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「𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘」 · masterlist
SYNOPSIS ➥ Clueless about what "manhood" entails, Hyunjin is supposed to get married to his childhood best friend a month after he turns eighteen, and his mother resorts to arranging a "makeshift wife" to train him for it.
This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only.
※ Hyunjin x Reader (f) — Arranged "Trainer" AU, SKZerton: Period Drama/Alternative History, Romance, Forced Proximity, Age Gap, Slowburn, Steamy
※ Commissioned by @straywrds
※ Reader discretion advised — Heavy religious elements, period-typical stereotypes and shallow views, explicit sexual content, strong language.
CONTENT · 「43.3k」 · Prologue: Gates of Hell · Day 1: Respect · Day 3: Respect · Day 8: Sharing · Day 12: Communication · Day 15: Sharing · Day 20: Communication · Day 23: Passion · Day 24: Passion: Pt. 1 ⋮ Pt. 2 ⋮ Pt. 3 ⋮ Pt. 4 ⋮ Pt. 5 · Day 25: Passion: Pt. 1 ⋮ Pt. 2 · Day 27: Love · Day 29: Love · Last Day: Devotion
「© 2021-2025, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」
Currently rereading this!! I wish I could have this as a paperback book. It would be so worn from constantly reading it over and over again.
「𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕」 · take vii
❝𝙾𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚍, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒’𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜!❞
➥ Hyunjin x Reader (f) — 6.9k
➥ Pornstar, Fake Dating-adjacent, Romantica
➥ When Jisung drops the spicy specs for the next shoot, you have a perfectionism-induced existential crisis. Hyunjin's solution is to take you to the bar two blocks down, blissfully unaware that the ghosts of his past are about to say "boo!"
Caution: Slippery when wet, keep a mop around. Contains Unprofessional lore updates.
𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝙴
“One thing.”
“Listen…”
“I asked for one thing, Hyunjin.”
“I said listen…”
“Listen to what? This was supposed to be our calling, and you fucking RUINED IT!”
“I GOT SCARED, OKAY?!”
“OF WHAT?”
“OF FAILURE. OF RIDICULE. I DON’T KNOW HOW NOT TO GIVE A SHIT LIKE YOU DO SO FUCKING WELL, GOLDEN BOY!!!”
“Yeah, keep doing that. Bet it’s super helpful to make your dreams come true, fucking coward.”
“A what?”
“A domme.”
“A what?”
“A domme,” Jisung repeated emphatically. “Why are you looking at me like I offended your entire lineage?”
Having a permanent record of you getting railed flat by the Sam Strokes in 8k was supposed to be the most “omg” trivia of your life. Then a certain Han Jisung decided to give it an expiration date of 72 hours and handed you the call sheet for the next episode, suddenly changing the trivia tag to “WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FRESH MOTHERFUCK?!”
HOW FUN!!!
“When I saw BDSM, I really didn’t expect to be the um…” you loudly cleared your throat, “...the giving party.”
Keep reading
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to go to prom with Hyunjin.
« Previous take ⁞ Next take (early access coming soon) »
「© 2025-26, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」
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I love this so much!!
「𝚙𝚏𝚏𝚝, 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛」 · 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗
❝𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟹 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚞❞
➥ Hyunjin x Reader (f) — 3.8k
➥ Hot Loser w/ a Big Dick, HornCom, Fluffy Sexy
➥ Contains: Astronomically horny inexperienced Hyunjin who is the human embodiment of the 🥺 emoji, 306.7 on the Dewey Decimal System, unbelievable amounts of cluelessness, cuteness aggression that makes you wanna fuck him harder
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Corruption fetishism
➥ You have legitimately thought the hot dude on the hookup app was faking cluelessness to troll you, but running into him at the library indeed confirms he's just... clueless. Naturally, new side quest unlocked: Corrupt his ass.
*a/n: i ♡ pathetic fictional men. going on a subby!skz bender, I'll see u on the other side.
“No. Nuh uh. Nope. HELL NAH. Nope.”
You’re about to rip your hair out from how boring your night is progressing, but you don’t feel like going out either. Who has the energy to frickin commute just to ogle hot guys downtown in 3 degrees Celsius? You can still ogle them from the comfort of your own bed, while pantless for that matter, in case something strikes your fancy juuust right.
Thus the swipe galore on the app reserved to entertain you on nights like this.
You have no intention of inviting someone over or meeting them out. All you seek is a bit of an ego boost over your hottest body shots, a bit of sexting to get the juices literally flowing, and the second you finish, adios motherfucker. The first few matches are predictably a bust. No one even has the courtesy of building up to it anymore, straight up cannonballing into “Nudes?”
But amidst the ocean of dick pics and gymbro thirst traps, an eccentric profile stands out like a sore thumb with a dumpling picture as the avatar.
googlehwangouts (26) just trying my luck
“Pfft, loser,” you snort to yourself.
You click on the profile to check him out, and the only thing missing is the literal word “DESPERATION” slapped in there somewhere. Either this guy is a legit virgin, or someone out there is trolling people in the name of a “social experiment”. HOWEVER…
Loser or not, the dude’s personal gallery also stands out, but it’s a different kind of standout. A really striking one, which is a bit sus.
You swipe right and send him a message.
me no way these pics are yours poser googlehwangouts ?? hello to you too why would i put someone else on my profile me google catfishing hwangouts googlehwangouts wait are you saying people might use my pics? youre not gonna do that are you??? thats very mean
“OH MY GOD, IS THIS GUY FOR REAL?” you yell to yourself in your bedroom, appalled at the answers you’re receiving. That’s too corny to be fake, but also way too clueless to be real.
me ofc not tell u what if you snap a pic of yourself rn i’ll believe it’s you googlehwangouts [img_0320.jpeg]
NAH.
This has to be a troll. Now you’re even more conflicted because Hangouts guy matches the pictures perfectly, and he is FUCKING GORGEOUS even in Netflix-and-Chill couture. Reclining on his bed, one arm tucked under his nape, he looks insanely tempting, and you’re supposed to believe no one’s bouncing on it all day every day, like…?
THIS man is trying his luck?
googlehwangouts your turn
There is a decision to be made here now.
You’re really not in the mood to entertain a troll, but on the off chance that he’s legit, this is a golden opportunity. A super cute, hot as fuck, desperate-for-action guy might be waiting for you on the other side, ready to get his brain fried. Despite your better judgement, your curiosity wins the race against logic by the narrowest of margins, and you find yourself snapping a picture of your pussy, making sure the lighting captures enough gloss. Then you hit Send and eagerly await his reaction.
And lo and behold…
googlehwangouts hahahahaireallywannafuckyouhahahaha
You’re dying laughing because in your head, he is ACTUALLY kicking his feet in his bed and hahahaing right now. You can’t believe the direction your night is taking, but you have to see this in person.
me wanna meet up?
Well, at least you had all the intention to until technology suddenly decided to go, “Bitch, sit your ass down.”
Error: Can’t connect.
Oh no.
You try sending the message again and again, but it won’t go through. You click on his profile, but it doesn’t open. You quit the app and log back in as a Hail Mary, and at long fucking last—
The chat is completely gone.
OH NO.
“The guy’s name... What was the guy’s name?!” you frantically ask yourself as if the app has a search feature, on the verge of angry tears. “Well, thank you internet for ruining yet another fucking Saturday!!!”
Overall, 12/10 night, huh?
On the frustration scale, that is.
Struggling noises are coming out of you as you walk into the library with a shelf’s worth of books, questioning how come a digital version for every book in existence is still not yet available. The stack in your arms is so high that you can’t even see two centimeters ahead, and you try your best to map your route from memory.
“Alright, Gerda. Here are your overdue books back, so please stop spamming my inbox,” you slam the miniature Pisa tower on the counter. “How much do I owe?”
“$22.50.”
NAH.
No, it’s not the egregious amount of late fees you have to pay; it’s who you’re going to pay it to that parts your lips open, and you briefly consider the possibility of thesis-prep-induced psychosis. The same big glasses, the same chain necklace, the same full lips are right there before you, and the name tag says Hwang Hyunjin.
It’s fucking Hangouts guy!
Are you drooling? You’re probably drooling.
“Is there something on my face?” he asks, not sarcastically at all.
YEAH THE LACK OF MY PUSSY??? is almost what you blurt out, but thankfully, your “functional society member” autopilot activates just at the right time to save you from a lifetime of embarrassment.
“HUH? No, not at all,” you shake your head and reach for your wallet.
As he processes the payment, you start examining him, maybe a bit too intensely, getting slightly mad at his out-of-this-world looks. Who the absolute FUCK looks like this? WHY is he “just trying his luck” in horny corners of the internet? Sure, he has a much more wholesome aura to him compared to the raging frat bros dominating the campus, but if he asks right now, you’ll still probably be down to suck his dick, like, is he not aware of how gorgeous he is?
When he gives you your receipt, your hands touch for the briefest moment, and you kinda get your answer.
He instantly turns beet red.
Fact tally—this guy is ridiculously hot, extremely shy, desperate enough to lurk on hookup apps for some action, but with a fucking dumpling picture instead of his million-dollar face, which makes him look like a badly made fake profile…
JACK—FUCKING—POT!
“Just so you know, the app glitched the other night. I didn’t quit the conversation,” you knowingly tell him in a hushed tone. “Do you still really wanna fuck me, Hwangouts?”
Oh, it’s confirmation galore when his face changes like he’s witnessing a brutal car crash. There is absolutely no room for doubt that you were talking to him the other night, and he’s so fucking cute that you have to exert massive effort to suppress the cuteness aggression noises that’s otherwise going to come out of you.
The pornhub in your mind is hyperactive, already putting him in all kinds of scenarios, all ending with you blowing his mind. He definitely has star student potential for pussy eating tutoring, so eager, so ready to please. Oh, he’d be so cute cumming all over his fist. Does he blush after he cums, too? Is he the clingy-after-sex kind? Because you’d so kiss those cheeks and let him climb you like a koala bear and just hhhhnnngghhhh…
“Hyunjin, can you come to the back for a second?!” Gerda calls out to him, effectively shattering your horny delusions.
“This isn’t over,” you whisper to him with a crooked smile, and while leaving his chair, Hyunjin almost topples over himself, unable to peel his eyes off of you like he’s in a trance.
When you leave the circulation desk that day, your Hyunsession officially kicks off.
Sure, you could just directly ask him out, and if his general demeanor is any indication, he’ll say yes in a heartbeat, but where’s the fun in that? Changing a touch-starved man’s life is not something to be rushed; you fully intend to savor every single moment of this experience.
No more overdue books for you. You’re at the library every day.
You set up camp there under the guise of doing thesis work, whereas all you do is watch Hwangouts do smart shit like it’s your bespoke red flag porn. The last you checked, you didn’t have a nerd fetish or anything, but this dumpling has definitely given you one, and you don’t really understand what it exactly is. Yes, he’s really cute, but that’s not the part that gives you Victorian levels of hysteria. It’s when he tutors people, says big words, and does quick math that a tear runs down your thighs for some reason.
Part of your daily routine is checking out different books regardless of how relevant they are to your research, as well as Hyunjin from head to toe. You always make sure your hands touch when you take the books from him, and watching him turn into a ripe tomato every time without fail pushes you closer and closer to losing your shit entirely. But you don’t talk. You never initiate a conversation.
It’s called edging, okay?
You just smile at him during your brief interactions, watching him swallow thickly as if you’re reciting the steamiest smut into his ear, and if he could look you in the eye, he would know. There are things he definitely notices, though, but only because they aren’t anywhere near your face.
The cute bras you wear, for example.
He thinks he’s being subtle peeking at your cleavage every time you lean into the desk, but he’s so not subtle, always shifting in his place to seemingly fix something under that counter, or suddenly sweating when he meets your eyes like he’s busted stealing. Well, because he is.
He steals so many glances that it’s at kleptomaniac levels at this point.
The thing is, when you drop stuff in his line of sight, or when you let slip tiny moans while heaving deep sighs, it’s all deliberate. You do it on purpose, fully aware of what kind of an effect it will have on him. Whereas Hyunjin is doing something, and you’re almost positive he doesn’t even make the connection in his head.
Motherfucker has no idea what that lollipop he constantly has in his mouth is doing to you, and one fateful night, you naturally fucking snap.
“Hi.”
Hyunjin stares at you for a good five seconds as he determines if he’s hallucinating the sound of your voice. When you softly chuckle at his aghast expression, he concludes that he has died and that his assigned angel is on welcome duty.
Wild assumption that he would end up in heaven when he constantly motorboats the cute bra girl in his head, but you get the idea.
“H–Hi,” he responds almost with no sound.
“There is a book I want on the 13th floor, but I can’t reach it,” you put your elbows on the desk and lean in. “Can you help me?”
He can’t fucking help it, okay?! They are right there in his face, perfectly framed for that matter, and as an incorrigible art whore, he’s conditioned to appreciate fine work.
“Sure,” he stands up to his feet, making sure he ties his flannel shirt around his waist first.
He follows you to the elevator, and the ride upstairs is so suffocatingly silent that you can almost hear yourself squeal. Obviously, there is a reason you’ve picked this floor. One, it’s emptier than what his balls will be like quite soon, and two, there is a shelf here that is of great strategic importance.
HQ306.7.
“There,” you point at the top shelf.
Hyunjin pulls the book for you, and of course checks what you are so interested in so close to midnight in the Sexual Relations section. He furiously blushes when he sees the title reads Kama Sutra: The Complete Collection.
“Here,” he hands you the book while looking at his shoes. “It’s a great read.”
You have to bite inside your cheeks not to burst out laughing. Of course he has read it, fucking munchkin, why are you even surprised?
“Do you have a girlfriend?” you ask out of nowhere, paying zero mind to making a smooth segue, and Hyunjin damn near catches on fire.
“W–WHY? Why— I’m— Ask— My— Why?”
HE’S SO CUTE WHAT THE FUCK?!
“I was just curious if you had someone to practice this with,” you nonchalantly shrug, expertly contradicting your violent inner meltdown. “It’s kinda insane to me that your dick still hasn’t eroded from getting so much head.”
It’s a fascinating phenomenon. You just stare at his cock, and it gets hard. Well, hard might not be the correct word because those jeans are about to go bye-bye.
And the way his eyes go out of focus, he’s clearly imagining it!
“I… don’t,” he finally answers in a small voice.
If he keeps being this sweet, you’re gonna sink your teeth into him. You’re gonna lick him to depletion like the lollipops he loves so much. You’re gonna gobble him up in one bite. He needs to cut it out immediately!
“So you’re telling me,” you take one step towards him, voice one octave lower, and ghost your hand over his crotch, “there’s no one to suck this every night?”
His eyes widen like you’ve just committed an unspeakable abomination, and that much is enough answer for you. You take one more step, getting close enough to him to feel the seizure-worthy fever he exudes, and his eyes close on their own.
“N–No,” he responds in an exhale.
“How long can you last if I sit on it?”
“I… can’t…”
“Or would you cum as soon as I touch you?”
“Please…”
“Or maybe you’re so pathetic,” you gently push him against the shelf, your hand sneaking around his throat, “that I can make you cum just with my words.”
“You’re s–so mean. Fuck…”
“Then why are you this hard for me?” you whisper against his lips. “It turns you on, doesn’t it?”
He can’t talk. He barely remembers how to breathe when you unzip him. Those few seconds feel like hours to both of you, but it’s so satisfying in some sick, twisted way. You’re a bit confused when you wrap your fingers around him, but when you take his cock out, you’re full-on dumbfounded.
Because what in the fucking Chernobyl?!
“You’re huge!” your jaw inadvertently drops.
“R–Really?” he looks at you in confusion.
“You’re fucking with me, right?” you protest, all exasperated. “Have you not seen any porn at all?”
“I mostly watch pussy closeups,” he replies, genuinely not understanding why you’re reacting like this.
“Pussy closeups,” you repeat, chuckling to yourself. “That’s just so you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your lips are so sexy, I think I’m gonna die if I don’t feel them on my pussy,” you swipe your thumb on his bottom lip and drag it down.
It comes as a very pleasant surprise when Hyunjin takes your finger in his mouth and sucks on it. You take his hand and put it under your skirt. He shivers for the briefest moment, but then he suddenly…
…turns into something.
He quickly pulls you in and switches places with you, trapping you between the shelf and himself. You wait for him to kiss you, but it never comes. You watch him kneel before you instead. He drags your panties down, looking up at you with gigantic eyes, and you fervently nod in response to encourage him. He lets out a comically heavy exhale, in disbelief that he’s actually facing a very real pussy like he’s hypnotized.
“Kiss it,” you order him quietly.
He holds onto your hips for support, then buries his face in your cunt. You told him to kiss to mean a tender peck, but when he starts making out with your clit unprompted, you make a mental note to call the psych ward to make a reservation.
Turns out, video training is real, and all those pussy closeups are coming in very handy right now.
“Oh my—god, Hyunjin…” you throw your head back, getting weaker and weaker in the knees.
You hold his head in place and start riding his face, and he just surrenders to you to let you use him however you want. He’s so obedient, so dangerously obedient that possessiveness suddenly rears its ugly head within you. You’ve claimed him. He’s yours now. If anyone wants a Hyunjin, they need to fucking go find their own because this smart cookie is you-parking-only from now on.
You spread your lips more, and he immediately latches onto your clit, happily humming as he sucks on it. You’re about to go crazy, completely melting in his mouth. Your eyes flutter close on their own with how lost you are in ecstasy, but out of nowhere, he squeezes your hips like he’s trying to say, “Look at me. Pay attention to me.”
He wants you to watch him.
Of course. Of course you’ll look at him. You’ll look at his impossibly gorgeous face. You’ll look into those soft brown eyes. You’ll look right at the spot his tongue connects to your core and licks your sanity out of you.
You’ll look right into his soul when he makes you cum.
“Good?” he asks through a loud slurp. “Am I doing good?”
“You’re doing fucking incredible,” you sigh, running your fingers through his silky locks.
His happy eating doesn’t last long. The fervent licks come to an abrupt halt, and he looks like he’s in mild pain.
“What’s wrong?” you furrow your brows with concern.
“If I keep doing it… I’m gonna cum,” he confesses.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Just… a few seconds,” he rests his head on your thighs. “Until I calm down.”
But you don’t let him calm down. You tap his shoulders instead and pull him up. You caress his face. You kiss his lips. But when you touch his cock, he jolts like he’s been electrocuted.
“You don't understand,” he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m really gonna—”
“Cum, I know,” you reassuringly smile at him. “If you promise to clean up your mess, you can do it inside me.”
You turn around and arch your ass for him, and that something he has turned into reaches its final form. You can swear you’ve heard a little growl come out of him. All he does is press his tip against your sodden entrance, but he’s already breathing heavily behind you. He takes forever to fully sink into you, extremely vigilant not to do any sudden moves, because otherwise…
All that carefulness, yet you still feel like you’re being split open.
His thrusts are so languid, but the sound of his skin against yours is insane. Your moans in his ears are insane. The sheer feeling of being inside you is insane.
Hyunjin’s going clinically insane, and he won’t be able to hold back anymore, no matter how much he resolves to.
He swiftly turns you around and pushes you against the shelf, wrapping one leg around his waist. He immediately aligns himself with you again, but this time he slides in with so much force that you see white.
“S–So full… God, don’t stop,” you claw his shoulders. “Fuck me dumb.”
“Ngh, kiss…” he whines.
He can’t even last until he receives his very wet kiss from you. Just two swirls of your tongue around his, and he completely falls apart. His soul leaves his body as he keeps moaning into your mouth, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. His frantic thrusts eventually come to a halt, and he looks utterly beat, yet he’s so cute that you wanna just cuddle him right there on the floor.
But as if he’s shot himself with an overdose of adrenaline, he suddenly perks up and drops to his knees, picking up where he’s left off like a starved animal. He holds onto your hips again and sticks his tongue out, making you rub your pussy on the slippery surface.
Definitely a move copped from the closeups.
“Oh, fuck… Fuck, yes, like that. Like that, oh my god HYUNJIN!!!”
Oh, he looks so proud as he watches you dismantle into your atoms; that’s the most sinister smile you’ve ever seen a man flash. You burst into a laughter fit with how hard you’ve cum, and he can’t help but laugh along with you. He looks beautiful when he smiles. Once both your feet touch the ground, however, he’s being a gentleman for no reason at all, putting your pants back up and fixing your hair, something you’re not used to at all. You suddenly get this urge to kiss him. You kiss him long and deep. You kiss him until you sweep him off his feet again.
You taste fucking fantastic on his tongue.
“Can I get your number?” you request, voice super fucked out.
“M–MINE?”
“I mean…” you look around, “I don’t see anyone else here.”
Poor baby, that must be the most violent post-nut clarity he’s experiencing, and it makes you giggle just to think about it. He saves his number on your phone, and as soon as you get it back, you snap a picture of your still-throbbing pussy and send it to him.
“There. That can be my contact picture,” you put the phone away. “What time are you getting out?”
“Midnight,” he answers, averting his eyes from you as if he wasn’t the one decimating you just ten seconds ago.
“Wanna come over?” you play with his collar.
“For… For what?” he asks, but you can’t hold back the excess endearment anymore and burst into hearty laughter.
“So I can sit on your face when I suck your dick,” you smirk at him.
“Can I… do things to it again?” he keeps intently examining the floor, still unable to hold your gaze. “With my mouth and stuff…”
“Yes, you can,” you gently bite his lips and pull him into a deep kiss.
You wait for him outside as he gets a little scolding from Gerda right before closing. It hasn’t even been thirty three seconds, yet as soon as you leave the library, you get a text from Hyunjin.
HUNGouts sorry i came in 33 seconds i love u
“Pfft, loser,” you snort to yourself with gigantic hearts shooting out of your eyes.
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Hyunjin whine for a kiss.
Inspo below. Cute, right?
「© 2026, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」
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Subby Hyunjin usually isn't my thing but of course you prove me wrong. This was adorable funny and wildly sexy.
Kate Chopin, from The Awakening
intended souls | a lullaby on his throat chapter five
pairing: demigod!hyunjin x f!reader | word count: 13k | genre: mythology au, romance | warnings: adult and sometimes dark themes ; complicated feelings ; angst ; elements of contemporary fantasy ; explicit sexual content. This work is for adult audiences only.
You had known it before, but you were certain now—you would love him even if it annihilated you molecule by molecule. It was not something you could control and yet it felt like a choice, a conscious decision. You loved Hyunjin, and for as long as your heart would beat and perhaps even after, you would continue to love him.
One never really gets used to solitude.
There is no getting used to loneliness, there is only an illusion of it. The origin of this mirage most often comes from one’s foolish desire to be anything but hollow. Because, at its core, isn’t this what loneliness is? To be lacking something, something substantial enough that its absence alters us? Not everything can cause such a feeling. Loneliness, the true kind. Not everything holds enough weight for us to be off-balance once it is taken away from us. Or rather, once it is taken from within us.
Sometimes, it can feel as though something precious melted and disappeared, or like it waited while we were looking the other way before sneaking out. There is violence in that, in this betrayal—it’s difficult to process the shift when we do not see it unfold.
Other times, solitude is expected—but only truly lonely people can understand such a thing. Some people are made lonely and others are born lonely. In this case, it is much like a curse, something that follows us everywhere we go, lurking, but never far.
In this case, it feels like the beautiful and precious thing has been denied to us. Like, perhaps, we failed some sort of test and were proven unworthy of it. There is no suitable analogy for it—we could compare it, however, to having our chest cut open with a badly sharpened knife before our heart is torn away. Most of the time, they don’t bother sewing us back up, and then we become the wound that was inflicted upon us. Bleeding, raw, unsightly enough that people look the other way so they don’t have to see it.
Only the best things can cause this sort of pain, only the most beautiful things can become so foul, so terrible.
When something makes you fly high, it means the fall is harder, more brutal, but unfortunately not lethal.
You never got used to solitude.
It followed you all your life, really—at one point, you told yourself that you were meant to be alone, so you tried to embrace it. And you did so successfully, but to embrace and to get used to it are two very different concepts, and, in fact, they have nothing to do with one another.
It was as you reflected on solitude that you came to realize that a large room full of people sounded a little like the ocean. Murmurs of conversations came all together to form a whole, the sound of it echoing on the walls and the high ceiling, like ripples on water. At its faintest, when fewer people were speaking, you could swear it sounded just like a river.
It reminded you of the river that ran through the city, coursing in curves, flowing gently and delicately, with pretty lights reflecting on it. The music of a violin playing and tickling your ears.
There were, more or less, three hundred guests attending the gala tonight.
It changed nothing to the fact that you had never in your life before felt as alone as you did in that moment, surrounded by people you knew and by strangers, too, in a place that ought to be familiar but wasn’t really.
The sea of them continued to whisper and talk and laugh, the sound of it often punctuated with glasses clinking or chairs scraping on the old floor when people pushed themselves up or sat down. A group of four passed near you as they returned from outside, smelling faintly of cigarettes and winter. You recognized one of the four as the head curator of a museum in Italy, one that you had visited during your Master’s and that you had particularly liked. The man, older now, noticed you and stopped as the rest of his group continued toward their table, a little farther down the room.
“It’s an honor to be invited here tonight,” the man told you, and you had to look up so you could look him in the eyes, or rather, to pretend that you were still human. He shook your hand, but in the end held both your hands in his, squeezing them. “I remember when you were a student, coming to the museum every day… I knew then that you were special. Congratulations, dear.”
You offered him a smile and a thank you, doing your best to look like you meant it. You did mean it, only you couldn’t figure out if it was relevant. If he had truly believed that something set you apart from the masses years ago, wouldn’t he have told you then?
Why wait until now to do it?
The background noise changed when the crowd began to clap politely. You looked at the front of the room, where a small stage had been put in place for the night. It was nicely decorated with warm lighting and real flowers and plants. As you were sitting very close, you could smell them, fresh and sweet. The focus of the decor, however, was the few pieces from the Deities exhibition that had been brought here, into the museum’s atrium. There were three paintings. The first one, on the left, was Agatheia and her three children, depicting the demigoddess sitting in her lush garden, smiling as she was surrounded by Kyma, Prokopios, and Hyathos, who, however, was staring out at the horizon, not quite living in the present moment. It had always been one of your favorite pieces.
The second, on the right, was a large painting showing most of the ancient gods. The scene did not exist in the myths—the gods were never mentioned to have been at the same place all at once, as too many of them were enemies or rivals. At the very top of the frame was Minhas, god of the skies, inevitability, and mortality. He could be seen watching the other gods from his high viewpoint, observing all of them pensively.
Just below, Amaranthos and Perikles were looking down upon the chaos that they had stirred while fighting one another—the first had a sword made of obsidian and the other, a spear made of gold. Kyma, being taken away by Thoros, with Agatheia holding her daughter’s hand, looking like she was trying to get her daughter back from the King of the Underworld. However, Prokopios lay dead at their feet, his skin drained of color, his eyes open and rigid. Sophronia was alone, the goddess of flowers sitting on a rock, weaving a crown of roses. Her gaze, however, was turned to Agatheia. Some texts said that the two goddesses kept a secret friendship, and that it was Sophronia who gifted Agatheia the most beautiful flowers of her garden.
Beneios was there, not too far from Perikles, holding his dead sister’s body, her heart pierced by one of Perikles’ golden arrows. His expression could not be seen, but one could understand his pain and mourning in his posture and in the love with which he held his sister.
At the center of it all was Ismene, on her island, tall and radiant. She stood, towering over the god of light himself—Feliks was with her, on his knees as though he was seeking atonement, or simply begging his aunt for something. There were tears in his eyes and they resembled sun rays, illuminating his despondent expression.
Hyathos was with no one else. Unlike Sophronia, he wasn’t just alone—he was lonely, an arm outstretched, his fingertips caressed by the light spilling from Feliks’ tears. He stood, his ankles caressed by tall grass, his long, soft-brown hair floating in the wind. The expression on his face was complex, often named by art historians as one of the best portraits of its time. He was yearning for something and yet dreading it at once, nostalgic, bittersweet. The more one stared at him, the more emotions appeared—grief, fear, envy, anguish, curiosity. His eyes, it seemed, held whole entire worlds inside of them. You had written well over a hundred thousand words about this depiction of Hyathos alone, and it seemed like there was just as much to say about it still.
The last of the three paintings had been placed at the center. With no great surprise, it was The Cypress Tree, the most sought-after and cherished painting from the exhibition. Even from here, it seemed like you could feel the warmth emanating from it, from its lifelike radiance. It reminded you of the way the sun used to look—a debate that was still ongoing, as some people perceived a change in the color and aspect of sunlight while others did not. Scientists were studying the phenomenon but absolutely nothing hinted that something had changed in the atmosphere, the sky, or with the sun—the sun was the sun, as it had always been. Only, to you, and to some others, it looked different, in a way that could hardly be explained with words. It was in these moments that you envied painters. You thought that Arthur Calverley, who had so beautifully painted sunlight in The Cypress Tree, would have been able to convey this new luminescence with accuracy.
You watched as a woman made her way to the stage, stopping behind the reading stand, lowering the microphone until it was at a comfortable height for her. She seemed at ease in her professional-looking cocktail dress, gazing at the vast room with a smile on her face, looking amused.
The room fell silent almost instantly and all the heads turned in her direction, except for yours. Even as she began speaking and introducing herself as the Dean of the university that presented the Alden Breay Award. You had spoken with her a few times over the phone and again tonight, meeting her in the flesh for the first time. She was a hyper type of person, yet intelligent and witty. It showed as she spoke to the crowd, explaining how the award had come to exist.
You, however, were contemplating how it would be you, very soon, standing on that stage, giving your speech. In front of all of these people and a handful of cameras. Tonight’s ceremony was one of the most highly anticipated of the year, maybe especially since it also happened to be the day you launched the first three books on Cipherian. The first one was a dictionary, and the second was an analysis and explanation of the language’s complex grammar, including its even more obscure dialects.
The last book was the one you hated most. Or loved most. Or, somehow, both at once. It was the one you had begun to write before you had even processed the fact that you had suddenly acquired this language—the one you had so ardently wished to share with Hyunjin.
It was a huge book—a complete translation of the most important texts of the ancient myths, accompanied by comprehensive and detailed essays that you wrote, from the perspective of the only person on earth who could understand them completely. For now, at least, as you had no doubt that linguists and amateurs alike would soon know Cipherian as well as you did, or perhaps even better, rendering you useless once again. Some days, you couldn’t wait for it to happen, wanting nothing more than to be invisible and forgotten, knowing very well that it would leave yet another scar the day it would come true.
It was that book you were the most proud of. You would write other books like it—had already started to do so—with more texts and more translations. Now that you knew the language they were written in, the ancient myths were deeper, more textured. More real, too, somehow.
You did not pay much attention to the Dean as she spoke, instead you focused on the rest of the room, maybe trying to get used to the sight of all these people.
Jisung must have sensed your unease because he reached for your hand under the round table, squeezing it in his. He was most likely just as nervous as you were, considering how clammy his skin was. Yet you appreciated the gesture, turning to him with a joyless smile, to which he responded with an equally flat one. He looked especially nice tonight with his hair combed to the side and a fancy navy-colored suit. He was sitting between you and Seungmin, who also looked especially dapper in a charcoal outfit.
You shared your table, also, with the staff from the museum. Minji sat across from you, obviously agitated but in a giddy kind of way, almost childish. You envied her—she was, a little, the girl you wished you had been at her age. But unlike Minji, you had been born lonely, and you could not change that. When Mrs. Yoo noticed that you were looking in her direction, she mouthed a gentle It’ll be alright at you, making you wonder if it was very apparent that you felt like you were about to throw up.
“Deep breaths,” Jisung whispered into your ear. He had sprayed a little too much cologne tonight, but its vivid scent served as an anchor.
Deep breaths. Easier said than done.
You put a hand over your chest in a lame attempt at calming down. You could feel your pulse through your ribcage, crazed and unsteady.
Your fingers ran into something cool and you wrapped your hand around it, suddenly remembering the existence of the necklace hanging around your neck.
A few hours ago, as you were getting ready for tonight, Jisung entered your hotel room with a small box. It’s for you, he said, handing it over. A gift. And he had never really been the one to buy gifts, so it was suspicious. The gift turned out to be an absolutely stunning yet delicate white gold chain with a small pendant. The pendant was a green garnet whose deep shade of viridian fascinated anybody who looked at it. It was reminiscent of the ocean and a forest at once, and everything in between.
There’s no way you bought this, you told Jisung. Your reasoning was simple—he didn’t buy gifts, and if he was going to buy gifts, they wouldn’t be as nice as this necklace. Only someone with refined taste would pick this over other necklaces. And, lastly, there was no way in hell he could afford it, even if you paid him well. You chose this necklace?
The thing with Jisung is that he is a terrible liar. It was actually that very fact that led to the demise of your situationship. When you clearly began showing signs of the Catching Feelings disease, he recoiled immediately and was not inconspicuous about it, no matter how hard he tried. And you knew he tried just so he wouldn’t hurt you. And it was such a stupid thing to do, yet everyone did it—there was no way one could fully protect another from the truth. Nothing could soften the blow—it could only be delayed.
Of course I chose it. But when he saw in your eyes that you didn’t believe him, Jisung added, The lady at the store helped me. Which made total sense, and you probably would have believed him if you didn’t suspect this necklace to be custom-made and worth several thousand dollars.
You wondered if maybe Jisung needed to get laid. After all, he had left this girl he had started seeing after you. He said things didn’t work out. He had been with her for less than a month, even less time than he had spent fooling around with you. After that had been the beginning of the chaos, and he had started following you anywhere—you were not aware of him seeing girls. So you figured that maybe he was hoping you would fuck him in exchange for this insanely expensive necklace.
Thing is, you could be convinced. Maybe you would suck his cock after the gala, in the car on your way back to the hotel suite that had been offered to you since it was closer to the museum than your apartment was. You knew it made him crazy when you looked him in the eyes as he spilled himself into your mouth. After that, you could let him fuck you in the hotel room, on the couch maybe, or against a wall. Jisung fucked desperately, always. You used to like it because you had believed he was desperate for you. You had been a fool, though.
You did not love him. There had been a time when you thought you loved Jisung. But that was before you knew what love was really like.
You nervously fidgeted with the necklace, fully aware that daydreaming about letting your almost-ex hit it just to feel something was not the best coping mechanism.
On stage, the Dean had just spoken your name, inviting you to join her so she could officially hand you the award you had been granted. Your heart jumped in your chest and it felt like it came to a stop, much like your breathing, or the flow of time. For a brief moment, silence reigned in the atrium.
Your gaze flew upwards, lingering on the large skylight that the ceiling was made of. The sky was dark and raindrops rolled down the curved glass.
The thing with solitude is it doesn’t matter if you’ve had it for a long time or not, if you expected it or not—it is always quiet and furtive and violent. And it hit you exactly at that moment. The magnitude of your loneliness. The weight of it—crushing and unforgiving. Maybe you had known for a while but hadn’t been brave enough to admit it to yourself.
You would never be truly happy again. Not without Hyunjin.
You had tasted what genuine contentment was like, you had known what true love felt like, and now everything was bland compared to it. There was no point in chasing a similar feeling because it wouldn’t exist, not without him. There would be days when you would feel joy but you would never be really happy. Something would always be lacking in your life, lacking from you—he had left, it felt like, thousands of little voids in your body and your soul.
You did not want the award. You never asked for it. You let Seungmin and Jisung convince you that you should take it, if only for the monetary prize that would be split between you and the museum. You didn’t need money. You did not want it.
The person you wanted to share all of this with was gone.
A comforting hand pressed itself in between your shoulder blades—Jisung gave you a gentle nudge as a reminder that you had to stand up.
Your legs were weak, trembling yet stiff, but you managed to push yourself up, a little too aware that all the heads were turned toward you, now. As soon as you stood straight, the entire room erupted in enthusiastic applause, the sound of it echoing on the walls, made even louder by the acoustics of the room. You smoothed out your pretty ball gown before closing your hands into fists, your fingernails digging into your palm, as Jisung stood after you, now pressing his hand at the small of your back to invite you to come with him. He took his role of security guard very seriously, but then he had also taken himself very seriously when he had been head of security here, so it shouldn’t surprise you.
“Let’s go now,” you heard him mutter as he guided you toward the front of the room, regularly looking around as if he was fully expecting doom to fall upon you. He kept you close. The plan was that he would wait by the stage while you gave your speech, but now you found yourself wishing he would climb up there with you just so you wouldn’t be alone.
Then you remembered the rift between alone and lonely.
He did help you up the steps though, holding your hand until the last second and giving it a squeeze before releasing you. The spotlights were warm and blinded you enough that you could barely see more than a few tables away—you couldn’t even make out the far end of the atrium, for which you were grateful. You could only imagine it would be easier to read your speech.
The Dean welcomed you warmly, introducing you once again into the microphone while an assistant was bringing the trophy. It was smaller than you expected it to be, yet no less beautiful—made of glass, gold and bronze, it depicted a woman, Alden Breay’s wife, sitting at a desk and seemingly writing. It was his wife’s essay on geopolitics that had inspired him the award in the first place, because, at the time, institutions wanted nothing to do with an essay on politics written by a woman. Breay had to claim the essay as his for it to see the light of day. He had sworn that worthy scholars should never go unheard and ignored again.
You were handed your trophy, which was heavier than it seemed and cool to the touch. You looked at it for a few seconds while the applause gained in volume and ardor. A nervous smile painted itself on your lips, and you took a moment to observe the trophy again, on which your name had been engraved, followed by for her immense contribution to the world of history, linguistics, and art, which changed the world.
You put the trophy down, causing the applause to slowly come to a stop, but not before you heard a few familiar voices calling your name—Minji and Mrs. Yoo, but also your mother, your sister, and your uncle, who had traveled for hours just to be here tonight. Tears welled up in your eyes while the importance of the moment was trying to make its way in the deepest corners of your mind.
From his spot, Jisung handed you the two sheets on which you had printed your speech—it had taken many hours to settle on a final version, and many people had helped. You unfolded it with shaking hands, staring at the words on the first sheet, reading the first sentence. Thank you for being here tonight. It is an honor to stand before you to accept this award.
Not inaccurate or anything, and yet.
Almost painfully, you lifted your head, really looking at the room. Now that your eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the lights, you could see better, although the faces remained unreadable. There were so many people. You gave lectures sometimes or participated in various speaking engagements, but never in front of a crowd like this. You hadn’t even been this nervous during your PhD presentation.
You cleared your throat, reporting your attention to the sheets you were holding. You suddenly felt the urge to look at something familiar, at something comforting—and since the thing you desired most was not available, you turned around, glancing at the paintings behind you. The gods, the gods that you understood better now. You allowed your gaze to linger on Feliks underneath his cypress tree, and then on Hyathos and his heavy expression, and the rest of them. To you, they had become so real that it was hard to distinguish fiction from truth, but you had no desire to perceive reality anyway.
The room fell quiet—a silence so thick you could almost feel it on your skin as it reached you. You inhaled it when you took a deep breath to ready yourself, but as you opened your mouth to begin reading your speech, something shifted within you. It seemed like those words on this piece of paper—words that you had composed, typed, and printed yourself—were no longer accurate.
You folded the sheets again, trying very hard to conceal the uncontrollable shaking of your hands. You remembered exactly at that moment the way it used to feel when you and Hyunjin would exchange emails back and forth, writing entire essays about the myths just for each other. How easy it had been with him—this, and everything else. There was so much that you wished you could talk about with him now that you truly understood the myths.
At the beginning of your essay book, one could read, To you who made me love these stories more than I ever did - each and every one of these words is for you.
Maybe it did not matter. Whether he loved you or not. Because you loved him, and nothing could ever change that about you. And you loved that part of yourself, the part that had fallen in love with this honeyed-skin stranger. You loved the part of yourself that had allowed it to happen, that had gone with him for dinner the very night you met him. So the fact that he didn’t love you as much as you loved him only mattered in the sense that you were alone and would always be, but this love would always have a home in your heart.
“Uh…” You began, recoiling slightly when a slight screech echoed after your voice. You pulled away a little, making sure to speak a few inches farther so the microphone would work well. “I, uh, I spent hours writing this speech, but… But there is more I want to say. And of course, I want to say thank you to those who decided I deserve this award. Never in my life did I imagine something like this would happen to me. So I’m grateful, I really am. And yet—we all know how I came to make the discoveries I made, and so much of it relies on luck that I almost refused the award.”
That declaration was punctuated by murmurs across the room. The more you spoke, the easier you could breathe, it felt like.
You went on. “But language… Language brings people together. To me, instead of being a barrier, it is a gate, an entrance into another culture. I always felt this way, even before Cipherian was Cipherian, back when we only knew a few words of it. And so I think this is why I’m here tonight—apart from the fact that I was persuaded by people close to me—because I believe in the importance of this discovery, regardless of my actual involvement in it. I want to keep writing about it. I don’t think I will have enough of my life to say everything there is to say about the beauty and the intricacy of it.
“You know how they say that learning a language changes you, alters your brain, the way it works, and the way it processes information. I’ve always known that to be true, but it was never as real as the day I sat down to read every word of the myths we had not yet been able to understand. I read about arra, a concept that doesn’t quite exist in our modern world. The authors of the myths thought that love came from light—among other sources, because it could also come from blood, or the ocean—and that it was visible to the naked eye. Love. Arra is what lights up someone’s eyes when they see their soulmate. But even soulmate isn’t quite that in Cipherian. The exact translation would be intended soul, as in, there is only one soul we are meant to bond with. To these people, arra could be seen on someone. And that changed me.”
At this, the crowd’s whispers grew a tad louder, but the voices were appreciative, impressed, even.
“I remember it. Arra. I remember when it once illuminated my eyes, and now that the light went out, I see the world a few shades darker, but at least I have a word that explains the phenomenon.” You paused then, the shaking of your hands calming down only for you to begin feeling it in your throat. “But that’s not all. Cipherian opens a brand new perspective on the concept of legacy. To them, it’s called syn hsar avīmhyphaei. Essentially, the literal translation of that is continuity. Because, what is legacy for us? Let’s put it simply—it is what we leave behind after we’re gone, which is not a concept that can be applied to the gods, can it? How could immortal beings perceive legacy the same way we do if they never cease to exist? Hsar means circle in Cipherian. Syn hsar avīmhyphaei is the circle that continues. The gods’ legacy is what always was and what always will be.
“We do not know well the authors of the myths and even less those whose stories, written in the even more obscure language of the gods, inspired them. But whoever they were had a sensitive and beautiful vision of life, an understanding of it that our brains can barely comprehend.
“So, I think, this is why I’m here tonight. I think it’s the only way I could make sense of this award—because I want people to read those books. I want people to open their minds to this new perspective on life, which I think changes us for the better. It rewires our brains and our hearts and forces them open in a painless, loving way.
“Above all… I wish for people to come together. Exchange, debate, discuss, learn. Love. There is nothing that can be compared to it—the act of bonding with someone because of a shared passion, or a common goal. Maybe the authors took themselves for gods—maybe that was what they wanted us to believe, that their legacy did not follow the rules of time, that it had no beginning and no end. And I think they were right. Let the myths and Cipherian be the bridge that brings people together. Together, let’s create a new and more beautiful legacy.”
The applause that followed your speech deafened you momentarily, but it wasn’t because of its volume per se, it was because, for those few seconds, nothing else existed, not even you. Your soul left your body for a short moment while you were recovering from the immense stress of speaking in front of such a crowd. The return was brutal—the spotlights, it seemed, were warmer than ever, and your dress felt awfully light all of a sudden, as though it did not cover enough skin.
You reached for your trophy and let Jisung escort you back to your table, except everyone on the way there stopped you to congratulate you or shake your hand. Assistants were, however, asking attendees to stand while they cleared some space, as the next part of the gala would be the core party where people could dance and drink, and have dessert after the dinner earlier.
You let Minji take you to a corner to touch up your eye makeup. She did so in silence with a concerned look on her face, a look that you knew very well by now. You hadn’t quite descended from the high of the speech—in fact, you couldn’t remember any of it, not even a sentence—but focusing on Minji’s strange behavior certainly felt like a gentle slap back to reality.
“What’s going on?” you questioned as she handed you your lipstick, which had a nice, creamy peach color. You had too much money now, more than you wanted, so you bought things that cost a ridiculous price. This lipstick was one of these things. “Did I make a fool of myself?” Your heart sank in your chest.
Minji shook her head vehemently. “No, god, no!” she assured, looking properly shocked. “On the contrary—it was great. You were great. You didn’t even look nervous.” She waited until you had reapplied the lipstick and put it back into her purse. “I’m just really proud of you.”
You knew there was more to Minji’s sudden mood shift so you didn’t believe her made-up excuse. You did trust her, though—you could only imagine that she was withholding information from you because she thought it was the absolute best thing to do at this moment. Maybe it had something to do with the annoying journalists from the red carpet—because there had been a red carpet even though you insisted it was absolutely not necessary.
Have you guys been dating for a long time? Asked about you and Jisung, because he was effectively your date for the night—as your personal security, of course.
I love your dress! Who designed it? The dress was nice and you had found it at a luxury shop. A few haute couture designers had approached you, offering to design you a dress for tonight’s event, but you had politely declined.
With which of the gods would you most want to go on a date? A question you had assumed was some sort of bait, considering you had been ridiculed during your university years when you admitted having a crush on one of them. The way a girl has a crush on a guy that doesn’t exist, but it hadn’t stopped the others from giggling not just behind your back, but right at your face.
Most of these so-called journalists had requested a camera interview with you, and Seungmin had politely let them know there would be no such thing tonight.
You didn’t need media exposure. Cipherian, the myths, and even your essays were all over the news and the internet.
“Thank you,” you finally told Minji, making yourself smile. “I owe you and the others a lot.”
“No need to be humble tonight,” she reminded you playfully. “How about I take your trophy upstairs to your office? Seems inconvenient to carry around.”
It was excessively heavy indeed, but now that Minji was offering, what you really wanted was to go with her. Just to be away from all of these people for five minutes. Or maybe twenty.
Or maybe an hour.
“I’ll go with,” you said. You figured you ought to give her a little excuse just so she wouldn’t suspect anything. “There’s something I wanted to check anyway.”
A hand pressed itself on your back, and you recognized Jisung. “Nope, no work tonight.” He had a faint smile on his face when you turned to him. “Besides, you need to eat.”
Jisung took his hand in yours, guiding you away from Minji and toward the tables covered in food at the other end of the room. Since the beginning of the night, it was more of the same—everybody who saw you waved at you or gave you a solemn nod, and you did your best to give the appropriate response, but your throat was shut tight and you just felt weird. Like you expected more from tonight, or perhaps less, in a strange way.
Once you made it to the food, Jisung asked for a few random items on the table, and the server carefully put everything on a plate. “With two forks, please,” Jisung added. “Thank you.”
You also offered the server a smile, just so people would at least believe you weren’t completely miserable. Jisung once again took your hand, so you could go sit somewhere to eat. You weren’t hungry, but you’d eat a few bites just to shut him up—or rather, just so he wouldn’t worry about you too much.
As you walked away, though, you caught sight of the plaque with the caterer’s name on it. It was a bakery somewhere in town, with a very funny name. Familiar in an excessively bittersweet way.
“BabyBread,” Jisung read on the plaque, stopping in his tracks and following your gaze. He chuckled. “That’s a weird business name. But kinda funny, isn’t it?” When he saw that you weren’t responding, he went on, “Do you know this place? The pastries look delicious.”
Did you know this place? Yes. But you hadn’t been inside the bakery per se. Hyunjin, however, intended to take you there for dessert after your first dinner together. Your first date, for all intents and purposes. Yet you yearned for it, for a memory that didn’t exist. You had never tasted the food made over there because instead, you and Hyunjin slow-danced outside. And it changed your life. And it changed you.
“Thank you sir,” the caterer employee retorted with a smile. “Freshly baked today by yours truly.”
“Oh, are you the owner of the bakery?” Jisung asked, making small talk with this stranger. “The name really is something.”
“It’s an inside joke, but yeah, it’s me.” The young man offered both of you a wide, heartfelt smile. He turned to you. “Miss, I want to extend my congratulations on your achievement. I can’t wait to buy your books and read them.”
Two things went through your mind at that moment—the first was that you had a box with copies of the books upstairs and that you would have someone give them to him. The second was that Hyunjin, that first night, had said he knew the owner.
“Please speak to my assistant,” you told him. “Tell her I want you to have the books—I have some in my office.” Before he could refuse though, you continued. “Sir, excuse me, but… There is someone I know, a friend, with whom I almost visited your bakery once.” It was a little more than a year ago—time flew a little too fast to your taste. “He said he knows you.”
The man’s eyebrows raised in a pleasantly surprised expression. “Did he?” His smile softened. “Who is that friend we have in common, then? He never told me he knew THE woman who deciphered the gods’ language!”
Jisung tugged at your arm but you let go of his hand. You closed in the distance between you and the table—the closer to it you got, the more you could smell the sweet scents emanating from it.
“His name is Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin.” Simply uttering his name out loud like this felt like a free fall, and there was nothing you could anchor yourself to.
The young man squinted for a couple of seconds and he tilted his head to the side, just slightly. “Yes, Mr. Hyunjin. We became acquainted when I noticed it was him in a clothing ad across the street…” He let out a soft laugh but the more he spoke, the colder your heart felt. “He used to visit my bakery quite often.”
You swore you could hear Jisung’s impatience and unease as he stood a little behind you. But this baker was the closest thing you had to Hyunjin in months, even though he was just someone who knew him.
“He left the city,” you responded, your voice cracking unexpectedly. You cleared your throat, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your eyes.
The man frowned. “Are you sure, miss?”
Out of habit, you glanced at Jisung, who had an unreadable expression on his face, but was still dutifully holding the plate of pastries with the two forks on it. For an instant, he seemed puzzled, and then forced himself to look neutral again.
“Y-Yes,” you replied, turning to the baker again.
He nodded slowly before shrugging. “I could swear I saw him earlier.” He gestured vaguely at the room behind you. “Must have been a trick of the light.”
The free fall came to an abrupt stop when you landed in a pool of ice-cold water, then sank to the bottom of it, only to end your journey in lava. Too thick to move and too hot to breathe. Almost with fear, you turned around, looking at the ball taking place in the atrium.
“Everyone looks so dapper and fancy tonight,” the man went on with a light tone—maybe he had seen something in your eyes. Maybe, for an instant, you had let your sorrow shine through them. “Probably got confused with someone else.”
Except there was one thing you were sure of, and it was that nobody who had a functional pair of eyes could ever confuse Hyunjin for somebody else. He looked too out of this world for that.
You froze in place, scanning the faces before you, looking for the one you had been so adamantly yearning for. Could it really be? No, it couldn’t, right?
Jisung intertwined his arm with yours again before you could sink any deeper. “We can eat later. Let’s dance. I like this song.”
The song had just begun. Jisung had never been one to dance, not like that. It was a slow-paced classical piece, one that you had never heard before, yet it sounded both nostalgic and sad.
He left the plate on the nearest table and dragged you to the dance floor under the gazes of several people. You wanted to cry. You wanted to leave. You did not want to dance, but when Jisung put his hands on your waist, you let him. He was looking at you gravely, almost like he was sorry that it was with him you were dancing and not somebody else.
You loved him. Hyunjin. It had been foolish to love him but it was not the sort of thing one could control. You knew nothing about him except, you knew his soul. It felt like that. You didn’t know about his family—he avoided the topic always—and you didn’t know about his childhood either, but you knew about his deepest and darkest feelings. And it had been enough to make you fall in love with him.
And now you saw him in everything.
You saw him in the river coursing through the city. You saw him in the cold nights and warm afternoons. You saw him in the strangeness of the world and in its beauty, too. He had become a part of you and that could never be undone, not even after he left. He had become a phantom limb, but the space he occupied in your heart had remained unchanged. You felt him in everything. You felt him in the smoothest silk of fancy hotel room robes. You felt him in the most poignant music, whether it was piano, harp, or cello. You felt him in the emptiness of your bed. In the emptiness of your cunt, and the one of your heart, too.
Jisung led the dance, holding you firmly as he did his best to sway beautifully among the other dancers. Your gaze lingered at many places as you danced—Jisung, the peculiar expression on his face as he held your waist as though he was running out of time. The skylight, displaying nothing but darkness and raindrops. The walls, displaying some of the most significant art the world had ever come to see. The crowd, some of them dancing to the rhythm of the sorrowful melody playing in the room. Others stood around and watched those who danced while drinking champagne. It made you crave more of it. Champagne, or something stronger.
You saw Hyunjin in everything. You saw the color of his eyes in a bottle of luxury cognac, you saw the color of his skin in a glass of expensive white wine, or in a jar of honey left by a sunny window.
You saw Hyunjin in the language of the gods. In the deep and intricate way the myths illustrated love and yearning. You saw Hyunjin in the madness that was taking over you—the one the gods called ceinōahk, a word whose literal translation was everyday love. The concept would be difficult to explain, but essentially, it describes a love that is as natural as breathing, cooking food, or looking at the sky. Actions done on a daily basis, out of need for survival or just because they make life better and are a part of it. You saw him in other words or in grammar rules. You saw him in the commas and other symbols that adorned the ancient texts, like the one you had named the ōleiandyi, for oleanders were the inspiration behind it. A straight line ending in what looked like a star but was a flower with five petals. It took you a lot of practice to get it right because of the specific shape of oleander petals.
The oleandi’s line would be traced below a series of words that needed to be insisted on, with the flower placed at the end to further emphasize the importance of the sentence. It felt as though every word he had ever spoken to you ought to be adorned with the symbol.
Your mind was so obsessed, so broken, so consumed by him, that you even saw him here, tonight, standing across the room, his gaze on you. Staring at you as if he had never left. Like he had been gone for two or three lifetimes.
You had known it before, but you were certain now—you would love him even if it annihilated you molecule by molecule. It was not something you could control and yet it felt like a choice, a conscious decision. You loved Hyunjin, and for as long as your heart would beat and perhaps even after, you would continue to love him.
Even if it killed you. Even if it kept you alive in the most unfair of worlds, which was to say, a world without him.
Bet she sucked her way through that PhD. Sloppy.
The voice that echoed in Hyunjin’s head was so loud and invasive that it might as well have been his own, only it wasn’t. It was plaguing his thoughts the way his father used to. Like poison. Like a nightmare one cannot wake up from.
Like a smear of blood on the cuff of a white button-down.
It had dried already. The blood. Much like the voice haunting his mind, it did not belong to Hyunjin, and it would not go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how much handsoap he poured onto it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to get water on it because it was silk, but he needed it gone.
Girls like her always act like they’re stuck-up nerds but next thing you know, they’re giving you a handjob in the bathroom at some wine tasting thing and ask you to finish on their tits.
Hyunjin only wanted to get some fresh air. He could never have predicted he would run into these pigs, men he had never even seen before.
He might have taken it as a sign that he shouldn’t have come here at all. Seungmin had given him ample amounts of warnings. “Are you sure about this?” his former manager had asked him when Hyunjin gave him the necklace that he got for you. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Just don’t tell her it’s from me. You can tell her it’s from you, or Han, or a fan. I want her to have it. I’ll be there, but I’m not sure I’ll… talk to her.”
Nobody else in the world knew how much danger you were in. He had tried to warn Han Jisung. He had begged him to keep you safe, but what could possibly protect you from the wrath of the cruelest gods?
He would see you on the news sometimes, or on a documentary series. Each discovery, each translation was a new window for mankind to look into another world. He knew you were drawing a lot of attention to yourself with your work. From mortals. From gods.
He knew he was making it worse, too. Hyunjin did his best to avoid you and thoughts of you, but that was like asking an irredeemable heroin addict to stop thinking about his vice.
They would kill you for it. They would kill you for understanding them, for understanding life the way they did. They would kill you to punish him for falling in love with you.
Hyunjin knew he took a risk by coming here tonight but he told himself he would stay away. That he would watch you being crowned with the award, being recognized by your peers, and that he would leave after. He knew what he had to do. Maybe he had known before, but it had all appeared clearly to him when he learned about your car “accident” a few weeks ago.
His father had called him selfish many times and it had taken all this time for him to realize he had been right all along. Weak, selfish, and self-absorbed. He should not have asked you to dinner that day at the museum. He should have walked out of there as soon as you made his heart jump in his chest. He should have run away when your words made his soul turn from a dull monochrome shade to vibrant with color.
There had been something in your eyes. And it was still there tonight. It was difficult to explain it with words—perhaps you, who possessed the language he had once known but had been taken away from him, would know how to describe it. It was as though you were begging to be loved. Please love me, your eyes said. But stay away.
He was running out of time. To love you. To save you. To make things right. But he was selfish, which meant he was here tonight so he could love you one last time.
She probably rode a dick for that award too.
Or took it in the ass.
I know a guy who can get us into the afterparty.
How about we go say hi and maybe get a few drinks in her?
Hyunjin only stepped outside for one minute because the sight of you in that green tulle dress overwhelmed him. It had been so long since he saw you, since he was in the same room as you, breathed the same air as you—he could only take so much of it at once.
There had been a few other guests scattered around the stairs leading to the front entrance. Hyunjin chose a spot he thought would be the most peaceful, but his attention immediately turned to the three nearest men when he understood that you had gone to university with one of them. They were drunk, meaning the conversation was not happening at a quiet volume.
And they were talking about you.
Hyunjin had never been intimate with rage. It was the very reason why his father hated him. Amaranthos had always wished to witness his middle child become more like himself—ruthless, filled with fury, and thirsty for violence and disorder. Hyunjin, up until now, had always been the exact opposite of all these things. He had no wish to get involved in his father’s wars because he had no bias in them. He had no claims in them. To Hyunjin, all of it had always been so futile—why fight over a territory or an ideal?
It had never been important enough for him. Not those wars, not any other, not anything.
And then he met you.
It was ironic, almost comical. As he felt more and more of his divine essence dissipating, Hyunjin began to display, finally, some of the qualities his father had wanted to see in him for so long.
He rinsed the soap off for the third time, examining the cuff of his shirt under the ceiling light. The blood was still there. Paler, but there nonetheless.
Hyunjin could tell that it was not just the free alcohol served at the award ceremony that made these men speak the way they did. It wasn’t even just lust or jealousy, although it was also that. The one who studied with you, he could tell, envied your success and resented you for it at the same time. Because you were better than he would ever be. And maybe he felt some sort of guilt for letting you give him a handjob in some bathroom at a wine tasting event and treating you like a disposable fleshlight.
Like a shooting star.
Everyone gets tired of me, Hyunjin. I’m just a shooting star.
He heard his father in these men. His cruelty. His impudence. Like poison. Like a nightmare. Like a stain of blood on white silk. He would recognize it anywhere—the corruption, the rot, now seeping through these mortals. Their impulses required so little divine intervention, but it was there. Their minds were too simple to fight their primal urges anyway. The kind of men who were just a little too eager to stick their cocks into something warm. Many gods were like this, too.
When you get tired of me, Hyunjin, will you be gentle with me?
Hyunjin never had to use violence before. He witnessed it many times, he felt it, and he hated it. He was the victim of it often. But it was the first time he tried it with his own hands. His own fists. Grabbing this bastard by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into the pillar behind him, realizing that the hatred he had for this guy extended to himself.
Smashing his face with his fist. One time, two times. Getting hit in return but not the pain that should have come with it. Maybe because he still had some immortality to him, or because he could not let these assholes defile your name like this and not react. Maybe this was his father taunting him—maybe he never meant to send them after you. Perhaps Amaranthos was just reveling in seeing his son’s facade break.
He was stronger than he thought he was. It only took a few punches until the man fell to his knees, mostly knocked out, but with still enough stamina to call Hyunjin a few nasty names. He was bleeding a lot from his nose and his lip was cut open. One of the other two just fled—the last one stared at the scene, frozen, apparently unable to react. Maybe he was trying to decide if it was worth risking getting his nose broken to show his loyalty to his friend.
Hyunjin did not care. He let go of the guy’s collar. He was bleeding all over his sleeve anyway. He backed up. The guy spat at his feet but ultimately just rested his head and stared at Hyunjin with a complicated emotion in his eyes. Guilt. Hatred. Shame. Ecstasy. It shone underneath the rest the same way obsidian reflected moonlight. It gave Hyunjin chills—he let two security guards take him away just so he wouldn’t have to look at the man anymore. And at the poison in his eyes.
Hyunjin avoided the worst of the commotion by bribing the head of security. The museum had hired an outside firm, so he was not familiar with anyone working at the doors tonight. It cost him all the cash he had in his wallet—and it was a lot—but he didn’t care.
When you get tired of me, Hyunjin, will you be gentle with me?
He could not wash the blood off his shirt.
Giving up, Hyunjin used a paper towel to dry himself as best he could, daring a glance towards the mirror in front of him. He barely recognized the reflection staring back. A man in a velvet tuxedo. A man stuck between two worlds, a prisoner of his own longing. With someone else’s blood on his sleeve and shadows in his eyes. It wasn’t Hyathos that he was seeing.
It was Hyunjin—in his most broken, human form.
He felt so small then, alone in this bathroom. Like the weight of the entire world was crushing him. Only, he had never been much more than that. Whatever this was. This was the most he’d ever be—a man who loved you and who had once been loved by you, too.
He took a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh that left a smudge of condensation on the mirror, blurring his face. The air had become too heavy in here, too thick, much like the silence stuffing the room. He couldn’t hide in here forever anyway, could he? He knew that security rounds were done every ten minutes or so, which meant he had very little time to get out.
The hallway was a little less quiet—the party permeated through the floor here, as though it filtered between the old wooden planks. He wasn’t technically allowed here because it was the administrative wing on the second floor. Hyunjin just did not think it would have been a good idea to wash blood off his hands and shirt in the public bathroom downstairs, so he snuck up here. He knew this hallway because it’s where you brought him that first night. After dinner and slow-dancing in the park. After showing him the hidden painting.
He passed the door to your office, remembering how it felt to hold you and kiss you there. The floor creaked beneath him, but the sound of you in his mind, moaning so prettily in his ear, was louder. Louder than the other voices, too, the cruel ones.
Nothing mattered as much as you did.
And yet Hyunjin slowed down when he walked past the large window just before the staircase. It was so wide that it spanned nearly the entire wall. When he stood at the largest frame in its center, it was all he could see.
And, now, the night took up all of the space within it.
This window should have a similar view to the one in your office, meaning he should be able to see the park and the tree under which you sometimes sat. Only, it seemed like that part of the neighborhood had a power outage. Everything was dark and still. It was a strange sensation—Hyunjin knew it was there. The street below, the park across, the tree, the other museum wings. But the night had swallowed all of it.
His heart tightened in his chest—he had to hold onto the nearest window frame for a few seconds, his head spinning. He almost lost his balance. Almost.
He remembered his orchard.
He had built it, all of it, from nothing. Selecting only the best seeds and planting them with care. The trees grew in the fertile soil between the ocean and a pine grove, and so the fruit carried the taste of the land it grew on. Iodine. Timber. Sunlight. His father tried to convince him to tear down the pine grove so he could plant more trees and harvest more fruit. Hyunjin, mainly, grew peaches, but also apples and plums. He even had a few cherry trees, whose pretty blooms, in the spring, always moved him. He liked the trees he had, but he did not need more. He was content with his orchard. Satisfied. The fruit was juicy and sweet and fragrant.
His father always wanted more. He always wanted him to want more.
Hyunjin used to spend a lot of time there, alone, walking barefoot in the earth or the high grass, tending to his trees. Sometimes, he would venture into the pine grove. And sometimes—especially towards the end, before his father sent him here—he would go beyond the pine grove.
The pine trees were tall and ancient, older than time itself. They swayed gently in the wind, so he took his time, admiring the view on his way, walking the narrow path leading to the other side, stopping only when he reached it. He could not have gone any further anyway because that was also where the land stopped.
It did so dramatically—with a high, steep cliff, overlooking the ocean below. The perfect diving spot.
Hyathos was a demigod. He could not die, as in, death always evaded him or he always evaded death. But he would dive into the restless waters, over and over, as though colossal waves weren’t crashing onto the cliffside. As forceful as it was mesmerizing, the ocean broke onto the sharp rocks. The foam darkened their ochre-colored surface, drying only when the sun would kiss them come sunrise.
Hyathos was a demigod. Patron of desire, of disasters, and fruit trees. He had been loved by light itself, once, but not enough to be its sole craving. It was during one of his dives that he understood that being the god of desire did not mean he was meant to be desired more than anybody else—god or mortal alike. It meant he was more intimate with desire. It meant he felt it deeper and stronger and harder.
Hyathos could not die. But sometimes, as his immortal body hit the water, he hoped he would. He had been interested in mortals before, but it was around this time that he became fascinated by them, visiting witches and warlocks to inquire about the mortal world and the people who inhabited it. What they did. What kind of things they liked.
Their purpose.
Hyunjin’s fingers found the latch of the window in front of him. He could not take his eyes off the darkness below. Truth be told, he did not miss his life as a god, nor did he miss the dominion over which his father ruled, as it never truly felt like home. However, he did miss his orchard a little.
And this window reminded him an awful lot of staring down at the sea from the top of the cliff on a moonless night.
Hyunjin tested the latch—his fingers acted before his mind could think. He wondered what would happen if he jumped. If it would feel the way it used to feel when he dove into the ocean. He wondered if he would die. Could he die, yet? Was Minhas already watching him?
It made no difference. Whether he was watching or not. The latch did not move when Hyunjin tried it. Of course not—it was sealed.
He knew temptation invaded his mind out of fear. Or rather, grief.
He could, maybe, force this safety latch open.
Or he could go back downstairs and watch you in your beautiful dress. He could face you one last time. And if you let him, maybe, hold you again. Just tonight.
Hyunjin. I’m just a shooting star.
This whole time, you had it all wrong. It was he who was the shooting star, and you were the night sky, vast and deep and complex and beautiful. And he would endure all the anguish in all the universes if it meant he could love you in just one of them, just for a little while.
Hyunjin adjusted his bowtie, using his reflection in the window in front of him before making his way downstairs again, searching for you. Always you.
He saw it in your eyes when your gaze met his. Arra. Maybe it had been there since the beginning. He thought so.
Hyunjin felt it in his chest when your gaze met his. Belonging.
It had been there since the beginning.
Upon seeing Hyunjin, your body came to a halt, Jisung crashing into you. You almost toppled over but caught your balance at the last second, which could be classified as a miracle considering how you didn’t even feel your body. Or perhaps you felt it too much, kind of in the same way severe burns affect someone. As in, those burns go through the skin and damage the nerve endings, cutting all sensation. Protecting one from the pain.
It was what you were thinking of as you stood there, staring at the other side of the large room. That something within you was trying to shield you from whatever consequences would arise following this phenomenon.
Because either he wasn’t actually here, or this was somehow a hallucination. You could believe that—you could see how longing for him too much had just caused your brain to produce this illusion, making him appear out of the blue, perhaps as an attempt to soothe this visceral need that you felt. Your mind had produced an image of him. A wraith. Not real, no matter how tangible he looked.
Or he was actually here. Standing there, motionless, as handsome as ever, wearing a black velvet tux, his complex eyes riveted on you. But he had been there before, and then he had left without a word. So perhaps his coming back meant nothing.
Maybe he was here and he would just leave again.
It wasn’t burn injuries you thought about when he moved—Hyunjin, or the mirage of him, stood straight, walking slowly and steadily towards you. Something else came to your mind—it was as though each one of his steps was a detonation in your chest, instead this time there was no destruction. It was as though he was holding your heart in his hand and every inch of distance he closed between you was another not-so-gentle squeeze on it, forcing you back to life, breathing air into your lungs, allowing blood to course through your veins again. He was here. No illusion could have such an effect on you—only the real Hyunjin could find a way to your soul, bypassing any and all defenses on his way. He was the only thing you would ever let anywhere near your heart, even if it killed you.
He was standing right in front of you before you knew it, bringing with him his elaborate scent, enveloping you in it. Woody petrichor, with amber and floral undertones that made him smell like the exact moment when the sun pierced through stormy clouds.
It really was him. His not-brown eyes, something darker, something brighter. Heavy with a burden that could not be expressed with words. His pomegranate lips, his honey skin, his delicate yet violently beautiful traits, framed by his silky dark hair. Its shade of black was so rich it was reminiscent of a night sky that had northern lights dancing in it. A black with furtive undertones—damp, rich soil. Solar eclipses. Burnt wood. The warmth that you remembered radiated from him, deep, soft, peach-colored, and just as sweet.
All you could do was stare at him, taking in the sight of him, the elegance with which he held himself, the grace he exuded just by standing there.
Your gaze returned to his eyes, studying them. There was something in them that you hadn’t seen before. Not that it hadn’t been there—because it had been. You just had not known to look for it because you hadn’t yet known it existed.
Arra. The force lighting somebody’s eyes as they gazed upon their soulmate—or rather, their intended soul.
His bottom lip quivered, yet Hyunjin parted his mouth open, his eyes dancing all over you. “Darling,” he breathed, and his voice hit you like a storm. He said it again. “Darling…”
Relief came first, then fondness, followed by familiarity. You had thought about it a lot in your mind, the moment you would see Hyunjin again. Not because you assumed it would happen, but because you couldn’t help it. Whatever indifference had inhabited you in the first months after his disappearance had evaded you long ago, and the truth was that you could hardly fall asleep at night without imagining a scenario in which you saw him again. Sometimes, it was grandiose—he broke into a radio station while you were giving an interview, or he himself went on TV to give one, talking about how much he missed you. Other times, you just ran into him on a street somewhere.
When you questioned him about it, Jisung told you that Hyunjin needed to leave or else you would be in danger. He did not know too much about it, but it had something to do with Cipherian, the myths and the translations. You couldn’t wrap your mind around any of it and Seungmin was no help. Despite having been Hyunjin’s agent for years, he also had no idea of his involvement in any illegal activities, and certainly not anything related to linguistics. Therefore, you did not think it was true.
It’s not like there’s a price on my head, you pointed out that day. To Jisung, who had been hired by Hyunjin to be your personal bodyguard. Because, well, there was some kind of price on your head.
Maybe it made you hate him a little less. Hyunjin. Maybe you resented him less, too. Whatever involvement he had in it—a foolish part of you wanted to believe he truly did it for your safety. For your own good. That he left reluctantly. That Jisung didn’t lie when he said Hyunjin loved you.
So when you slipped under your covers at night—whether it was in your bed or in an unfamiliar hotel room—you thought about him. Hyunjin. And about the moment you might see him again in a place that wasn’t an ad in a magazine or a billboard on the side of a road, whether his body was used to advertise perfume or a car or expensive jewelry. You thought about the true him, in the flesh, about his honey skin, the unnatural warmth that always emanated from him, the silky sensation of him underneath your fingertips or under your tongue.
Maybe it made sense that it would be here. In this museum, under the very skylight where you met him first, surrounded by the same walls, and even, for the most part, the same people. You wondered if you were the same woman you had been back then, all those months ago. It felt like you weren’t. Like he had changed you somehow.
You let relief wash over you for all the seconds it required—it was truly Hyunjin standing there, and he seemed healthy. He seemed fine, so nothing bad must have happened to him. He also didn’t look like he had developed some kind of hatred for you over time, which, selfishly, comforted some part of you. You became aware that something else was lurking underneath the relief—it was sharp, unkind. Ugly.
For a second or perhaps two, you thought the world came to a stop but it turned out it was quite the opposite. Around you, it kept going. The world kept spinning and so did the dancers, intertwined, beautiful, relishing the moment, unaware of the storm going on in your chest. It was you who turned motionless. It was your heart that turned stagnant and inanimate. Maybe it wanted nothing to do with what was coming.
But you couldn’t help it.
The tears burned your eyes. They were hot. Scalding. As though it was acid rolling down your cheeks. You took a step back, feeling Jisung somewhere there but ignoring him. The world kept spinning. The whole time, the world had kept going, and you had been forced to follow along. You had been obligated to get up in the morning and to continue existing without Hyunjin. And he hadn’t even said goodbye.
When you spoke, your voice came out all wrong. Foreign. As though it was acid spilling out of your lips, too. “You lied to me.” Your throat felt so tight it hurt. “You said you’d be back soon.”
The memory was fuzzy, but it was undeniably there. You were sitting at your computer, writing compulsively, your naked body wrapped in a blanket, your pussy still sore from your earlier passionate lovemaking with Hyunjin. The scent of his cum lingered on you, musky and sweet. Remembering it was more painful than remembering all the months during which you were without him. Or all the other times you had been abandoned. All the other times you had been made ephemeral.
Will you be back soon? you had asked him.
Soon, he had said. And it had been a lie.
“You lied to me,” you repeated, louder, your voice turning into a growl and a sob all at once. Your legs felt weak and your arms weaker, but you reached for him, Hyunjin, because you wanted to hurt him, maybe. Hit him in his perfect face.
He caught your fist before it struck him, staring at you with wounds instead of eyes. He parted his lips, searching for words, but they never came. Still, he held your hand in his, inches away from his cheek, daring to squeeze it tenderly every few seconds.
“I bet you’ll say it was to spare me,” you added before Hyunjin could say anything. “I bet you’ll say it was so you wouldn’t hurt me. Well, guess what? It didn’t work!”
You were vaguely aware of the heads turning in your direction, but you were mostly aware of Hyunjin and of the way your hand felt when it was being held by his. Because he was not letting go, even if you tried to pull away. He looked a little like you had stabbed him in the chest. For an instant, it felt like you were looking into a mirror. For once, your pain had found its match.
“I know,” he murmured, a scowl appearing between his eyebrows. He made no attempt to apologize. He did not ask for your forgiveness.
He did not let go of your hand.
Instead, he pulled you closer. You tried to find something to say. You searched for strength within you—not to hit him, not really, but to scream at him. It was what you wanted to do. The entire time, since that day you finally allowed yourself to miss him, it had been what you had wanted to do. Scream at the top of your lungs. As though you needed an exorcism. People had hurt you before Hyunjin. Objectively, people had hurt you in worse ways. People had cheated on you. People had taken advantage of you. They sometimes said cruel things behind your back.
And it had affected you. All those times. Deeply. Or so you thought.
It all seemed so meaningless now. As you were facing Hyunjin again after all this time, you came to realize what love was. You had known for a while that you loved him and that it was true love. The truest, most forthright kind of love you had ever felt, and that you would ever feel, too. But you hadn’t really thought that you’d see him again.
But you hadn’t really thought that he loved you the same way you loved him.
He did not let go of your hand. He was just inches away now, his face so close that you could only see the details of him—the moles on his honey skin, the fine lines adorning his pillowy lips, their pomegranate shade. The strand of silky hair that fell over his dark eyes. His purposeful and deliberate and troubled gaze.
His breath smelled like the wine they served. The sleeve of his shirt was slightly damp. Hyunjin did not let go of you.
You only became aware of the inert quality of your heart and soul as it dissipated the very moment Hyunjin kissed you.
He pressed his lips onto yours, his mouth warm and trembling, unsure yet unequivocal. It might as well have been your first kiss with the way it made you come alive. It might as well have been the thousandth time he kissed you with how familiar it felt—known but not mundane. Lips that were more than just a memory. Lips that you had longed for, that you had craved for, but you had not dared hope for. Because the absence of them had left you suffocating—and how could one even hope without air in their lungs?
Hyunjin deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, and you let him, moaning faintly into his mouth. He breathed into yours. And you in his. Kissing him was easy and soft and mighty. His lips reminded you of a late summer peach. You couldn’t let go of him, and he did not let go of you, still, his tongue finding yours, tasting you, feeling you.
You thought of the first time he kissed you.
And the last time.
And everything in between. The agony of it.
He kissed you again, tightening his embrace. You had never experienced such ecstasy. It was him. It was really him. And you felt his love on his lips. You saw it in his eyes. His kiss felt like a plea. It felt as though there were only the two of you on earth.
At least until somebody bumped into you as they danced with their partner.
You allowed the kiss to break, but Hyunjin caressed your lips with his thumbs, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Darling,” he murmured, and you heard him over the music and the crowd. You would have heard him over thunder, over an avalanche, over anything. “Let’s get out of here, yes?”
Of course. You would follow him everywhere if he asked you. Your hand was still in his. You glanced at Jisung, who seemed reluctant to let you go, and offered him a reassuring smile. The smile came easily to your lips—it wasn’t rehearsed or forced. You realized that you meant it.
You felt the cold air before even stepping out—someone took their time closing the door behind them, and you remembered you had left your jacket in your office upstairs. Somehow, this did not bother you.
It was cold enough that the rain had turned to snow.
Thick snowflakes fell lazily from the sky, quieting the city, melting in places, and covering the ground in white patches in others.
Hyunjin held your hand still, but with the other one, you caught a snowflake on your palm. It dissolved almost instantly, but it remained long enough for you to see its intricate lines, unique yet familiar.
It was too early in the year for snow. The fact that it snowed was strange, but it did not bother you, nor did the cold. Hyunjin was staring up at the sky with eyes full of tears, as though it meant something to him.
One day, you told yourself, you would ask him.
If he stayed, that is. But at least now you were choosing to follow him and to let him unmake you. His love, your love—it was worth paying whatever price.
to be continued...
Author's note: 🧍♀️ well. I never expected I'd be here, posting this, today. But here I am... and you know I want to thank you all, my readers who have stayed loyal & patient despite my VERY long hiatus. So, thank you. It's just nice to come back home and not find the house completely empty, you know?
But I cannot not thank my dear @cb97percent, without whom I would have given up a long time ago. She believed in me while I didn't believe in anything. She still does. But much like Chris caught Hyunjin just in time on that infamous day at the studio, she doesn't seem to want to give up on me, so I really wanted to say a special thank you.
I am so, so privileged to be here, and to have my readers and friends and this space. I just want to say, I'm so grateful. To everyone who made it possible: please know you've contributed to something deeply meaningful for me.
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You understand the human experience so well. That speech. I can't stop thinking about it.
「𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚘」 · masterlist
SYNOPSIS ➥ Once the little town you’re from cannot contain your dreams of becoming a published author anymore, you take the leap of faith to leave everything behind and move to the art capital of the country. It feels like the newest additions to your life — your photographer roommate and the couple that lives nextdoor — can serve as great sources of inspiration as they are by far the most interesting people you’ve met to date.
Little do you know that they are about to introduce you to things that will make you question your entire existence.
Rewrite of the work published in 2022. Might feature some changes to the original storyline.
This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only.
※ Fem!Hyunjin x Reader (f) x Lee Know · HAN x Reader (f) — Neighbors AU, Fish Out of Water, Drama
※ Reader discretion advised — Adult themes, genderbending, bisexual awakening, self-exploration and questioning regarding various topics, ENM, infidelity, angst, explicit sexual content, strong language
CONTENT This is a repost of an old WIP upon request. Updates are sporadic.
· Verse 1: Leap of Faith · Verse 2: Kaleidoscope Vision · Verse 3: Spellbound · Verse 4: TBA · Verse 5: TBA · Verse 6: TBA
「© 2022-25, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」
*Repost based on this ask
Fem Hyunjin just took over my world and now I am craving peaches.
「𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜-𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜」 · preview
❝𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢, 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞.❞
➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) x Hyunjin
➥ MMF, Threesome, Friends to Throuple
⚠ — Explicit sexual content
➥ When you and Hyunjin got married, it didn’t stop Chris from being your third wheel whatsoever, but when he discovers the secret of your marital bed involves him, your relationship changes possibly forever.
*a/n: Enjoy this preview of my latest exclusive~
[...]
Unbeknownst to himself, Chris rose to his feet, lured to the sounds of your pleasure like you were the devil’s pied piper. There was nothing remotely raunchy about it, but it also didn’t sound sweet. He had heard you fuck before, but he’d never seen it.
As he stood before the slightly ajar bedroom door, he could hear his own heart thumping in his ears, his throat, even the soles of his feet, and even though he was screaming at himself over and over again not to do it, he still pushed that door open, command over his limbs completely lost.
It felt like he took a bullet to the head.
Hyunjin was sitting up, back against the headboard, holding you close from your waist and kissing your neck as you lazily rode him. Maybe you felt as sluggish as he did; neither of you made any sudden moves. There was nothing remotely raunchy about this, but it also didn’t look sweet. He had heard you fuck before, but…
“Imagine him, baby. Imagine him with us right now.”
…nothing like this.
Hyunjin was whispering into your mouth, loud enough to spill out that doorway. Chris was used to the factory settings of you having sex—quietly moaning, gasping, maybe a little dirty talk about what Hyunjin wanted to do to you if he was particularly riled up, but a whole ass narration involving someone else? When Chris was literally only five feet away to be tagged in? Why the fuck was he not good enough?
And why was he taking this so personally?
“Yes…”
“Imagine sharing him with me.”
“Y–Yes…”
“You get so weak when he smiles at you, right?” Hyunjin chortled. “He really wants to fuck you, too, you know.”
“N–No, he doesn— Ah, yes, Hyunjin, right there…”
“Yes, he does, baby. I know he does,” he left wet kisses all over your breasts in between his sentences. “All you did was stare at him, and he couldn’t stay soft the whole night.”
Wait…
Chris had accidentally touched a socket once, and even then he wasn’t electrocuted this hard. Just how fucking strong was this weed that he was hearing the horniest hallucination his mind could produce?
“Makes you wanna suck him off a little bit, huh?” you let out a faded as hell giggle.
“I wanna edge him until he cums all over your pussy.”
“Then you’d fuck his cum into me?”
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Hyunjin’s eyes fluttered closed with a lopsided smile. “He’d cum again just watching that, I’m telling you.”
“Baby, deeper…”
“Moan his name for me,” he encouraged you, stroking your hair as if to soothe you. “It’ll be like he’s right here with us.”
“God, Chris…”
The final nail in his coffin. Indubitable evidence. Zero room to misread anything.
His best friends in the whole wide world, who happened to be married to each other, were fantasizing about him in their marital bed.
[...]
「© 2025, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」
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I need more of them. Ugh. You write things that I never knew could turn me on. I'm discovering things about myself.
「𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚋𝚘𝚢」
❝𝚂𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚜.❞
➥ Hyunjin x Reader (f) — 4.6k (~20 min. read)
➥ Obsessed Fan, Rockstar, Deranged Sexy
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Down horrendous Hyunjin agenda™, sex with other people present in the room, objectification, getting tattooed during questionable activities (m), yandere undertones, recreational drug use, strong language, explicit sexual content.
➥ You never take it seriously when your die-hard fan crassly hits on you after every show, but when you decide to indulge his relentless catcalling for once, things take a wild turn.
*a/n: Back on my Derangedjin bullshit because an-dom. Enjoy~
The energy in the palm-sized venue was fucking nuclear.
The very last song of the setlist. Changbin was having a physical altercation with his drum set, his fast-paced double kicks morphing the front of the stage into a miniature mosh pit. Jisung was belting notes so high that all the bottles at the bar were threatening to explode. You and Chris were about to merge into a single entity, borderline straddling each other’s legs as you murdered that outro solo to the violent strums of his Gibson.
And it seemed to excite someone in the audience almost to the point of an orgasm.
“FUCKING STEP ON ME!!!”
The scream was so loud that you heard it even through the deafening noise, and it cracked you the fuck up in the middle of the song.
It was the guy who came to every single one of your shows without fail. Always clad in blacks, always right by your feet no matter which side of the stage you were on, entirely swept up in the frenzy of your anarchy anthems, running so hot and drenched in sweat as if he came out of a steamy shower five minutes ago. You didn’t understand why he kept wearing that massive leather jacket with chains everywhere; he was going to rip it off himself ten seconds into the first song anyway.
It wouldn’t be right to call him just a fan at this point; he was more like a hypeman working for free. With every song, he would galvanize the crowd into such an uproar that everyone passing by the club would be consumed by their curiosity, dying to know just what the hell was happening inside. Those were the nights Seungmin’s capitalist ass would triple the drink prices and proudly bounce people with an excessively smug “We’re at capacity.”
“Thank you for coming out tonight. You guys are fucking amazing!”
Once Jisung concluded the show, you threw your pick at the audience to cause small-scale mayhem, then headed backstage for some much-needed unwinding, though something else had arrived in the green room before you did. Two bottles of obscenely expensive champagne and a little note were waiting for you among half-finished glasses, a few white lines, and tiny dunes of weed.
I just know this is what you taste like. You were wonderful tonight, beautiful. H.
“Your fanboy is at it again,” Changbin slapped a shit-eating grin on his face while lighting up the massive joint between his lips. “Just let the poor guy hit that one time so he doesn’t choke on his own drool.”
“Do I look like I hand out pussy for those in need?” you stared daggers at him.
“My hardest orgasms were with die-hard fans. They let you do pretty much anything. I say go for it,” Jisung declared, successfully making a compelling case. “Bro ripped his tank while surfing the crowd, and half the room came just by looking at his body. Even I got a semi, like, holy fuck.”
“Nah, I know this kind. They just collect stage pussy,” you poured four flutes’ worth of champagne into a comically large coffee mug. “You know that insane thing where fans expect the artists they like to stay single? I expect the same thing, too. If you stan me, you stan me, motherfucker. None of that multifandom shit.”
“Congratulations, you just unlocked a brand-new level of possessiveness, and that’s coming from me,” Chris deadpanned, grabbing the champagne from you to directly chug it from the bottle.
“We go on stage to feel like gods, and you’re surprised I want worshippers?” you arched a brow. “Fuck, we’re out of rolling paper. I’ll be right back.”
You went back out into the crowd and scanned the area to spot Seungmin. He was making a complete show of mixing drinks for the two girls before him, coincidentally the hottest ones in the club, most likely trying to chat his way up to a threesome under the guise of customer service. As soon as you made it to the bar, however, an all-too-familiar voice reached your ears before you could catch your plug’s attention.
“Just tell me what I gotta do to eat your pussy. I’m dying over here!”
Right on schedule.
Your resident fanboy and his entourage were high as kites, the space before them stacked with hard liquor and all kinds of questionable substances. He did this after every concert like clockwork, so much so that you knew the choreography of your little dance by heart by now. He would say some unhinged shit, you would snort in amusement, maybe even spare a chuckle if the catcall of the day was deranged enough, but that was it. Your semi-parasocial interactions never went past a loud whistle and thirst comments as you walked by.
You decided to choose violence tonight.
“Blow him,” you pointed at Seungmin.
Lips parted in surprise, he turned to his sidekicks to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating, in utter disbelief that you actually answered him for once. Nevertheless, he was quick to bounce back, gesturing Seungmin to come closer like he was about to gladly add one more zero to his tab.
“How do you wanna do this, Min?” he leaned into the bar. “Do you want me to get back there, or…?”
You burst out laughing, and despite having zero cracks on his sultry poker face, you could still see something in his eyes. A bit dangerous, like the fire you knew you shouldn’t be playing with. Your feet moved on their own, carrying you towards him, and each step you took fanned those flames a bit more.
“Fucking scram,” he ordered the small crowd around him in what he thought was an inaudible volume.
“Hey there, crazy dude,” you rested your elbow on the bar counter.
“You finally noticed me,” he flashed the most satisfied smirk.
“Noticed you?” you contorted your face. “Do we have a senpai situation going on here?”
“No, but if you didn’t pay attention to me any longer, I was about to enter yandere simulator territory.”
Due to the untimely demise of his tank, he was currently covered with the infamous leather jacket from the waist up. Well, covered would be an overstatement since the zipper was pulled all the way down, perfectly framing his bare torso. He reached inside his jacket to fish for something, and you suspected he might have been carrying that around for a questionably long period of time.
You know, just in case.
“Can I get an autograph?” he handed you a Sharpie.
“Do you have any merch on you?”
“Yes.”
He sat upright on the stool and flashed his ri–di–cu–lous–ly stunning physique so you could properly gawk at it.
“Sign my abs.”
“WHAT?” you wheezed your lungs out.
“Can you think of any merchandise better than this?” he made his point, entirely serious. “Sign my abs. I’m gonna get it tattooed.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“What was your first clue?”
You took the marker from him and checked him out from head to toe. Whenever you saw him in the audience, he was just a face in a sea of darkness, though a noticeably handsome one, but if you knew it was attached to this, you would have paid attention to him a lot sooner.
“You know,” you placed a finger on his chest, dragging it down to his abdomen excruciatingly slowly. “I think I’d rather lick stuff off of these than sign it.”
Shoot him with a fucking horse tranquilizer, why don’t you?
He thickly swallowed, his throat drying up at record speed. Maybe he had gotten a bit too high, and the excess adrenaline was making him hallucinate things.
And if that was really the case, he would deplete his entire stash right now just so he would never ever come down.
“Do whatever you want to me,” he spoke in a single breath, staring at your lips like he was hypnotized, “but I’m still gonna need that autograph.”
“What for?”
“How else am I gonna forge our marriage certificate?”
“You know it’s not my actual signature, right?”
“Who cares? I’ll argue you changed it after you took my last name.”
He was allegedly joking, but it was one of those “HAHA, just kidding. Unless…?” ones. He really looked like he would come with you if you asked him to go to a 24/7 chapel right now.
You indulged his request, but instead of his abs, you signed the left side of his chest. As you moved the pen on his firm skin, you could feel how rabid his heart was under your touch, even though it was supposed to be five beats per second for how mellowed out he was.
“There,” you put the cap back on, moving even closer with the excuse to put the pen back into his pocket. “Now you can get it properly tattooed.”
“Couldn’t ask for a better location,” he heaved a deep sigh.
You were so close to each other. From such proximity, the heat exuding from his body felt like a desert storm, and despite the grassy scent of weed pervading the entire room, he smelled so good that your mind was getting infested with the urge to run your tongue on his neck just to taste it.
“Mind if I shotgun you?” he reached for his joint.
You slowly nodded.
He emptied his lungs and took the longest drag you saw anyone take, almost smoking the whole thing in a single breath, then gently pulled you in from your chin. You wondered if heart palpitations were somehow contagious because the closer he leaned in, the faster your pulse was climbing. You couldn’t help your eyes fluttering close as he breathed your high into your lungs, so damn slowly to complete the seconds of being this close to you into a full minute.
An itch was begging to be scratched inside your head.
There was nothing stopping you from moving just one inch further. Nothing keeping you from frying this guy’s brain completely. He had earned a bit of fanservice credit for his relentless dedication to you, no?
You suddenly pressed your lips against his, and that full-body shiver he was possessed by was everything.
He slipped his tongue in your mouth almost instantly, swirling it around yours in such a familiar choreography as if you’d been kissing each other for years. You threw your arms around his neck while he wrapped his around your waist, pondering whether you should make him beg you or have him finger you right here for everyone to watch. Or maybe there was a secret third option.
When you finally pulled away, you were stupidly smiling at each other, high as hell on the kiss more than the weed.
“Bet I taste better than the champagne, huh?” you smirked contently.
“By a landslide,” he acknowledged.
“What are you doing at a trashy club like this every damn week?” you asked, your brows knit together.
“I don’t have a choice,” he shrugged. “You only play at the trashy club.”
“You drink Macallan. This jacket is fucking Versace. Where you belong is one of those cigar lounges downtown,” you observed. “What do you even do for a living?”
“Why? Gonna look into my credit score?”
“If we’re getting fake-married, I wanna know what I’m getting myself into.”
He laughed but didn’t answer, and unfortunately for you, you might be getting more and more intrigued by the mystery man.
“This is gonna sound a bit too forward, but,” he segued into an offer, barely stopping himself from melting into a puddle while moving the stray locks away from your face, “care to join me in the back room?”
“You know about the back room?” you asked with a smile.
“Considering the hefty tabs I regularly pick up, I technically co-own the damn place,” he derisively chuckled. “Figured we should… consummate our marriage.”
You laughed but didn’t answer. Your hands on his collar, you slowly peeled him off the stool he was perched on, then led the way to the back.
After going through a bunch of claustrophobic corridors hand-in-hand, you finally reached the heavy iron door. You slid it open with a jarring rattle, the dim red lights illuminating the place beckoning you to come in. There was a free-for-all already in progress inside, thick smoke floating in the air, naked bodies tangled into each other on what looked like opium den beds. You spotted your bandmates scattered around the room, too engrossed in their own post-show rituals to notice your arrival. Chris getting his dick sucked. Changbin with a bombshell bouncing on his cock. Jisung dining on some girl’s cunt. And a whole new set of strangers you had never seen before as the backdrop of this cave of sin. Touching. Kissing. Fucking.
And everything in between.
You found yourselves a corner and sat down. Your guest was being needlessly polite, lighting up your joint for you and doing a terrific job hiding how much he was drooling over you. His courteous antics when there was an active orgy going on right before you were amusing, to say the least.
But then you noticed something strange.
“Your usual, Hyunjin,” Seungmin put down a glass of scotch, a small bowl of fruit, and a glass of wine on the miniature table before you. “And yours, beautiful.”
Half the room was staring in your direction, but they weren’t looking at you. They were looking at the man next to you the way starving hyenas would look at their prey.
Your instincts suddenly went into overdrive.
You climbed on his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck as if to slap a label on him that said ‘This one’s bespoke to me.’
“Hyunjin,” you ran your fingers through his soft locks. “So that’s your name, crazy dude.”
“And now you can moan it,” he lovingly brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers, his other arm hugging your waist.
He examined every single detail on your face, sighing longingly. He didn’t kiss you, but he seemed to be doing a lot more than kissing in his mind, sinking his teeth into his lips as his fingers slid down to your neck. Then your collarbones. Then your chest. He didn’t know shit about you, but he looked so enamored with you. He didn’t give a fuck about the porn playing before his eyes and instead had complete tunnel vision on you.
What the hell was wrong with this man?
You turned to your left to check the room’s pulse, and you could see the envy blaring out of people’s eyes. They all wanted him and were trying to choke you to death through Jedi mind tricks for blocking the tantalizing view.
“Shh, look at me,” he gently held your chin and turned you to himself. “Only me.”
What the hell was wrong with you for enjoying it this fucking much?
“I’ve seen a few hardcore fans to date, but no one as persistent as you,” you plucked a grape from the bowl and fed it to him like a concubine entertaining her king. “Just why are you this obsessed with me?”
“You just don’t give a fuck, and I find that very attractive,” he answered, stealing a subtle lick from your fingers as he bit on the fruit. “What’s wrong with that?”
“So my fishnets got nothing to do with it?”
He looked down at the stockings wrapping your thighs like the perfect Christmas gift for him. His breathing turned heavier while softly caressing your legs, his jaw slightly clenched like he was trying to suppress something.
“Watching you play is straight up porn to me. I can’t stay soft when you do your solos,” he replied. “I mean, I can’t deny that there is a certain image that pops into my head when I jerk off, no disrespect.”
“Which one?”
“The Fender photoshoot. If I ever see you lick a fretboard like that for real, I’ll fucking cum on the spot,” he responded a bit too candidly. “It’s two of my biggest turn ons in one.”
“Which would be?”
“You and a custom-built Strat.”
“No shit. You play?” you smiled at him, pleasantly surprised.
“Your toes would curl if you saw what I can do with a guitar.”
“I’d rather have you do other things to make my toes curl.”
You hit a long drag from your joint and leaned into his lips, shotgunning him this time. He was melting under you, body going limp with each inhale, but something on your hips was rock hard.
“Then the million-dollar question,” you put out the cigarette and started playing with his hair. “Who else are you fanboying this hard over?”
“No one.”
“You seriously expect me to believe that?”
“Would the shrine I have of you be enough evidence of my dedication?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you have one,” you scoffed, your lazy chuckle laced with pure disdain.
He pulled out his phone and showed you a picture. It was taken at nighttime in what you assumed to be his bedroom. The photo was showing his illuminated nightstand with the aforementioned Fender picture framed, you all naked with just the guitar censoring your body as the focal point, and several guitar picks placed in front of it with OCD-like neatness. You recognized each one of those as the ones you threw at the audience during various shows thanks to their distinct colors.
“I’ll have you know I pray to this every night,” he pulled something metallic from his inner pocket and flashed it. The very pick you flung from the stage tonight.
Seriously?
“What are you praying for?”
“To kiss these,” he brushed his thumb on your lips.
“Just kiss?”
He briefly averted his eyes with a smile, licking his lips at whatever he was imagining in his head.
“It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to reveal the full scope.”
“Get that tattooed for real first,” you ran your fingers on your autograph. “Then you can treat me like your personal pornstar.”
“Is that your only condition?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “If I get it tattooed, you’ll let me…?”
“If you have the balls to actually do it, yes,” you confirmed.
He pulled out his phone again and called a number, not even searching for it in his contact list as if he had it on speed dial.
“Hey, I need you at 97 Park Boulevard within ten minutes,” he looked right into your soul while talking. “Bring your gear.”
He hung up the phone, and you just stared at him in shock. Did he just…? Call a tattoo artist here? Like he was ordering pizza?
What an insane man. What an insane you because why the fuck were you enjoying this so much?
“You are fucking crazy,” you iterated your first impression of him.
“What was your first clue?”
“What if I’m crazier?”
He kissed your hand almost gallantly, like a lover of many many years would do, the contentment of his smile endlessly titillating to witness.
“God, I fucking hope you are,” he held your chin and pulled you close.
The kiss quickly deepened, turning a bit more ferocious this time with bites on lips and too much groping. You slipped your hand inside his jacket and cascaded it off his shoulders, groaning at the sight of his nakedness. Maybe Jisung was right because just looking at him made you salivate, and you felt like you had a wish-granting genie at your disposal.
If you played your cards right, tonight could be one for the books.
When you finally managed to pull away from each other, Hyunjin spotted his person of interest by the door and raised his hand to signal his location. The tatted-up guy slammed his hand into his friend’s as if they were at a frat reunion instead of an orgy.
“Chase, this is the god I worship,” Hyunjin introduced you. “I need her in a… strategic position for this. Hope it’s not a problem.”
“Suit yourself. What are we getting today?”
“Something simple, already stenciled,” he showed his chest. “Ink this, and ink it deep.”
Nah.
You kept waiting for either of them to say sike, or ask you if you were going to stop them, but nothing was happening. Chase had his ink ready, and Hyunjin was getting comfortable with one arm tucked under his nape.
“You’re seriously going through with this?” you asked, still suspicious.
“Did you have doubts?”
“Kinda, yeah,” you confessed. “What strategic position am I supposed to be in?”
“Yeah, about that…” he grabbed your wrist and yanked you close. “You’re gonna sit on my face until this is done.”
“What?!”
“It’s a win-win,” he smiled devilishly. “I get the comfort, you get the pleasure. Maybe even cum.”
“You’re really crazy,” you broke into hysterical laughter, “and the tattoo was my first clue.”
You straddled his face, and Hyunjin’s breathing started getting labored. All he did was gawk at your underwear under your skirt, gulping at the sight of the wet trail, but when you put his hand on the fabric, he thought he was about to disintegrate into his atoms.
“Rip it off,” you ordered him firmly.
And rip it off he did.
Your pussy was staring at him, dripping wet, and he could choke on his own drool at this rate. He was repeatedly whispering “Thank you” against your cunt, and it was making your clit buzz harder than the tattoo gun.
“If I cum, just ignore it,” he addressed Chase, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pressing them down to make you sit lower.
Then he covered his mouth on your pussy, and you almost passed out.
You didn’t know what the correct feeling was. He was rabidly munching on your clit like you were oozing lidocaine, but his hands were lovingly caressing you. You found a steady rhythm riding his tongue, your body invaded by a surge of pleasure, but he kept interrupting it with kisses on your pussy, diabolically laughing every time you groaned in frustration.
“Done,” Chase spoke into your ear right before he left. “Be gentle with it.”
Hyunjin held on to your thighs for dear life when you attempted to get off him, loudly whining in protest.
“No, DON’T!” he pinned you in your place. “Don’t leave.”
“But I want to see it,” you tried to look back.
“Don’t leave,” he insisted, loudly slurping on your entrance. “Don’t leave. I’ve waited years for this!”
He started lapping at your clit much faster, stuffing his face with you out of sheer desperation. His makeout with your pussy was getting so sloppy that you could feel your thighs getting wet. It was as if the entire room suddenly went silent. All you could hear was the smack of his lips, his guttural moans, his unhinged encouragements to drown him in your cum and choke him between your legs. He reached for your tits and started fondling them, letting you ride his mouth however fast you wanted this time.
“Chain me to yourself. I fucking worship you.”
You exploded in his mouth, and everything went momentarily white, a sharp ringing echoing in your ears. You couldn’t control how deep your moans were coming from, all deep and throaty as your whole body peaked, your orgasm hitting straight to the roof of your head. You couldn’t tell how long you rode out that high, but you were exhausted when you finally managed to come down, limp legs fully giving out as you collapsed next to Hyunjin. He hovered over you and held one of your hands, pressing it over the clear film on his chest. And you finally saw it in its full glory.
Motherfucker actually got your autograph tattooed.
“Do you still have any doubts?” he asked, kissing all over your face.
You gently caressed his tattoo, breaking into a satisfied smile. You slid your hands down to the waistband of his jeans and tugged on it, silently asking him to take them off. He looked absolutely delicious, huge girth, rock hard, leaking with his arousal. You wrapped your legs around him, made him palm himself and press his cock against your oozing hole, salivating just at the thought of him stretching you.
“If I see you so much as tweet about some other bitch,” you spoke softly as if you were reciting love poems to him, sneakily tangling your fingers around the chain of his necklace, then harshly yanked him down, “I will find you, and I will kill you.”
“Fucking marry me,” he growled through his teeth, not even the least bit joking.
He sank into you with a thrust so sharp that you arched in your place, your eyes widened with the impact. The harder he fucked you, the more he was losing himself, trading his sanity for the ecstasy consuming him faster than he could have foreseen, but he…
…didn’t…
…fucking…
…care…
…anymore.
This was it. This was the moment.
All these years spent watching you from afar…
All the people he had to bribe…
All the gigs he had to sabotage…
All the kills he had to order…
For this moment.
Right here.
Right now.
Deep inside his god.
Becoming completely hers.
“You know they’re watching us,” he maniacally laughed. “They wish they were us. They wish they were me, but they will never know what it feels like to fuck you.”
“W–Why?”
“Do you really wanna know the answer?”
You smiled at him so brightly that Hyunjin thought he had finally lost it.
You trapped him in your leglock, held onto his shoulders, and just admired the way he heavily panted over you, kissing your wrists, frantically fucking you like he was being chased. He was losing his grip on reality one push at a time. He just could not control the deranged confessions he was making back to back, and when he thought he was done for, you were actually throbbing harder around him. You were moaning louder. You were breathing faster. You were looking into his eyes way too fondly, and if you didn’t cut it out right fucking now, he was going to believe that—
“I love you, Hyunjin.”
He came so hard that his moans were suddenly silenced like they were cut with a knife, crawling out of his own body as he drained himself into you. His face was all contorted, half in narcotic pleasure and half in something you couldn’t quite decipher, and if this was what joy was, Hyunjin had never felt joy before. If this was what pleasure was, he had never felt pleasure before. But he knew he felt love. He had felt it since the day he saw you at the record store buying your first guitar.
But when post-nut clarity hit him like a truck, a sense of acute dread settled in his chest.
“That was uh… er erhm…” he cleared his throat. “That was just a heat-of-the-moment thing. You know that, right?”
“Likewise. What happens inside me, stays inside me,” you brushed his damp locks with your fingers. “But I don’t think it will kill us to spoon.”
He flashed you a fatigued smile and kissed all over your shoulders as you turned your back to him, as though you were about to bask in some wholesome afterglow in the privacy of your own bedroom. His warmth enveloped you like a comfort blanket, and you felt his nose in the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling your scent and humming happily.
You wondered if Hyunjin would cry tears of happiness if you showed him the room at your place, walls filled to the brim with the photos you’d been taking of him for the past five years.
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Yes yes yes. Is that naked with a guitar a magazine cover a Christina Aguilera Rolling Stone reference?!
well what the fuck
The way I screamed. Now I have to reread Sharp Edges!! 🍊
persephone
− Cling − Heed − Fortify by Henrik Aa. Uldalen
Mermaids (1879) - Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky
Hyacinth — symbol of sincerity, sorrow, and renewal. In mythology, it represented tragic love and remembrance but today represents emotional healing.
For Aphrodite 🥀🐚🍯
