swz¹³ @soonwoosz - Tumblr Blog

Oct 5, 2025

adonis ⸻ L.HS

{S} You’re a prolific photographer, renowned for your unconventional devotion to your craft. Enter Lee Heeseung—top model, golden boy, and muse extraordinaire. When you discover a leaked tabloid photo of him in bondage, you arrange a meeting and make your offer: become your muse, and in return, you’ll pave the way for his redemption after a career-shattering scandal. The unexpected follows—an intense entanglement and obsession to photograph your muse who serves every whim of yours, offering his unrelenting submission. Yet beneath Heeseung’s charismatic persona and dangerously alluring beauty lurks an unsettling darkness: a possessiveness with a taste for murder and destruction.

GENRE: psychological-horror, obsession, model au, yandere, dark smut, oneshot.

model! heeseung x photographer! reader,

WARNINGS: death, murder, violence, dark smut, power imbalance, blood, self-harm. switch! heeseung, switch!reader, mutual masterbation, manipulation, oral ( f receiving), some mentions of bondage, elements of dubcon, mentions of animal death. read at your own risk. wc: around 14k (currently unedited)

taglist: @ninistranaut @jkayy-prodian @yenienha @faerouzia @yukisroom97 @isagistar @seunglover @mheretoreadff @petulapetula @masochistcult @bunyaya @goldendwann @etherealcherrie @str4gguk @sosaphiee @ikeuwoniee @v1shwa-xo @engeneheree @raicecakes-and-buldak @01209r

You can’t look away. His back curves like an offering, shadow carving over muscle and bound arms. Silk cuts into flushed skin, a body wrapped and gagged, eyes glassy with something raw, something indecent.

The supermarket hums around you—wheels squeak, children whine—but none of it exists. Aisle seven has narrowed into a single frame: him.

Your fingers smear saliva on the glossy page as you turn it, still staring. The headline screams in cheap, tabloid font:

THE DOWNFALL OF LEE HEESEUNG? HIS AGENCY STAYS SILENT.

Silent. You almost laugh. The picture says everything.

Someone mutters for you to move. You don’t. Their cart wheels swerve, the sound grating like static—but all you hear is the click of a shutter that hasn’t been pressed yet.

Your hand trails down the laminated page, ripping it clean off of the magazine before placing it back onto the rack. Heads turn at the sound of your heels clicking against the linoleum floors, eyes cascading over the long leather trench you donned. Powerful. Moderately eccentric. The workers don't stop you from sipping the last of your iced coffee obnoxiously before you slide a bottle of wine forward onto the register.

You'd been pacing around the aisle for the last hour and a half, blankly staring at each bottle. None of them were perfect-nothing you really wanted but didn't want to leave empty handed.

But you know what you did want? Lee Heeseung— and his botched reputation arrived just on time.

You leave a wad of cash on the counter, three times worth the original amount while mumbling something along the lines of not wanting to count right now and telling the cashier to keep the rest of the cash for themselves.

The dial rings for half a beat before your manager picks up.

"Hello—“you interrupt Sunghoon.

"I want Lee Heeseung."

"Get in line." You imagine Sunghoon's perfectly plucked, raised eyebrow. Dry, to the point-busy. "No. I want Lee Heeseung. I refuse to photograph anyone or anything else until I get him." He hears the popping of a wine bottle from your end of the call.

Sunghoon pinches his nose bridge and sighs. "It's not good publicity. He's more than likely done for in the industry-what about Park Jongseong? Sim Jaehyun? You're supposed to be curating that collection—“

"I'm stuck. Haven't slept in three days since the photo was leaked. He's perfect and I want to photograph him. Sunghoon, pull some strings. Please?"

A quick swig, brown paper bag obscuring the bottle as you sat on a random park bench before lighting a slim cigarette. If Sunghoon were in front of you, the bags under your eyes would've sealed the deal.

"Fuckin' hell...'ll see what I can do. No promises." He's resigned in the wake of your stubbornness. You were his first big break as a manager, albeit the biggest pain in his ass thus far.

"I'll take you out to eat at that super pretentious restaurant you enjoy going to for whatever reason." You offer half heartedly, spacing out already, waiting for the call to end.

He snorts. "Fine." And the line goes dead.

You don't blink-hand curling around the ripped photo, tracing around his silhouette.

You want him, he’s perfect.

Heeseung digs his head into his pillow face first, hissing when Jungwon slides open his curtains with a loud clap-hollering. "Get up, asshole." Heeseung groans, shaking his head. "For the love of god—close the curtains."

"If you want to maintain your status as the Adonis of this industry, you'll get your perky ass up and take a shower. You reek of champagne and day-old strawberries." Heeseung blinks, squinting one eye as the other adjusts to the brightness of the room.

"And why would I need to do that, my dearest Jungwon?" All of his schedules should've been cleared off by now. He doesn't want to be sober or awake to see the messages about who else doesn't want to work with him now.

Jungwon rolls his eyes at the sweet sarcasm. "One of the most highly sought out and selective photographers of our generation's managers reached out. She wants to meet you."

Only now does Heeseung rise from bed, nonchalant and naked as he pulls the sheets off his body.

"Who?" Strange. Why would someone want to work with him at the height of his scandal?

"They work under the pseudonym, obscura. Their work is... interesting to say the least. Not much about them is known, but they're insanely gifted. Obsessive, l've heard—but every project they've done has done astronomically well." Jungwon twines his hands together, taking a seat on the plush velvet cream couch—resting his elbows on his knees as he stares into Heeseung's doe eyes. "You've got one shot. Get up. Get ready and don't fuck this up."

"Sure thing, Won." And all Jungwon sees is Heeseung's ass strutting to the bathroom—not a care in sight.

Heeseung's eyes drift across the room. Rolling over intricate photos all varying stylistically, all striking—profound. Some are even unsettling. Jungwon left him after saying he needed to meet with Obscura's manager, Sunghoon, to talk about the "boring stuff."

An array of nude photographs are arranged messily on the floor, piles of notes-unreadable because of all the strikes ripping through sentences of half formed thoughts immediately being rejected upon birth. He stops at a particular photograph of a woman—Venusian in form. Beautiful in the sort of way that can leave a life long imprint.

A pleasantly pitched voice interrupts him the moment he reaches down to pick up the photo curiously, interest peaking. "Glad to see you have an eye for these things too."

Slow clicks approach him as the woman from the photo breathes into life before him—only clothed this time, draped in a sleek black fabric. Long earrings compliment the length of your neck and he smells the allure of your perfume from where he stood. Before he catches the words, he breathes out an almost fascinated whisper of surprise. Beautiful.

You pause in front of him, eyes dragging from his polished shoes to the top of his head. Reaching a delicate hand out, you greet him. "Obscura on paper and to the public. But you have the option of calling me by my name." You pull your knees together and bend elegantly to pick up the photo. "—ah. I was wine drunk when I decided I wanted in on the project and took a half hearted self portrait. This is the only one I kept. The other fifty— I burned."

"Why did you burn them?" Heeseung tilts his head, silken hair lying over his eyes.

"Because they weren't perfect." You didn't miss a beat, eyes unwavering as you stare at him through your lashes, observing unabashedly.

You weren't trying to seduce him—not intentionally, however it may have looked. But your eyes draped over his form, imagining all the ways you wanted to contort it to your vision.

"Is imperfection so unsavory?" He asks. There was no judgement. Only professional intrigue with a dash of sexual attraction.

"Not always—but from the things I want? Yes." You admit.

"Why did you ask to meet me?" He takes a step closer. Not close enough to warrant a response or a step back, but enough for your head to tilt at the action.

You say it like it's simple. Obvious.

"Because I want you, Heeseung. And I want you to be mine."

His expression stays the same, doe eyes running over your eyes—something calculated under the surface of his saccharine features before it clicks back into place.

"And why would you want that?" For a moment, he thought you were another affluent woman inviting him into your bed—bold because you'd never been told no before in your life. But your gaze told him otherwise-that wanting to you was different from what wanting meant for others.

"You're striking and filthy. To be frank with you, I have no interest in your daytime persona: the one you've crafted into perfection with your company." Stepping forward, you smooth a small wrinkle forming near the collar of his suit. "I want to make you an offer—become my muse. My honest muse, the one I saw on that photo that you'd never intended on letting the outside world see, and I will make you a god."

Heeseung quickly learnt that he didn't have it in him to say no to you, godhood or not.

—

“Are you sure about this?” Heeseung catches the worry in Jungwon’s voice. Snorting, he tips his head, eyes sliding toward his manager at the wheel. “Funny. Thought you were the one who said—what was it?—‘don’t fuck this up.’”

“Yeah, but that was before I found out Obscura drives her muses past their limits—with no plan, no schedule, nothing.” Jungwon’s fists tighten around the wheel, eyes trained on the road.

Heeseung says nothing. He didn’t need to.

Jungwon doesn’t know the full weight of what this meant for him. Doesn’t know the candidness of conversation he found himself having with you.

Everything he wanted had landed in his lap—and he had no intention of letting it go. Not by a long shot.

The bathroom hums with the steady hiss of the shower, steam clinging to the checkered tiles that stretch in sharp black-and-white beneath his legs. Water runs lukewarm now, the heat bled out, but Heeseung doesn’t move to adjust it. He never does. Hotels blur together—unnamed, forgettable—rooms he slips into and out of as instructed, hiding from the weight of cameras and curious eyes. It’s a cycle as familiar as breathing, one he no longer bothers to resent.

Heeseung sits slumped on the marble floor of the stall, eyes glazed, expression unreadable. Blank. Bored. Empty. Droplets stream down the bridge of his nose, clinging until each slow blink lets them fall. His nails wander idly across his chest and down his ribs, scratching shallow lines at first, then deeper, until the skin blossoms in thin, stinging trails. Pink threads of blood dilute into the runoff, carried down the drain where it spirals and disappears—one more secret rinsed clean.

The shallow tears around his hipbone multiply, his scratching methodical now, as if testing how much of himself he can peel away. It feels liberating in its own quiet way—this freedom to ruin his own surface without correction, without polish. Once, he was alabaster. Porcelain. A body designed for admiration. Never permitted to scar under the limelight demanded from the nature of his existence. But he shattered that himself, the instant he left the door unlocked, the instant he let the lens catch him.

The scandal wasn’t an accident. It was the only time the world saw him as filth—and he liked it.

Good.

A flash of dark hair pulses through his memory, breaking through the bleakness like slips of sunlight peeling through clouds. You.

Heeseung drags his tongue across the ridges of his teeth, slow and deliberate, like he’s already tasting the ruin. You looked at him as if you wanted to dismantle him, to break him down just to see how he’d look rebuilt in your hands. And you wanted him. Not the Adonis. Not the golden boy. Just him.

No one ever did. Not where the lights could reach. They only wanted him in shadow—hidden behind locks, passwords, and neat little NDAs. But he was the one who’d started leaving the doors cracked open. The one who forgot to demand silence. The one who fed his lovers the chance to slip. He’d wanted the photo out there—wanted to watch his pristine image rot in public. There was nothing sweeter than the thought of being dragged into daylight, stripped and named for what he really was. In short, Heeseung wanted that photo to get leaked. Planned—fully intended, even. But you? You weren’t part of the original plan. And now, it’s even better.

To be fair, there was little thought that went into the process—no real plan. Just an expośe that cupped its hands full of public degradation on the walls for his enjoyment. Life had gotten too monotonous in cyclical praise. He was perfection—golden, god-like.

The slope of your waist—the supple texture of your skin that he could almost feel through the photographs’ sleek film. Your hair that cascaded along your form like water, the swell of your breasts, and the slightly visible puffiness of your cunt. His heart throbbed. And before he realizes it, Heeseung trails a porcelain hand down his abdomen, gripping a hand tightly over the pulsing girth lifting towards his navel. His head bangs lightly on the marbled tile as he sits back, eyes pointed towards heaven.

Heeseung knew he was disgusting. And maybe you were the one person who’d like him for it. You were two sides of a coin—he could feel it. He believed it.

Hips rocked against his hand—pushing, pulling at flesh like it was your wetness that enveloped him. Water fills his open mouth, pouring out and then in—choked groans sputtering out of him like liquid guilt. He twists his hand, raising it up to the tip of his cock, and jerks to what his memory could recollect of your nude shape—building up an unsettling tempo, as he descended slowly into a terrifyingly real illusion of you.

“P-please.” He begs and he doesn’t know to who or what he’a pleading to. To you. Maybe the universe. You’d probably photograph this moment—the arch of his back, the rapid thrusting into his hand—the sacred beauty of his distorted and invasive desire. It was primal, instinctual. There was no logical basis of his fascination towards you other than the level of obsession he knew you were capable of. But it wasn’t for him. It was for the world around you. He was just an extension of that.

And Heeseung already didn’t like that. Though he didn’t say it, he agreed to be yours with an unspoken expectation—he’d be the ultimate, singular object—the golden apple of your eye. He craved possession—Mutual possession, that is. Heeseung was a little more…under the table about it. And no one really needed to know that. No one wanted to, at least.

His hips roll, twitch, body keening over—the veins on his pelvis pronounced and throbbing—fucking into his hand like you were there to take it. Heeseung liked ruining pretty girls, but he could tell you weren’t the kind to lie on your back and take it.

You liked power. Control. Perfection.

And because Heeseung was intrigued by you, he’ll hand you a leash to see what you’d do with it.

Liquid heat pulses through him and he gasps—streaks of white painting his belly, gazing at the wall. Dazed. Feverish.

There was something dangerous about you

and Heeseung was never the type to turn away from a dark room—stepping into the shadows like it was destined to begin with.

—

“Hold still. There it is—“ Dainty hands squeeze the shutter, one eye squints while the other focuses on Heeseung’s form. You get it now—why he was deemed golden boy of the decade.

A subdued, yellow bellied light, painted by the afterglow of a flickering red bulb stood at the backdrop of your photo studio. You squint, tightening your fists, and focus on the lens—aiming towards Heeseung.

He was beautiful—fluid like water. Mysteriously alluring and full of silent charm. Heeseung didn’t say much but when he did, a crowd would crawl to hear the cadence of his voice—laugh when he wanted them to like it was a live audience.

Heeseung—almost languidly—rolls his head to look at you from where he rests on the arm of a maroon velvet couch. Eyes glossy, nearly unreadable were it not for his quirked lips. “Am I perfect yet?”

“No.” You instantly reply, smiling kindly. “But you’re beautiful. Beauty doesn’t demand perfection.”

“Ah—but didn’t you want perfection?” It’s a small inquiry, light in tone. The air between you is amiable. Smooth. Like old friends meeting again after years of living separate lives.

“I wanted honesty. I liked your filth, Heeseung. As nice as it is to see you smile so insincerely.” You laugh lightly.

“And what if it isn’t insincere—how would you know?” His smile only stretches, but his eyes—they firm. Prod like knives. Dark. Curious.

“Your eyes—they’re dead. I can’t feel any light from you. It’s practiced. Beautiful? Yes. But it doesn’t reach me.” You say it like it didn’t bother you. His fabricated character and the unsettling underbelly of who he truly was. Even you didn’t know the extent of it—just the epidermis of his filth, sensed by your intuition alone.

For a moment, Heeseung’s eyes widen. The initial lightness of his face fading into an almost boyish surprise. He finally blinks, turning his face away to stare at the ceiling, only humming in acknowledgement before a comfortable silence weighs the room.

You step towards him, placing a cold hand on his wrist to position it over his head. The tip of your index finger tilts his chin upward. “Eyes on the camera. Do me a favor—remember the last time you came. Every detail. Don’t say a word. I need that heat for this shot.” You knew the root of his scandal was his hunger, and you wanted to catch it—see if desire could fracture the shell of media-trained perfection.

Goosebumps form on his skin, though his calm facade didn’t betray him. The couch dipped beneath your weight as you rose onto the cushions, leaning over him, camera angled down the length of his body.

His eyes slowly drift over your shape—stationing themselves where your v neck sweater dipped and exposed the swell of your breasts. He smiles. Serpentine. Calculating—probing.

“I touched myself.” He starts with, casual. You hum lightly. Discussions of intimacy never shook you as an artist. It came up in conversations over cups of coffee—intensely indulgent details and photographic evidence of exhibitionistic escapades shared between friends and strangers when permitted.

“I thought of you.” His eyes peer into the camera as if the lens did nothing to obscure your eyes from him. Stilling, your finger pauses mid press—the sound of the incoming shutter growing dull. Your hands slowly pull your camera from your face as you stare at Heeseung.

He observes you, quietly sweet in a way that didn’t seem pressing—the kind of polite look you’d see from boys at church, a next door neighbor, or a mutual you’d run into at the grocery store.

It suddenly clicked. Heeseung played his part well—and it would take time to see him unravel. You were used to getting what you wanted nowadays, never expecting to have to work for it. And you certainly hadn’t planned on the golden boy carrying much depth beyond his deviant sex life. So you’ll let him play sweet even if you could sense his acrid nature.

You hum neutrally, feigning interest. “What did you imagine?”

Whatever got the heat out of him. You’d crack him open if need be.

His eyes scan your face, tracing the lines of your lips as they form words.

And he lies.

“I thought of you suffocating me.” You huff a breath. A half laugh—interrupted by your focus on the world you were trying to encapsulate through your lens, distracted. “—yeah? Did I kill you?”

Heeseung still doesn’t blink. “No—but I think I wanted you to.” He slipped the truth in slowly, darkening the energy of the room like ink in water.

“You like getting off to murder or something?” You quirk a brow, intrigued. You had no horse high enough to look down on him. Not when it came to the nature of desire.

“No, but I’d kill for the things I want.” He confesses.

“And how would that apply to me strangling you?” Without a beat. The air around you falls still—hot like magma. Like every time you spoke, ash found its way to clutter and stick to your mouth like cotton candy. It didn’t quite fit—tones that belonged in conversations about the weather found themselves weaved into Heeseung’s sudden confession of morbid desire. All the more, it was pointed at you.

“I’d also die for the things I want.”

Your finger flicks against the shutter. There. In that moment alone, you were able to get the shot you wanted. An unaffected smile breathes through your face before you ask with half a mind. “That’s all that did it for you? My hands around your neck?” The tension brewed. A sudden dawning and self reminder that you were the subject of his fantasy— began weighing on you.

“It wasn’t your hands that I imagined suffocating me.”

The air thickened impossibly, couch cushions creaking as you adjust your weight.

“Then what did—“

Before the question could fully leave your mouth, Heeseung clasps a hand behind the back of your left knee and pulls down. You tumble, a sharp gasp leaving your lips once you go off kilter. You’re only halfway down when he tugs again. Harder. Then slides the palms of his hands under your shirt until they rested above your womb.

Wide eyes blink up at you. Curious—almost innocent, though you knew better.

He shifts lower, settling into his fantasy—chin pressed to the soft curve of your inner thigh, head angled beneath you as you straddle his neck. His breath heats the fabric of your jeans, each exhale licking at the seam.

“You strangled me. Just like this.”

Click.

Your finger moves on instinct—recognizing the vision you’re chasing. His soft brown hair rustles, fanning on top of the maroon fabric of the couch like silk. A strand prods his left eye.

So much for salvaging his reputation. If every session unraveled like this, you wouldn’t erase his scandal—you’d only make it look tame compared to the collection you were about to curate.

And if Heeseung is only honest in bed, you wouldn’t oppose to sleeping with him. You’ve done worse in the haze of chasing photographic perfection: hanging off cliffs without proper gear just to catch the right angle back when you were still an intern. You were let go shortly after—but the shot you took drew enough recognition for Sunghoon to find you. (The company, meanwhile, wrote you off as too much of a liability.) You’ve snuck onto government property because you swore you’d glimpsed a rare bird, and vanished without a word to trek through a Mongolian winter after a dream you couldn’t shake.

Heeseung waited patiently. If anyone else peered inside of the small studio, they may have mistaken his gait as obedience—like Heeseung wasn’t the one who tied your thighs around his neck. But he was.

That’s the kick.

Your body shivers lightly when his thumb massages small circles onto your stomach.

“What else did I do to you?” Your eyes meet his, unwavering. Voice low—Confident. Controlled.

His only response is his hands trailing down your stomach, unbuttoning your jeans slowly, before pulling down the zipper with his teeth.

Click.

He doesn’t break your gaze as he grips on the sides of your jeans, tugging them down with a patient pace until they hit the barrier of his throat. He touched you with a certain feigned reverence—a lightness to his hands like a predator trying to fit into the mold of something small. Soft. Careful. Slow—cautionary.

The softness of his lips drag up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, warm breath brushing the fabric of your cotton underwear.

And then his head tilts up, finally whispering a reply:

“I can show you.”

Despite the calculation written on your face, your hands tremble slightly. Nonetheless, you point the viewfinder to his lips—obscuring his eyes, his gaze—centering it on the damp trace of saliva on his lips, its textures detailed under the clarity of film.

He flattens his tongue on the cloth, sliding upwards to catch the fabric of your underwear between his teeth—pulling to his left before kissing the soft puffiness of your cunt.

“There you are.” He whispers, deceivingly reverent. Sweet.

And then his eyes steel. Gazing at you from his lashes, calculated—observing. Your back arches, hips pushing towards his mouth when he slides the muscle between your folds slowly and sucks. His grip on your hips tighten before he pushes you to sit completely on his face, weight pressing against his mouth, jaw working.

He circles around your entrance and pushes in with a groan. Dipping, tasting. Pulling out, flicking lightly.

Heated kisses press against your flushed flesh—open mouthed and hungry. You see red and think that the color suits Heeseung. A little too well but true to character.

A filmy heat glazes over his expression, eyes rolling back at the taste of you on his tongue.

He can’t breathe.

He doesn’t want to.

And though you know you should probably get off—you don’t. Not before taking a photo of his eyes, hot and heavy as they fight to stay open and not roll back to watch your expression. Your thighs border the photo—slick apparent on his cheekbones from the rolling of your hips.

Click, click, click—

Heeseung gasps when you slide off of him before you could orgasm. His eyebrows furrow and arms reach to wrap around your waist in defiance.

He looks a mess. A sheen of white, almost translucent liquid drips lightly from the corner of his mouth, and smears itself around his jaw. “W-wait—“

Click.

Even his desperation is beautiful.

“My beautiful muse—behave. Stay still.” Your voice is soft, but edged with command. Heeseung doesn’t loosen his grip, yet his body remains frozen, his gaze locked exactly where it was the instant you spoke.

He won’t speak unless you tell him to.

Shutter sounds fill the room and he fights the urge to move and taste the remnants of you off his lips—letting you move his limbs to your liking, like a doll.

And this particular instance began the long, winding road you and Heeseung would walk in the years to come—a single moment that quietly laid the foundation for something far darker than either of you had originally intended.

—

Even after you published the first few photos you’d taken of Heeseung in an exhibition titled, Adonis in fragments, the spectacle of a body— there was no unwriting the workforce duo you’d become. From then on, Heeseung would take no offers, would refuse to be photographed by anyone else. Refused to allow anyone else take his place and title as your muse.

By photographing him, Heeseung was reborn—his scandal no longer weighed him. It amplified his image.

Just as you’d expected, the photographs you’d taken of Heeseung during that era overshadowed the initial leak. Made it look like light work. A fine work of enthralling exhibitionism, of Heeseung’s immorality taken in splices and vignettes.

You had made art of his anatomy, his submission, and his seemingly endless appetite for hedonism and excess. Heeseung wasn’t merely golden—he was a sex symbol, an infamous libertine whose body was both idolized and consumed: laminated on storefronts, archived in hidden digital albums, desired and acknowledged from every corner of the world.

And Heeseung was yours. Not in the traditional way. Somewhere between quiet boundaries—a sort of purgatory between the metaphorical state lines of lovers, yet not quite friends. Closer to being strangers despite the years that stitched the two of you together.

To you, he was a doll—programmed to drop to his knees at the slightest beckon. He’d abandon tasks midstream just to answer your call on the first ring, to appear at your side the instant a vague idea crossed your mind.

It was cold, cut—direct. Unfair, probably.

The gala was an opulent masquerade—high society draped in rare textiles, jewels that scattered light like kaleidoscopes when strands of light flickered against pearlescent surfaces. You sat at the edge of the room, eyes wandering around, mildly interested in the theatrics of the rich, famous, and pretentious.

Wine, champagne, and caviar whisks by on silver platters held by handsome waiters—plastic laughter reverberating off the hollow edges of the grandiose, Parisian venue.

Ignoring fire safety, you slip a hand into the brown leather purse at your side and draw out a bronzed cigarette case. Beside you, Heeseung sits motionless, waiting for the rare moments you choose to acknowledge him. A pale hand reaches forward, zippo lighter flicking open to slowly burn at the end of your cigarette. Music plays faintly in the background, a dull lull and orchestration.

Heeseung pulls his arm away, smoothly tucking away the metallic canister.

Inhaling, you finally break your casual silence—eyes still trained on the scenes playing before you.

“My adonis—have you been well?”

His tone is saccharine, but edged with something mildly frustrated. Dampened, despite his politeness. “No. I haven’t heard a single word from you in the last month. Surprised to hear that I’m still your adonis.”

“Whether or not you’re an Adonis—you’ll always be mine.” You smile at his boyishness.

His suit rustled—charmingly wrinkled, carelessly thrown on. Heeseung unfastened the cuffs of his white shirt and rolled the fabric slowly up his forearms. You feel his eyes on you, probing and dark.

You jolt when a cold hand slips up slowly—as if memorizing the texture of your skin—from your elbow to lace around your fingers, tugging them toward his mouth. His lips close deliberately over the spot where your lipstick stains the soft filter. His lashes flicker in the ember’s glow, shadows dancing as smoke curls between you, thickening the air and marking you both with the same scent.

Heeseung liked smelling like you by the end of the night—the familiar and intoxicating air of your perfume and expensive tobacco.

“I didn’t mean to abandon my puppy.” You smile at him, watching him close his eyes once your palm cusps his cheek—digesting the feeling of your occasional softness.

“…What’s kept you occupied?” He had a gut feeling. And it sickened him.

You knew he wouldn’t take it well, but you didn’t hesitate to rip the bandage off. “I met a boy in Busan—the son of a fisherman’s family. He caught my eye.”

You take another drag, turning away with furrowed brows—vacant. The air around you seemed to freeze, sharp and crackling like ice.

Heeseung’s eyes visibly darken. “And do you treat him the same?”

You sigh, exasperated. “What do you mean by that, Heeseung?”

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw ticking with all the right words lodging themselves in his throat—stiff. Anxious.

You rarely called him by his name. That means he’s annoying you. And Heeseung hated annoying you.

Because that meant he was even more liable to lose you. But he couldn’t shake off the anxiety, the disturbance—the darkness that’s long been rooted and festering inside of him like an infection.

His palms dampen with sweat, dragging them against the fabric of his pants before gripping his knees. The silence is thick—barbed with something too fleshed out for Heeseung. He couldn’t do this out in public. The words. The violence he carried towards you. The hefty weight he’s always carried—that he kept under deadbolts, lock and key.

“Does he do everything you want?” The question slips out low, bitter.

“Does he sleep beside you? Has he tasted you? Has he been inside you—the way I have, for as long as I’ve known you?” His voice breaks uncharacteristically, a sudden fragility that stuns even you. Gone was the poster boy and beside you, sat a man horribly in love.

You snuff out the cigarette, digging the edge until it bent on the exterior of your bronzed case. “He’s a boy.” You hiss, body turning towards him—offended, continuing.

“I don’t do this—“you gesture between you two. “This isn’t the usual process of my work, Hee. And even I have enough morality to not even dream of looking at a fifteen-year-old boy like that—are you insane?” The words stretch out, pushing through gritted teeth.

“Whatever his age—is he more beautiful than I am?” His eyes are wide and anxious, steadily breaking open at the seams. You rise to tug him off his seat—leading the way to an empty balcony that hung above the garden. The night air bites you as you try to find a middle ground—softness enough to placate him, needle-sharp defense for your own sake—while shadows of branches bleed across his form, the looming willow tree obscuring his expression.

“Heeseung, you’re the crowned Adonis—eyes follow you wherever you go. You can have anything you want at the palm of your hand if you so much asked for it—“

“Damn the rest of the world. Do you think I’m the most beautiful? I want you — I want you so much it aches.” It almost sounds like a plea: for help, for relief, for answers — for you.

“It keeps me awake at night. I haven’t slept, I barely eat, and even in dreams you haunt me. But I can’t have you—not the way you have me. I don’t have a hold on you.”

His eyes hollow with anguish, beauty breaking open as desires he buried for ages finally surge to the surface.

It was cyclical—his tendency to unravel the moment your gaze shifted to anyone else. But this was the most outwardly turbulent he had ever become. His desperation always hit at a small soft spot on you no one else knew about. And it resulted in a lack of taking on any other projects with the exemption of his.

Heeseung only ever cried during sex—sometimes as reprieve, other times overstimulation. But never out in the real world. Never beyond that closed door he adored locking you both inside.

To this day, you still don’t know what you feel for him.

It was a delicate dance between almost being in love—but you didn’t know if it was with him or the power you had over him.

But then moments like this were a sharp reminder of how much power he had over your life. It’s one of the many things Heeseung’s good at—fooling someone into thinking they had all of the power, only for them to realize this was the exact position he planned to be.

“Heeseung—“ you step towards him, holding his face in your hands. “…What can I do? We can’t keep doing this. You are my greatest muse—but I can’t ignore the outside world either. So what can I do for you?”

He doesn’t blink, gaze fading into something unreadable as he stares down at you—less soft, less vulnerable. He pulls you closer by the slim of your waist, fingers splaying where the curve of your spine dipped.

“Let me have you.”

“What does that mean?” He tilts down to look at you, swallowing and contemplating what words should leave him. But you couldn’t read him. And whenever that happened…you were scared of him. Of something that lingered under the surface you tried to shove away from you so that it was far away enough to not acknowledge.

It reminded you of the first time you’d fallen for Heeseung’s seduction—how he sank slowly to his knees, sharp gaze fixed on you, unblinking, as if he refused to miss even the slightest flicker of emotion across your face.

Kneeling, he buries his face against your stomach, inhaling deeply as his arms tighten around you.

“You have me. Entirely. Whenever you call, I’ll be there. I’ll bend into whatever shape you want me to take—strip myself nude and make a spectacle of myself for you and your art.” He breathes out a promise. Silken and velvet voice, maroon and reddened at its edges. “I’m a fool for you. Powerless. Pathetic. But what are you willing to do for me? Or am I nothing to you? Even when I hold you close enough to be an extension of your heartbeat, I feel lonely.”

It’s a somber confession. One that left his lips. One that he wouldn’t change—a certain resignation that even if it continued down that path, he wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t.

At last, he lifts his head from your stomach to look up at you. You meet his gaze with calm composure, weighing his words, before gently tugging him to his feet.

He doesn’t question you—doesn’t ask where you’re taking him to, and only watches. Still, as always, resting his eyes on you like he made a promise to God to never look away.

The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, the air stale with old perfume and cigarettes. You’ve barely stepped inside before his body betrays him, tightening in anticipation—like he’d been waiting for you in the dark all along.

Like muscle memory, he moves to sink onto his knees again before you stop him with a hand on his waist. He stills, tracking your movements as you kneel in front of him—eying him like you’d allow him to do anything he wanted to you. And he feels like his heart’s gonna fall out from his throat. In all the years he’s known you—not once have you given up that cool and composed control.

You’re different—subdued, quiet, almost willing. Shy, as if offering him a rare glimpse of sweetness he was never meant to see. And when you finally speak—light, submissive, gentle—he draws in a sharp breath.

“Do what you want.”

The crackle tears through the air, the shift so brutal it snaps you back with whiplash. He looms over you, body caging yours as his hand clamps hard around your throat, jerking you upward with no mercy. The force slams you into a kiss—violent, starved, and depraved. A tumultuous hunger pouring out from where his hands touch you.

You gasp, his tongue sliding in like venom—the kind that numbs prey before it’s devoured. A cruel mercy, born of instinct’s brutality.

“And what if I want something horrible?” His chest heaves, searching for breath.

You don’t have an answer to that.

And so he unravels.

—

You shouldn’t be surprised. Not when Heeseung’s had a metaphoric collar around his neck for years under you. Your chest heaves, nails clawing at Heeseung’s damp back—flexing against the curved muscle of his shoulder blades, too prideful to tell him to stop.

Your body jolts under the force of his hips pounding into you, arching into his mouth—sweat ridden body reddened and sticky from post orgasm sensitivity.

“H-Heeseung, slow down.” You grit out finally, but he doesn’t register it. The sheets are soaked and clinging onto your skin, breathing out sharply when he presses your thighs against your chest.

“So good. You feel so good.” He whispers this again and again, humming it into your hair like a mantra. Licking over your pulse line—your body a live wire.

Your body’s memorized him: the rhythmic stretching, the pushing and pulling of your bodies against each other. The taste of his release still lays heavy on your tongue—sweet and tart, slowly being masked by the salty dampness you lick from his body.

Another orgasm.

You’ve lost count.

But Heeseung’s gone blind, lost himself to a space where he only registers the feeling of your heat and breath. And he can’t stop. Even if you beg him to.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, legs shaking and pushing against his chest

He trails his lips over your collarbone before sinking his teeth into your shoulder, deep enough to leave purple indentations

“You’re mine.” He whines into your ear, rolling his hips and stuffing you to the hilt. The sensation of him throbbing inside of you is vivid—vulgar. Every inch of him, each vein, and curve dizzied you.

The meat of your thighs ricochet once he picks up the pace again, wetness tacking your skin together, and your moans muted as his fingers crawl into your mouth. You lather your tongue against the cold skin, sucking lightly—dazed.

His mouth wraps around your breast, pulling the skin in and tugging with his teeth. A small yelp leaves you and he grins at the sound. He pushes to fold your body even further,

The headboard slams rhythmically against the wall, bed going slightly off kilter once Heeseung digs your face into the mattress with a hand around your throat.

You were the only one who’s seen him. Really seen him.

And you’re his.

“Say it. Say that you’re mine.”

Your eyes glaze over, face red as you claw at his forearms, deliciously overwhelmed—and push the words from your gaping mouth.

“I’m yours. I’m yours, Hee.”

You look helpless. Small. Powerless

He refuses to close his eyes when he cums inside of you, plugging himself in with his temple against yours, and commits it to memory. He folds himself over you, lowering his frame until his head rests in the nook of your neck with heaving breaths.

He repeats back to you. “I’m yours, I’m yours.”

—

Heeseung’s gone AWOL. No text, no call—no notice.

It’s been five days and on any other occasion, you wouldnt have thought hard about it.

You stare blankly at the headlines stretching across your television screen and tighten the grip on your phone. The empty ring thrums in your ears, your heartbeat loud enough to drown it out. The lights flicker, catching your reflection—a gaunt face, pale and withered, fear pressed down but leaking through all the same.

“Fifteen-year-old boy found dead in the water. Cause of death remains undetermined, though the body shows clear signs of strangulation—”

Sunghoon’s messages lays stale—cold and open on your Lock Screen.

‘Don’t read the news and keep the TV off. Call me when you wake up.’

You knew the moment his message appeared—you weren’t going to listen. Still, Sunghoon tried. Your hand trembles, hovering over the call button beneath the contact: Adonis.

You don’t press it.

You’re not ready to know.

—

Heeseung doesn’t announce his arrival, only slips his slim fingers under the small bamboo plant next to your front door before grabbing your extra house key.

He kicks off his shoes with a haphazard tug, exhaling as he works the laces free. The lights are off, and a half-finished cup of coffee sits abandoned on the table—room washed in the soft melancholy of blue hour. It’s deceivingly quiet, even though he feels the tension radiating from your bedroom.

You stay silent as he strips off his clothes, slips beneath your blankets, and presses his cold body against your warmth—adoration and parasitic yearning seeping into your space like smoke.

A cold kiss softens over the skin where he bit your shoulder the other night. The clock on your nightstand ticks softly as he hums a nameless song low into your ear, rubbing slow circles on your hip bone.

He knows you’re not sleeping. But Heeseung waits for you to speak, just as he’s always done.

“Did you do it?” The words fall empty, blank shells clattering on the uncharted emotional space between you.

His humming stops, eyes fixated onto the back of your head. “Do you really want to know the answer?”His voice is sweet, calm, and casual. Light in the ways that felt like he knew you didn’t want to actually acknowledge his crimes. The bedsheets twist around your legs like snakes—like a pit you couldn’t crawl your way out of and you can’t will yourself to move.

You couldn’t runaway from the truth anymore.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling a shuddered breath. “Why?”

“Hard to say, really. Equally as hard to stop myself from doing it—so here we are.” He sounds tired—flippant. Alarmingly dry like there was nothing else to say about it—like there wasn’t a body of fifteen year old boy littered between you two, lying still as graves.

“He was fifteen.” You say it out loud—the tragedy of fleeting beauty fighting to overtake your need to put on a strong front.

“And you’re mine.” Is all he says.

You can’t bring yourself to tug his arms off

and the only reprieve comes in the momentary hollowness of sleep.

—

That night, you dream of a beautiful boy drifting on dark blue water, his finger pointed at you, lips moving in silence. In the distance, a boat horn echoes as the sweep of a lighthouse beam cuts across his silhouette.

You jolt awake the moment you register the word that fell from his lips like a mantra: Murderer.

—

Heeseung makes love to you again and again: an amalgamation of dizzying heat, bodily fluids, and wordless escapades. You can’t speak to him, but your hands still clutch him with a vice grip. Your camera sits alone on the dining room table—rotting under the humid heat permeating the stale apartment air.

The outside world blurs out from your viewfinder, not having left your apartment in days. He clings to you in the shower, washes himself off and out of you, just to douse you with him all over again.

On the days you want to bathe alone, he sits outside of the door. Waiting patiently—silently.

Like clockwork, you eventually open the door without fail, scooting towards the faucet so he can curl around you. Heeseung doesn’t like leaving you alone—doesn’t like the sensation of your skin not sticking to his like Velcro.

He leaves more marks now—until your body is no longer your own, every bruise a claim, every ache a reminder that you belong to him.

The sound of water softly pouring from the edges of your bathtub at your combined weight echoes. The silence is numbing and achingly intimate as Heeseung cups water into the palm of his hands and strokes away soap suds from your right arm.

You finally break the silence—your first words to him since his confession, not the unwilling sounds he dragged out of you when his hands slipped inside.

“Heeseung.”

He loves your voice but doesn’t want to hear it. So he does what he’s been doing the last few days—distracting you with hands that know your body well enough to navigate it blind.

You shiver once his arms slips around your waist from behind before reaching upward to cup your breast into his wide palms.

“We can’t keep doing this.” You plead tiredly. Gone are the hours you’ve tried to bury his crime under the bliss of his body hovering over yours.

He hums. “Keep doing what?” His chin slots into the space above your collarbone and hugs you a little tighter. “—this?”

You push at his wrists, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. “Stop it.”

He flinches a bit at your frigid tone and leans to curl into your body, as if trying to soften the incoming blows of your anger. “Please don’t be mad.”

“Don’t give me that. You killed someone.” You exasperate, mouth hanging open—aghast.

“Because you looked elsewhere.” He groans before grabbing your hips and shifting you around to face him. He cups your face, leaning to press his nose against yours, breath fanning against the small hairs on your cheek. “Don’t you get it?”

You don’t.

Possession? Yes. Obsession, even. But this? This is…horrible. Is this what you’d unknowingly asked for when you asked for Heeseung’s truth the day you met him?

“That doesn’t excuse anything.” You hear the weakness in your voice and hate yourself for it. Hate yourself for the soft spot you let him dig into you without even knowing it.

“I’m not trying to excuse anything. It’s just the way it is.” He hums softly, neck dipping so his doe eyes can search yours. “I’ll be good. But will you help me be good?” Tilting his head with a smile, he presses against your left cheek.

“How?” Your gaze drifts up to meet his, and Heeseung bites back a groan—goosebumps rising as he fights the shiver threatening to course through him.

You looked so sweet. So confused.

“By rewarding me.” Is all he replies before laying a chaste kiss on your lips. Your back straightens when his hand rolls down and cups around your warmth.

“Let me know when I’m being good. Show me when I’m being good.” He massages over your cunt, progressively applying pressure the more your body begins to respond. His other hand grabs yours before guiding your fingers to station themselves right by your entrance. “Like this.”

Your face flushes, a fever blooming in your body. The faint remnants of Heeseung’s cologne warms the room, in combination with the lukewarm bathwater, was the achingly perfect recipe for deviating the conversation.

—and your body always listens to Heeseung.

He almost laughs when you slip your fingers inside yourself, stroking around the reddened flesh—but the sound stutters in his throat when your other hand closes over his, guiding it to the thickest part of his cock.

“—ah!” He flinches and unconsciously fucks into your hand, hips stuttering at the tightness of your grip.

“Such a pretty body shouldn’t be left untouched, Adonis. Not in here.” You look at him through half-lidded eyes, frustration simmering beneath your gaze—another attempt to dodge the conversation.

The water ripples around your rhythmic movements, Heeseung’s fingers replacing yours once your hand moves to focus on stroking him. He throbs in your hand: sensitive and hungry, as he watches your right hand roll over his cock.

Heeseung let out a low groan, his hips bucking slightly as you began to move your hand up and down, mimicking the rhythm of his own strokes on you. The water sloshed gently around you, it’s swaying spilling over the edges of the tub.

The sound of your breathing filled the room, mingling with the soft, wet sounds of your hands moving against each other.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” He leans closer to drag his lips down your neckline, tugging the skin lightly with his teeth—veins pushing against his forearm at the force he’s using against you. “You own me.”

You unconsciously tighten around him at his words, arching your back and pushing your hips towards his hands—tugging his cock with more urgency.

“I’d kill for you. I have—and I’d do it again. Whatever it takes to keep what’s mine.”

It’s filthy. The whispering—the psychology of it all. But Heeseung was a person fueled by want. Always by want.

So were you.

And thus, the orgasm that followed after a cacophony of groans and whimpers, accompanied by quaking bodies and weak muscles—shouldn’t have been much of a surprise. Not when Heeseung’s palm flattened and pressed against your clit deliberately. Not when his fingers stretched you a devious amount by the third finger, and surely not when he looked that good when orgasming onto his own stomach.

Maybe disconnecting from the world made you feel…differently.

Less urgent about the monstrosity of it all.

You’ll get him next time.

Hopefully.

—

Heeseung hums and strips himself under the warm yellow-bellied lights. “It’s be a while, hasn’t it?”

He haphazardly plops his white cropped Heineken T-shirt next to a stray tripod, before settling onto the rough motel carpet with nothing else on but his blue jeans.

The vacancy sign outside buzzes and echoes through the otherwise empty parking lot. Thick wooded areas, damp from midnight fog dredges the hour in true New Americana fashion.

It was an impulse decision: buying a one way ticket overseas and dragging Heeseung along. You weren’t running away—you were buying time.

Time to think.

Time to navigate Heeseung’s crime and your wretched soft spot.

You wouldn’t call yourself a morally upright person. Not definitely. There were definitely a couple (or a lot) of screws loose and rattling in your brain. The only thing you’d ever fixated on and found sanctuary in was photography.

And even now, dead in the middle of something far larger and atrocious than your creative obsessions—all you want is to press the shutter.

Heeseung lights a Newport 100, having already taken note of the faulty smoke sensor. He looks tired, even as a fox-like grin stretches the skin of his features. Lean muscles and a veiny abdomen shine under the throbbing heat of your photo light set up, stomach caving in as he takes a hefty drag.

You drop the bomb casually.

“When we get back, I…have to photograph other people. I pushed it off for too long and I’m on contract. For the love of God, please don’t kill anyone.”

Heeseung pauses mid-inhale, eyes going dark. “Oh?”

You liked that expression.

Click.

His eyes flick over to you quietly, observing. “Who is it?”

“Sim Jaeyun,” you begin. “He was one of the first nude models I worked with as a student. I had an ongoing project with him and Park Jongseong—until I met you. Then… well, the rest is history.”

You mumble the words, fumbling with the aperture as the squint in your eye deepens once it aligns with the viewfinder. While you focus the lens on the honeyed embers of his cigarette, Heeseung’s eyes still fall on you. He mumbles the name, rolling it around his tongue indecisively. A faint smile traces his lips

“I make no promises.”

You couldn’t help it.

Click.

—

Sim Jaeyun was found gutted in his penthouse bathtub two weeks after your return. Young. Beautiful. Still as time—a god gone too soon.

A lone Polaroid floated on the now frigid water, taken from an opening in his bathroom door—unaware of another presence in his home.

Heeseung didn’t bother to wiping his body upon letting himself into your apartment, pulling off his zip-up to reveal bloodied handprints on his forearms.

You pause mid chew, the tip of your pen creaking under the weight of your incisors.

“You fucking didn’t.” You deadpan, glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose, eyebrows furrowing in exhaustion.

But then your eyes catch on his blood-matted hair and the hollowness of his eyes—and you move towards your camera without thinking.

Click.

—

You think taste Jaeyun’s blood in your mouth when Heeseung kisses you. The metallic aftertaste never seems to wash away.

—

Jongseong goes missing, but you already know he’s gone for good.

It won’t be long before they trace it all back to you—to Heeseung.

He’s been more quiet lately. Contemplative—attached. The apartment’s become a dark abyss, an expansive void the two of you would drift to and from one another.

You don’t know how to explain it: how to explain that Heeseung’s obsession only softened you—only made your own obsessions feel seen by someone who finally understood what it meant to do anything for the things you wanted.

So you wait, cradling Heeseung’s head to your chest and only then does his body finally relax. Your camera sits alert on your nightstand.

You’ve never told him you loved him.

You almost do.

—

The camera’s rolling when Heeseung takes his seat on the stool, a lit cigarette burning low between his fingers. Smoke curls up, soft against the stark black backdrop that swallows him whole. You’d used a different one today—an old favorite from before you could afford the luxury of something better.

His eyes rest on you, waiting.

The grip on his hands tighten—he wants to hold you. Standing away from you made him anxious.

“Adonis. No—Heeseung. Why did you do it?” Your voice echoes off the walls of your apartment, furniture mixed around the expanse of the room—collaged and pushed away from their original place to make room for your impromptu set up.

He straightens his shoulders after a long drag.

“Hard to say. I don’t like the world around you.” He confesses. Even now, the lilt in his voice is melodic—charming. Charismatic.

“Have you ever murdered someone before?” Your eyes train on to him. He recognizes that look—the one you get whenever you found a vision to chase.

“Not a person. Before I made it big, my pops used to beat me. There was no one else in the house except for me, him, and a dog.” He begins. You take a sharp breath.

This.

This is what you’ve waited years to see on camera.

Heeseung unfiltered.

You wait for him to continue. He nods lightly, as if agreeing with himself that the memory’s allowed to leave him.

“I skipped school one day. A couple of friends wanted to go to the arcade and… I followed them. He found out and said he was gonna kill my dog as punishment when he got home.” His eyes grow dark as he twists in his seat, voice bordering on mechanical. “I knew his violence more than anyone. So I killed the dog myself. Quickly.”

Your palms sweat, heart banging in your chest like ricocheting metal. Heeseung.

“—I was a kid. If he found out that I’d let the dog out, he would’ve beaten me bad. So I did it and I don’t know if I regret it.” He simplifies and exhales, smoke wafting—embers almost hitting the filter. “I haven’t seen pops in over a decade. Once I was scouted, my face and body became my saving grace. It put food on the table in ways he never supplied, and he stopped bothering me. Never asked if or when I was coming home.”

Heeseung’s voice is metallic—like blood. Like iron. He tells the story like it’s a mundane thing.

But when he feels your stare, he softens—melts in front of the camera like he’d always been something fragile.

Maybe he was.

“I just wish I killed him and not the one thing that was mine. The one thing I wanted and got to have.” He admits after a moment. Contemplating and accepting whatever clicked into place within him. “I don’t need to read into why I did what I did. It’s already done. But we both know this, right?”

You stop the camera from rolling, but take one final shot of Heeseung. Simple, unmasked, and dark.

The night is spent developing and handpicking a series of photos from the last five years. Scrawled onto a small slip of paper are the words: The Genesis of Adonis: A tale born from blood. To the side, you lay out a singular dated cassette tape.

Before bed, Heeseung quietly takes your camera—eying the minuscule scrapes dancing around its bodice. A shutter blooms in the air as he takes photos of you brushing your hair in front of your old vanity, and another one of you under him—laughing at something he couldn’t quite pin down anymore.

And you make love for one final night,

bodies sweating away the morning you felt coming.

—

Sometime, just before dawn—when the sky is still indigo.

“I wish we were born in the same body.”

The two of you face each other, skin cold and bare, curling on top of the muted sheets. You play with the tips of Heeseung’s fingers as he brushes away damp strands of hair from your temple. Lips quirking, you close your eyes and respond tiredly.

“We’d be one fucked up person. Maybe it’s best that we’re split in two.”

He laughs quietly, eyes curling into half moons. “So be it.” He stares at you for a couple of moments, digesting the softness of the pads of your fingers. “You’re the only one I think understands. It’s not rational. None of this is. It never was.”

He takes your hand, lifting it to his lips. One by one, he kisses the tips of your fingers, then turns your palm over and presses his mouth to its center.

“Heeseung, I love you.” The words feel heavy, weighing the day with a late confession. It almost feels too late. It probably is.

He doesn’t reply,

And only breaks into the palm of your hand—shaking and crying into the quiet of the room.

He holds you close.

You know without a doubt he loves you too.

—

The mirror stares back at you defiantly. Elegant, poised, deceivingly acceptant and unshaken. Your favorite perfume permeates the air, earrings dancing as your neck turns to gaze at Heeseung dabbing your perfume onto his wrist. You donned your best dress, all red velvet and beaded glamour. Heeseung wears the suit he told you he planned to wear to the apocalypse if it ever happened. Ironed, sharp, still devilishly handsome as ever.

He shivers when you pad over and press a kiss to his pulse, eyes filled with an emotion neither of you have words to explain. Fear. Want. Regret that felt pointless to feel with the blunt knowledge that what’s done is done.

And he kisses you like he already misses you. Like he’d crawl out of the ground as a dead man just to be able to stand next to you like this for another day.

It’s electric, full of life sentences and damnation—a willing fall from grace that Heeseung’s always wanted but never quite like the way it’s come. He licks at your tongue and pushes you closer by the nape of your neck—turning his head to take you in deeper.

The day’s here. Neither of you know how you know. You just do.

When the banging on your door comes, you don’t answer. You sit curled onto his lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, as you brush his hair to soothe him. You don’t register the words—the yelling, the warnings.

Heeseung squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his grip around your waist, trying to memorize the texture of your skin and how your muscles felt whenever you moved. His lips move through a mantra and you finally hear the words: I’m yours, I’m yours.

The world stills when you cup his face, lifting it until he’s forced to meet your eyes. You know what happens to beautiful things in captivity—they either rot on their own or are deliberately ruined. And somehow, he knows what you’re saying.

What you’re planning.

What you’re accepting.

None of this was planned. This sort of oncoming tragedy could’ve easily been avoided, but you’re at the point of no return. He nods shakily, eyes watering as if to say—I’m going with you.

The door slams open, splintering against the wall—an explosion of sound swallowed by the sharp click of safeties disengaging. Guns rise, black barrels catching the light as they fix on you both. You turn anyway, slow and deliberate, defying the command that still hangs in the air, purposefully. You don’t intend on walking out of this room alive.

Maybe this is as close to repentance as you’d get.

You look at Heeseung one last time, mouthing his mantra back to him—a quiet echo meant only for him. Then you lean in, pressing your mouth to his, warm and unhurried, as if the world might grant you both another minute. Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you closer, holding you there like he could stop what’s coming. His other hand drifts toward his empty pocket—slow, deliberate, almost tender in its finality. A death sentence.

The last thing you feel is the shared grin curling across both your faces—then the metal tears through you, through him, until the monstrous ache of wanting fades with you both.

—

The burnt rubber of tires skidding onto the apartment lot squeal as both Jungwon and Sunghoon arrive at the scene. Sunghoon’s handsome face is distorted under the sudden calamity—hair tousled and worn from his own hands tugging. Jungwon’s ties is loosened, eyes bloodshot as he raises his hands to cradle his head.

Neither you nor Heeseung had relatives to call to properly “identify” or notify of your bodies. The pair both fight the urge to vomit at the sight of two bodies intermingled on your bedroom floor, covered in stark white sheets.

Jungwon curses, choking through his words. “What the fuck happened?” Tears fall without his permission, and he smudges away the moisture gruffly.

Sunghoon stands still—frozen at the epicenter, not allowed to come too close. He shuts his eyes at the faint slip of your dress bleeding out from under the sheet. You were wearing your favorite dress.

He turns away from the scene, moving into the hallway until he greets a familiar room: your photo studio—your beloved dark room.

On instinct, he slowly turns the knob—clicking open the door and unconsciously waits to hear your voice hiss at him for letting the light in and ruining the photo developing process. He shakily exhales at the photos that greeted him.

Heeseung, with blood clotted in his hair and drying across his hands—an image both intimate and horrific. Others are quieter but no less haunting: Heeseung staring straight into the camera, an unfamiliar expression caught between revelation and ruin.

He find the cassette tape and the words you scrawled onto paper. The Genesis of Adonis: A tale born from blood.

…you made this your last project.

He almost scoffs, even in the middle of his struggle to keep upright.

And then three others—photos he knew you didn’t lay there at the end—were of you: grinning like a girl in love, beautiful and unraveling in front of your old vanity the way you always did at the end of the night.

Heeseung took these.

Sunghoon stood there, caught in the aftermath of something that defied explanation.

He couldn’t understand you.

He couldn’t understand Heeseung.

He supposes, maybe you only ever understood each other.

So he lingers for a few measured breaths before turning away, closing the door behind him—slowly, deliberately—sealing something sacred and unspeakable inside.

fin.

—

siren’s note:

aaaaand that’s a wrap! I wanted to write a story that played on the irrationality of some connections—like it’s intense in ways that can never really be communicated to other parties. it’s impulsive, life altering—electric. and sometimes, fatal.

Heeseung’s character is super layered. But I also didn’t want to necessarily justify his murders… yes, he’s traumatized but he’s not saying he murdered everyone because he has a backstory. He did it willingly—impulsively. And was willing to do it again.

Sometimes it’s that simple. Sometimes it’s instinct.

if it feels a little rushed, I’m sorry! life has been super hectic and i’ve been wanting to post this so this is what I have.

nonetheless, I hope whoever reads this enjoyed it! I might end up writing some little blips for this pair, especially since I didn’t write as much erotica for them as planned with my schedule…. But we’ll see.

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #lee heesung x reader #heeseung x you

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