Tenth Circle Of Hell ◎ Choi Seung-hyun
◎ Summary: During a late-night hangout at Ji-yong's penthouse, playful conversations about sex take a darker, more intimate turn when Seung-hyun sets his sights on redefining what "hell" truly feels like.
◎ Warnings: almost sex, orgasm denial, power play, teasing, a bit of mature language, i guess
The velvet night outside Ji-yong's penthouse window stretched like spilled ink across the skyline, Seoul glittering below like a bed of scattered diamonds. Inside, laughter echoed off polished marble and glass, warm and unrestrained, swirling around you like the scent of Seung-hyun's vintage wine—bold, complex, and entirely too easy to indulge in.
You were curled into a corner of the expansive leather sectional, your legs tucked under you, a half-full glass of something red and ruinous balanced in your hand. Around you, your friends sprawled in various states of delight and disarray—Jiyong with his feet propped up on a designer ottoman, Mina doubled over in laughter, her head on her boyfriend's lap, and Seung-hyun, lounging too gracefully across the rug, his eyes lazily watching the room from beneath heavy lids.
The conversation had long since drifted from work. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the low hum of the playlist Jiyong had put on, full of songs with bass lines that thrummed right through your spine. Or maybe it was just the safety of friendship, that unique invincibility that only blossoms when everyone is a little tipsy and the night is soft and forgiving.
"Okay but seriously," Mina giggled, "how do people actually do downward dog in the shower without pulling a hamstring?"
"It's all about angles," Jiyong replied, surprisingly earnestly. "And non-slip mats. Very underrated."
"Eye contact during a blowjob," you said, swirling your wine, "romantic or deeply unsettling?"
"Romantic if you're into soul-searching," Mina shot back. "Unsettling if your mascara is running."
"God, yes," groaned Mina's boyfriend. "Like a raccoon in heat."
Jiyong laughed so hard he almost spilled his wine. "Okay, okay. What about rhythm versus spontaneity? Like, should good sex be well-paced or completely chaotic?"
"Both," Mina said without hesitation. "Structured chaos. Like jazz."
You nearly dropped your glass laughing. "Jazz sex. Got it."
The conversation devolved from there into an enthusiastic ranking of sex positions as if they were basketball league draft picks. Mina picked cowgirl first. Jiyong countered with spooning, citing emotional depth. Someone shouted "doggy for the win!" and the room exploded.
The air was thick with too-loud laughs, flushed cheeks, and mock-scandalized gasps. You took another sip of wine and let your head fall back against the couch, grinning into the ceiling, warmed by the comfort of being able to talk about anything and everything without shame.
"It is the tenth circle of hell," you announced suddenly, without thinking, "when you find the love of your life, but the sex is intensely meh."
For a split second, the room inhaled.
Then: an explosion of noise.
Jiyong howled. Mina nearly choked on her drink. Someone slapped a cushion. You flushed, your grin widening in half-mortified glee, but you didn’t take it back. Why should you? It was true. It was brutally, painfully true.
But not everyone was laughing.
Across the room, Choi Seung-hyun hadn’t moved. His glass was suspended mid-air, that lazy, unreadable smirk twitching just slightly at the corner of his mouth. His eyes met yours across the flickering candlelight and didn’t waver.
"Tenth circle of hell?" he murmured later, when the others had retreated into giggles and side conversations.
You blinked. "Yeah. You know. Like, Dante didn't write it, but he should've."
"Hm," he said, taking a slow sip of his wine, his gaze still pinned to you. "Sounds like you need a new definition of hell."
And in that moment, with the air between you humming like a struck match, you realized: Seung-hyun wasn't laughing because he was planning something far more wicked than words.
Later, the silence of your apartment was a different kind of intoxicating. No music, no laughter, just the low thrum of your heartbeat in your ears as you unlocked the door and stepped inside, Seung-hyun close behind you. The wine still burned pleasantly in your bloodstream, but it was his gaze that set your skin alight.
You turned to say something—you didn't know what, maybe a quip, maybe something about the ridiculousness of the night—but the words caught in your throat. He was too close. Not touching you, but there, in that magnetic field just before contact.
And you stepped back until your spine met the cool plaster of your hallway wall.
He didn't ask. He didn't need to.
One hand braced beside your head, the other curling gently around your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
"You talk a lot," he murmured, his voice low, deep, almost lazy.
Then he kissed you—not soft, not tentative. Demanding. Full of promise and something darker.
He kissed you like a secret. Like a challenge. Like he meant to undo every smug, resigned thing you'd ever said about lackluster love.
Your fingers found his shirt, clutching the fabric as his body pressed into yours, pinning you to the wall in a way that made it impossible to think, to breathe, to be anywhere but here. Heat coiled in your belly, sharp and sudden. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tilting your chin higher like he owned you, like he was just getting started.
His lips left yours only to trail a slow, maddening path along your jaw to your throat. His breath was warm. His words were colder.
"Tell me something," he said between kisses, each syllable brushing against your skin like velvet. "Am I not the love of your life..."
A pause, his hand skimming beneath the hem of your shirt, dragging his knuckles up your bare side until you shivered.
"Or is the sex... actually meh?"
You choked on a breath, a half-laugh slipping from you before it turned into a low moan as he pressed his hips harder into yours.
He looked up, his eyes gleaming with something too amused, too feral. "Answer me."
He silenced you with another kiss, slower this time, more possessive. His tongue teased at the edge of yours, retreating, advancing, until you were chasing it, drunk on the taste of him, the feel of him, the weight of anticipation thrumming in every nerve.
"Because," he murmured against your lips, "if you think this is 'meh'... you haven't even stepped into hell yet."
His hand was under your thigh now, pulling it up, guiding your leg around his waist. Then the other. You let him. You wanted to. You wanted him to prove it. All of it. That love didn’t have to mean boredom. That sex didn’t have to fade into familiarity. That hell could be heat and teeth and fingers digging into your hips like you were the only thing he wanted to destroy tonight.
You moaned his name, half a prayer, half a challenge of your own.
And when he finally lifted you, carrying you toward your bedroom like a man with a mission, you realized: hell wasn’t cold.
Your back met the edge of the bed as Seung-hyun approached, the air shifting with him, as if the room obeyed the rhythm of his breathing.
You reached for him, aching. But he caught your wrist mid-motion, not unkindly, and brought your hand to his lips, kissing the pulse point softly.
"You're so impatient," he murmured, smile barely there. "But I like that. It means you'll break beautifully."
Heat rushed under your skin.
He didn’t rush. He undressed you in slow gradients, each inch of skin revealed like a secret, like he was memorizing you with reverence and something darker. His gaze never left yours, anchoring you even when you trembled.
When his hands finally slid over bare skin, the contact was maddeningly gentle. He didn’t grope or grab; he caressed, explored, stroked until your nerves were alight and every breath felt heavy with need.
Lips to neck. Teeth to shoulder. His breath at your ear.
“You look like you’re already there,” he said lowly, brushing his fingers just above where you wanted him. “But you’re not. Not even close.”
He coaxed you down onto the bed, taking his time. His mouth trailed heat from your collarbone to your stomach, every inch a study in restraint. You moved beneath him, desperate, greedy, but he kept you still with a hand splayed against your hip.
When he finally touched you where it mattered, it was slow.
Seung-hyun’s hand was between your thighs, spreading you open with firm, practiced confidence. He looked down at you, half-lidded eyes glowing with amusement and hunger.
“You’re soaked,” he said, almost admiringly. “And I haven’t even given you anything real yet.”
His thumb brushed over your clit in slow, deliberate circles. You jerked in response, a moan breaking out of you before you could stop it.
“Already that sensitive?” he murmured. “We’ve barely started.”
He slid one finger inside you, curling them expertly as his thumb never stopped circling your clit. The pressure was maddening. Perfect. You gasped, arching up into him.
“Shh,” he cooed, kissing your throat. “Not yet, Jagi. You’re not even close to falling apart the way I want.”
He added another finger, his movements steady, building a rhythm that had your hips moving on their own. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.
Your orgasm rose, fierce and unrelenting, teetering on the brink.
You cried out, the sudden emptiness a brutal contrast to the heat he'd stirred inside you.
“Don’t pout,” he whispered against your skin. “You’ll come. Just not now. Maybe not tonight.”
He climbed between your thighs, licking you with deliberate, devastating strokes. His tongue was wicked, his mouth merciless. He sucked your clit into his mouth, gently, then harder, just enough to make you sob his name.
“Seung-hyun, please—I need to—”
He lifted his head, lips glistening. “You think begging gets you what you want? No, Jagiya. Begging gets me what I want.”
He stood, unzipping his pants. His cock was hard, flushed, and dripping. He stroked it slowly, watching your eyes follow the movement.
“You want it?” he asked, teasing the tip against your entrance.
He pushed in an inch, then pulled out.
He did it again. And again. Never fully giving you what you needed.
“You feel that?” he murmured. “That ache? That empty, desperate stretch in your belly? That’s mine..”
Then he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “And I’m not taking it away yet.”
He thrust again, this time deeper, slow and purposeful. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“Fuck,” you whispered. “Please, please let me—”
He silenced you with a kiss, devouring your mouth as he rolled his hips once more, dragging the head of his cock along your slick walls.
He picked up a rhythm—controlled, relentless. He brought you back to the edge, made you feel the tremor start in your legs, the tightening in your core. You were right there.
Your body shook with the effort of holding back what he denied.
He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, towering over you. The other hand traced down your stomach slowly.
“You can. And you will. You’ll take everything I give you—and nothing more.”
He leaned down, kissed you hard, then pressed the flat of his palm against your clit and held it there. The pressure was maddening, unbearable.
Your thighs trembled, your breath came in gasps.
“Beg prettier,” he said, his voice low and merciless.
“Seung-hyun—please, let me come, I need it—I need you—”
He released your wrists, lifted himself off the bed, and stood at the edge, watching you fall apart with hunger in his eyes.
He pulled his shirt back on, his pants already zipped, his cock still hard as he adjusted himself with maddening calm.
Minutes passed—or hours; He drove you toward the edge over and over, only to pull you back with maddening control. He made you feel each moment stretch into torment, each near-release a cruel reminder that you weren't in charge.
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
"You’re going to lie awake tonight and feel this every time you close your eyes. That pressure in your belly. That empty ache."
His hand pressed flat against your stomach, just above your heat. “It’ll burn here. Low. Heavy. And you’ll remember I put it there.”
Your body bucked, needing more, anything—
The heat of his mouth had mapped every inch of your skin, you lay breathless, trembling, your body alive with the echoes of everything he'd done and everything he hadn't yet.
Seung-hyun leaned over you, his breath still shallow, but his smirk very much intact. He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder, slow and deliberate.
Then he stood, stretching as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren’t still weak, your chest still rising in uneven waves.
You blinked up at him, stunned and aching, your body still begging for release that hadn’t come.
At the doorway, he paused, glancing back at you with a wicked gleam in his eye.
"You wanted a new definition of hell?" he said, voice low and smooth as sin. "Try this: your entire body is on fire, every nerve raw, your pulse a thunderstorm in your veins... and you don’t get to come."
He grinned, cruel and beautiful. "That, Jagiya, is the tenth circle."
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