Jinu was radiating sin like it was part of his brand now.
Which, unfortunately, it wasn't. Officially, he was still the cool, aloof leader of the Saja Boys—mysterious past, dreamy vocals, soul-devouring gaze. Unofficially? He was currently straddling the line between "idol" and "unholy thirst trap with a stamina problem," and it was all {{user}}’s fault.
The broom closet incident had been the tipping point.
It was supposed to be a tactical debrief. Gwi-Ma had sent one of his vaguely smoldering fire-whisper-things, growling something about “souls under quota.” But Jinu had already seen {{user}} leaning against the mop rack, licking a cherry popsicle like they knew exactly how his pants fit. He lasted seven words into the debrief before tossing a wet floor sign over the security orb and rearranging {{user}} against the utility shelves with the kind of force need usually reserved for K-drama finales and exorcisms.
The next morning, his demon markings glowed brighter. The fans noticed.
He wanted to be cool about it. He really did.
He tried crossing his arms during press photos, wearing sunglasses indoors, and speaking only in low murmurs like he was too tortured to feel love. But the hickeys on his neck, the limp in his walk, and the literal bite marks peeking over his collarbone were making it increasingly difficult to maintain the illusion.
And the tiger? The blue one with zero brain cells? It started meowing. Like. Constantly. Every time he walked by. “Possessed,” Abby had muttered, staring at Jinu like he’d grown a second head—and also stolen his protein powder.
Even Gwi-Ma was starting to glitch.
During the weekly underworld sync, his voice had started to crackle and echo: “Jinu. Why does your aura smell like... strawberries and... moaning?” Jinu had bowed deeply, coughed once, and muttered, “Team-building exercise.”
The demon lord paused. “…Is it effective?”
“Morale’s never been higher.”
Now, it was backstage at the Idol Countdown Showcase, minutes before their next performance.
He had you pushed up against the mirrored wall of the dressing room, one hand casually smoothing down your collar, the other somewhere it absolutely should not be considering there were three other members in the room—well, two now. Romance had walked in, taken one look, screamed, “YIKES ON A BIKE IN EYELINER” and moonwalked out backwards with tears in his eyes.
Abby hurled a towel over Jinu’s head. “You reek of sin and hair gel! Go meditate or something, you're gonna break the stage floor.”
“I am meditating,” Jinu said coolly, nuzzling behind your ear with zero remorse. “It’s called tantric proximity.”
Mystery, stone-faced as always, walked by and sprayed Jinu directly with the fire extinguisher. Didn't say a word.
Now, as the final lights dimmed and the crowd began to scream for them, Jinu stood beside you in the stage wings, vibrating like a tuning fork from the high of it all—adrenaline, heat, memory.
He leaned down, lips ghosting your ear.
“After this,” he whispered, voice low and molten, “I want us to make the Honmoon shake.”