Yandere Saja Boys x Fem Reader: Part 2.
Content: Fem Reader, Eventual Smut, Yandere.
Don’t worry y’all…stuff will start getting good soon, I suck at writing so bear with me😭
Jinu stares at the TV screen, watching the news lady with a scrunched up face of barely contained fear and hands gripping the edge of her desk too hard while explaining the missing person rate has only increased.
The Saja were off the hook, because what could they have possibly done to make nearly fifty thousand fans disappear in under twenty four hours? Along with the famous trio, Huntrx.
With those brats out of his way, Jinu has actually decided to start looking towards the future of the Saja boys. Backup dancers, choreography, a manager, a makeup artist.
Jinu had sent an invitation to Huntrx’s makeup artist, a girl known for her makeup skills, so much so that Huntrx were the ones who sought her out.
He had taken everything from them, even their lives, so why not just take everything else they hold dear?
Sighing, Jinu shuts off the TV, turning and looking at the scene before him.
Romance, ever the drama king, hisses at a demon to do his nails better, claiming he can’t go anywhere looking so, what was the word?…bland.
Abby is throwing hits at a punching bag that sways from the force, the brute too wrapped in his own world to care about the fact his demon markings were beginning to show, shimmering under the sweat gathering on his tan skin.
Baby lounges on the only sofa in the cold room, chugging down yet another bottle of soda while Mystery stares down at his luggage in confusion on how he’s supposed to fit all his clothes in it, head softly tilted like a confused pup.
Jinu never really knew them all that well, only that they agreed to his plan and here they are.
Although it didn’t take long for the demon to figure each one of them out.
Abby is obviously the brawn with no brain, he’s strong and cocky in his looks, and really he’s mostly known for his body. Although he can be needy and gentle when the moment calls for it, and talk about dumb…
Romance obviously represents love in the kpop community, although behind closed doors he can be a bit of a slut, whether it’s just flirting with everyone in sight, including the Saja boys, or just straight up being a prickly bitch.
Baby is cute and adorable to the public, it’s his act for the public for weird fans to coo over how adorable he is and how he’s ’just a baby’ in their words. Although with the Saja boys he’s really just a brat with a deep voice who gags in disgust at what a fan said to him earlier, even if it was sweet, mocking them like it’s his personal job.
Mystery is well…mystery…with his long lavender hair hiding his eyes and most his face, nobody really knows what he looks like, hell, even the Saja boys have no clue what his face looks like, but he’s protective and doesn’t talk much, sometimes his actions representing that of a dog.
And Jinu, the only one here with a normal name, and probably the most sane…probably.
“She hasn’t accepted the invite yet, and we leave in two days, we’re not leaving without the bitch.”
Jinu groans, hand carding through his silky black hair, nails scratching at his scalp in stress.
You, the last real connection to Huntrx, if they can get you on their side, they won’t have to worry about you spilling secrets, because something tells Jinu you know what they are, and it has him biting his inner cheek, trying to contain his nerves.
The room falls quiet for a moment.
“She’s thinking about it,” Mystery murmurs finally, voice low and coated in static, as though the words are trying to crawl back down his throat.
Mystery lifts a hand, lazily pointing to the corner of the room where a small orb floats—one of Gwi-ma’s many gifts. A surveillance spirit. Soul-tuned. And currently tethered to her.
“She opened the box,” he says. “She read the note.”
Baby lets out a dramatic gag from the couch. “She’s not gonna come, Jinu. She’s probably crying in her little Huntrx shrine or whatever.”
“She will come,” Jinu snaps, fangs pressing into the corner of his mouth. “She has nowhere else to go. Her world is ashes. And we just offered her a lighter.”
“Poetic,” Romance hums, blowing on his freshly filed claws. “What’s the plan, then? If she shows up and starts sobbing about dead girls and lost friendship bracelets, are we supposed to hug her?”
Jinu turns his back to them, staring once again at the black screen of the TV, his reflection faint and flickering against it. A ghost.
He thinks of Rumi again. How she looked at him like he wasn’t just a monster.
And how satisfying it had been to prove her wrong.
“She doesn’t need hugs,” he says quietly. “She needs purpose.”
The others pause, sensing the shift in his tone.
“She’s a creator. That’s what she is. She builds people up, makes them beautiful. That’s why Huntrx trusted her. Because she made them more.” Jinu looks over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “We’re going to let her do the same for us. Paint our faces. Cover the blood with glitter. Make monsters into idols.”
Abby snorts, dropping onto the floor to do crunches like this is all just background noise. “And if she refuses?”
Jinu smiles—slow and cold.
You glare at yet another invitation slipped under the front door of the Huntrx penthouse, you’ve been staying here for the past few days, hoping the girls with come back one day, while you wait restlessly on the couch, calling police of anyone who had anything to do with that damned Saja Boys concert.
No one had any information, and the more you blamed it on the Saja boys, the more people began thinking you were just being a bitch, so you’ve shut up for now to not lose your fans or career, things are already hard and you don’t want to end up broker than when you first stepped out of high school.
Their invitations come almost every hour now, and you know they are getting impatient.
With slightly chopped nails from chewing at them all week to calm your nerves, you carefully pick up the neatly folded envelope reading:
Flipping it open, you stare back at the words that sound almost like a…threat…
“ We're getting tired, you know we need you, and you need us, unless you want to lose your career because of how hesitant people are taking you in now?”
It’s cold, mocking, and you begin to wonder how they even know your on the verge of losing a career you worked so hard for, the streets have seemed so empty nowadays and you think you’ve seen a tweet or two commenting on how they think you are the reason Huntrx has disappeared, all because you were jealous of them or something.
Some people really just lose all their senses when something bad happens, and you honestly can’t blame them.
Maybe it’s grief, or just anger, or both.
Growling in annoyance, you squeeze the card, breaking the fine paper, before tearing it apart with annoyance, watching as it litters the floor.
You slide down the wall, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the ripped note. Pieces of it stick to your skin like the words are still trying to hold on to you.
“They’re not coming back,” you whisper to yourself, voice hoarse.
You’re starting to believe it.
You clench your jaw and stand, stepping over the glittering remains of the note. You head toward the mirror near the elevator—where the girls would do last-minute makeup checks before events. Your reflection is a ghost in borrowed light, smudged eyeliner and day-four hair. Your eyes look too big for your face.
Rubbing the smudged eyeliner to make it worse, you scoff, before doing it to the other eye, smudging the eyeliner so it looks like you’ve been crying.
That is until the real tears begin to spill.
Hot and wet, rolling down your cheeks as you stare back at yourself, quiet before you crumble to the floor, hands squeezing your chest, gasping for breath through ragged sobs that tear up your throat, spit falling from your mouth, although you're too broken to care, because you’ve lost any family worth keeping.
The crying doesn’t stop until your throat burns. Your cheeks are sticky, your chest sore from curling in too tightly, your nails dug so hard into your arms that crescent indents remain even when you let go.
You drag yourself back to the couch, the silence so loud it feels like your ears might pop. It used to be full of sound here—girls fighting over what to wear, music blasting, laughter, too many perfumes clashing in the air. Now it just smells like anxiety and old foundation.
You stare numbly at your hands, shoulders slumped and posture off.
Stupid Saja Boys…stupid demons..
Your mind flickers back to your smudged makeup, a face no one wants to see, and suddenly ideas begin swarming your head.
They don’t know that you know what they are, they might suspect it, but just asking bluntly would make them sound stupid and ridiculous. So obviously they are gonna be all sweet and soft with you, they want nothing other than your makeup skills.
And anybody should know not to trust another when it comes to skin, they are demons, they won’t know what some cream you rub into their skin will do, secret cream that with make their skin flaky, or give them pimples for days, ruining their beautiful faces for the crowd, all the while getting information on what they did to Huntrx.
They don’t know you, so why should they expect you to do all that?
Gosh you're so smart sometimes.
These Saja boys won’t know what hit ‘em.
The makeup studio is bustling with energy.
You’ve been gone for a while, and have simply told the other workers you’ve been grieving, which they understand.
You accepted the Saja boys offer, writing back on one of their cryptic notes before tossing it back outside for one of them to find.
You feel better, freshly showered, a clean layer of makeup on with baby pink eyeshadow and little gems in the corners of your eyes, lips shiny with lipgloss, skin gleaming from an island vanilla lotion.
You wear a light pink knitted vest over a white collared shirt, the vest is cropped and has pretty little designs on it. Below, a matching light pink fits snugly around your hips, with a similar knitted pattern. Silver rings on your fingers with matching silver earrings, you walk around in your white heels, bags already packed as you just need to finish packing up your makeup supplies, which is…a lot.
“Y/n? Are you sure you don’t want more foundation? You can never have too much, and it’s a long trip.”
One of the other makeup artists frets, a young woman who’s only just started in the makeup industry.
You turn to her with a tight-lipped smile.
“I’m good,” you say sweetly. “They already asked me to bring my best, and trust me, my best doesn’t need more than what’s in these bags.”
The girl nods, but she still looks unsure, clutching a beauty sponge like a security blanket. You remember being that nervous once—before you learned how to fake confidence so hard it became real.
Today, you feel different. Not like the crying mess on the penthouse floor. Today you’re poised, radiant, ready.
A shimmer of satisfaction creeps into your thoughts as you zip up your largest makeup kit, the inside packed with a delicate mix of professional-grade tools and a few very special additions—your own secret potions. Serums that look like skincare but cause delayed reactions: dry patches, redness, acne flare-ups. All subtle enough to pass as coincidence, or even stress from touring.
You’ll make them crumble from the outside in.
“I’ll be gone for a few weeks,” you tell the younger girl, lifting your roller case. “Maybe longer.”
“Be safe, okay?” she says.
The airport is busy, too many people, too many smells, all cramped in one big place.
You’ve already gone through all that security shit, simply waiting by the section that is taking off for Los Angeles.
You clutch your phone tightly between your now filed nails, not long enough to do anything yet, but you aren’t going places with chipped ones, that’s for sure.
Your thoughts flicker back to Rumi, Zoey, and Mira one last time, clinging onto an invisible rope that they are still alive, before looking at the time again.
The plane takes off in ten minutes, where the fuck are these guys?
You shift your weight from one heel to the other, the pointed tips starting to pinch at your toes. A sigh pushes past your lips. Ten minutes. That’s all they had. Ten minutes to show up like the self-obsessed celebrities they are. You glance at the large terminal clock overhead, its fluorescent digits blinking in steady rhythm, a constant reminder that your patience was bleeding thin.
With a frustrated groan, you lower your phone and start toward the café tucked into the corner of the terminal. You’ve been side-eying the menu for the past fifteen minutes anyway, craving something warm and sweet to fill the empty space gnawing at your stomach.
The floor beneath your heels clicks in a satisfying rhythm as you move past tired families with screaming toddlers, travel influencers snapping photos, and suited men pacing with phones pressed to their ears. A strange energy hums through the airport—a kind of anxious anticipation that always seems to settle in the air before a flight.
As you near the café, the scent of roasted espresso beans and steamed milk wraps around you like a cozy sweater, and you exhale slowly, your tension momentarily ebbing.
“One iced vanilla oatmilk latte, large, please,” you say to the sleepy barista behind the counter, placing your order with a small smile before slipping a few bills into the tip jar.
You lean against the counter, eyes drifting to your phone again, half-expecting a text from one of the Saja Boys even though they’ve never messaged you directly. Everything has been through those weird, handwritten letters and black envelopes scented faintly of smoke and decay—
Your thoughts are broken by a sudden shift in the air.
A high-pitched squeal cuts through the background noise of the terminal.
The buzz of the airport dims as if the air itself is holding its breath, replaced by an electric energy that races across the tiled floor and seeps into every corner of the terminal like wildfire. You straighten slowly, brows furrowing, latte forgotten.
The crowd parts like a living sea. Dozens of people rush to one side of the terminal near the private gate entrances, phones held high in trembling hands, flashes going off like miniature lightning strikes. People are pushing, climbing onto chairs, squealing names that blur into a chorus of hysteria.
You know instantly—without even seeing them—that it’s them.
The Saja Boys have arrived.
Your grip tightens around your phone as you step toward the commotion, angling yourself slightly behind a row of airport chairs so you can see without being seen.
Five of them, each one flanked by tall, black-clad bodyguards who move like shadows—silent, swift, and commanding. The Saja Boys walk as if they own the air around them, like royalty who don’t need to make eye contact to be worshipped. Cameras flash on them constantly. The crowd can’t get enough.
You recognize them even without knowing them.
Mystery walks at the center, draped in a violet silk hoodie with low-hanging sleeves and silver chains catching the light from every angle. Despite not being able to see his face, he seems rather calm, a little confused at all the commotion, but he offers a soft lipped smile to anyone begging for it.
Romance, beside him, is effortlessly charming—soft pink cardigan falling from one shoulder, lollipop in his mouth, eyes half-lidded as he waves lazily to the fans like they’re cute pets he’s indulging.
Baby is practically bouncing with faked energy, throwing finger hearts into the crowd with his pastel blue hair shiny and soft looking under the light, oversized headphones slung around his neck.
Abby and Jinu bring up the rear. Abby, aloof and sharp in head-to-toe black with dark rose sunglasses and glossed lips, offers a smirk and maybe a small flex to any of the squealing fans. Jinu walks with the confidence of a man who doesn’t need the spotlight to burn—his jet black hair styled perfectly, expression unreadable.
They’re unreal. Too perfect. Too designed.
They don’t look like people.
Your eyes flick toward the security guards holding the fans back, barking orders, keeping a narrow path clear to the gate. You hear bits of conversations fly past:
“Oh my god, Mystery smiled at me!”
“I touched Baby’s sleeve—his sleeve!”
“They’re even hotter in person, are you kidding me?”
“I think I’m gonna pass out—”
They haven’t noticed you.
Why would they? You’re just another face in the crowd, a blur behind pink gloss and silver earrings.
You turn slightly, giving them only your profile, careful to avoid locking eyes with any of them.
Your latte is finally handed to you, and you take a sip.
There’s something deeply ironic about this moment.
They’re right there—paraded like gods—and not a single one of them knows what you’ve packed into the silver cases in the belly of the plane.
They don’t know what you know.
They don’t know what you’ll do.
And maybe that’s what makes this so exciting.
You say a quick ‘thank you’ to the barista before turning and heading back to where your bag is, sitting down and watching as they all enter the waiting spot for Los Angeles, and you know they are looking for you, just by the way each of their sharp eyes scan the area- well…except Mystery…you aren’t even sure if he can see under all that hair.
You keep your eyes forward. Not toward them. Not toward the guards. Just ahead. Like you don’t notice them.
You take another sip of your latte. Steady hands. Calm breathing. Meanwhile, your heartbeat drums against your ribs, sharp and loud and traitorous.
You know when they’ve spotted you.
Romance is the first to approach. Of course he is. He peels away from the group with the slow strut. His lollipop dangles lazily from his fingers now, the glossy red catching light.
“Well, well…” he hums, standing just close enough to steal the heat off your skin. “You’re… not what I pictured.”
You don’t look up at him. Not fully. Just a blink, a tilt of your head. “Neither are you,” you murmur, voice flat.
That draws a crooked smile from him. He leans down a little, eyes raking your face like he’s trying to memorize it—or find a crack in it. “That’s cute” he muses.
He laughs, low and melodic, before flicking his gaze over his shoulder. “She’s here,” he calls, not bothering to hide his amusement, lips curved in a grin.
That’s when the others start moving.
Baby is second—practically skipping over, blue hair bouncing with every step. He crouches beside you, tilting his head gently, already trying to win you over with his looks.
“So you're our makeup artist?”
Abby stands a little farther back, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something dangerous in his smirk. “This is her?” he mutters to Jinu, who’s standing beside him now.
Jinu doesn’t answer at first. His eyes are locked on you. “Yeah,” he finally says, low. “It’s her.”
You blow softly over your latte, lips curving slightly. “Took you long enough,” you say, eyes flicking from one to the other. “Was the mirror too distracting?”
That pulls a few reactions.
Baby giggles like you told a joke.
Romance presses his palm to his chest, fake-offended.
Abby raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t correct the insult.
Your eyes snap to the time of the flight departure, now three minutes.
“Pleasure to work with you all.”
You grit out, before standing up with your small bag that holds a few snacks, makeup to reapply, your phone, and a few other small essentials.
Abby follows you close behind, and you have to bite back an insult for him to back off, because you know what they did, and just being near them is irking.
You're already regretting this…
I need to impregnate Abby.
