girly before and it was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. If you liked it, that means the world! 💗)