velvetdolor

[velvetdolor]

holy hell! happy 1k notes <3

sugarcoat

𝙂𝙀𝙉𝙍𝙀: 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩, 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘺'𝘢𝘭𝘭, (evil) secret camboy with a corruption kink au, 18+

𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙛! 𝙎𝙖𝙣 (𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙚) 𝙭 𝙄𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎: He was sweet—almost too sweet. The kind of boyfriend who said all the right things, touched you like you mattered, and smiled like he had nothing to hide. But the charm was a mask, carefully crafted to disarm. Behind the softness lurked something darker: a hidden lifestyle he documented regularly online under the pseudonym ‘ch0i-kitty’, who posted content of girls he slowly corrupted on camera, vulgar perversion and live streamed conversations about his target of choice.

You thought you were falling in love.

You didn’t realize you were being documented.

AKA In which your sweet boyfriend isn’t as sweet as you originally thought and is a pervert with a taste for corrupting girls on camera. wc: 7k

warnings: characters have little to no moral code, corruption kink, impact play, full nelson, strangling, hair pulling, overstim, dubcon (somewhat), rough sex. dom!san, mindbreak, coercion/intended manipulation, san’s a massive pervert and a red flag (like genuinely, it’s pretty bad), reader gets photos of them taken without their permission—heads up, plot twist!

don’t read if u don’t like it

this is arguably the filthiest thing i’ve written on this blog thus far…. and that’s saying something LMAO

“Baby, did’ya eat today?” San reaches across the table, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. You shake your head, hair swaying, and take a sip of your iced tea. The condensation seeps into your fingers, and without thinking, you wipe your hand on your lap. Bunny’s diner—a diner owned by San’s childhood friend Seonghwa—was bustling under the brunch traffic. You don’t notice San’s gaze drifting upward—nor the way he taps his finger against the salt shaker, nudging it just enough to send it tumbling off the edge.

“Fuck—sorry.” Face chagrin and flushed as he tries to reach under the table, purposely bumping his head against the edge. San gets on his knees, scraping at the excess salt on the floor slowly—eyes darkening as he makes contact with your skin tight panties that practically restrict the blood flow around your cunt.

You’re wearing white today.

Cute.

He makes sure his phone’s on silent before he snaps a photo, pocketing it before sliding back into the booth, and sighing exasperatingly. “Why am I so fucking clumsy?” He groans and threads his fingers into his head to curl into himself. “—I feel like everyone heard that.”

They didn’t. He knew they didn’t. Not under all that clanging going on in the Diner’s kitchen.

You reach forward, grabbing his hand with doe eyes. “No one heard it! It’s okay, baby. I drop things all the time.”

It takes everything in San to not moan.

You were perfect.

He couldn’t stop talking about you when he live-streamed last night: everything he wanted and planned to do to you, your name falling out of his lips as he touched himself slightly out of frame—gripping tightly, grinding—stifling his moans with gritted teeth against a belt so you wouldn’t hear him during your call.

You called for no reason. All you said was “I called because I missed you. I love you.”

Sugary. Honey. Cotton candy and the color pink. You were the sweetest fucking thing.

And he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to ruin something so badly. None of the other girls before you wore innocence as well as you did.

To them? It was an aesthetic—something subject to change. They wanted him to ruin them. But you?

You were his idle angel and sweetness incarnate—doll like lashes without a hint of suspicion or mal-intentions. Shy. The type to naturally hold a hand out when you needed help getting down from somewhere and not flinching when a big arm wrapped around your waist to pick you up.

The type to kiss San and plan on a wedding—not him stuffing you full of cock and fucking you dumb into a stale pillow in his dorm room. To flinch and pull away in embarrassment when his hand crept under the cup of your bra, begging him kindly to take it slow.

Which he did.

He has been.

He savors the push and pull—it’s how he knows you’re the real deal.

San watches you slice into the Canadian ham, a content smile tugging at his lips as you happily dig into your eggs Benedict. You’d need all the energy you could get.

He slides his pancakes over to you, smearing honey butter and packing on the cinnamon just the way liked them and tells you he’s too full to eat anymore.

“You’re missing out, Sannie.” You jest, tapping the tip of your fork against your teeth playfully. “You barely ate—“ you pause to take a bite, smiling at him mid-chew. “Something on your mind?”

He bites back a smile, eyes folding into half moons as he stared at you for a couple of beats “It’s just cute—the way you look when you eat.”

“The way I eat?” You tilt your head.

“Yeah—you just…stuff your mouth until it’s super cramped. Careful” he wipes cream from the side of your mouth ”— you might choke if you take too much all at once.”

A sudden tension threads through his voice, pulling your eyes up from the plate, curious. You nod, offering him a sweet smile.

“Aye, captain!”

San always worries about the smallest things.

He scrolls through his phone as you finish your meal, the clink of your fork masking the soft swipes of his finger. You don’t see the images flashing by—candid frames of you lost in thought, others taken while you slept, your shirt slipped just high enough to expose the delicate curve of lace against skin. Some are closer, hungrier: your legs parted in sleep, revealing only the faintest swell of softness. He lingers on that one a moment longer, gaze unreadable, mouth still curled in that contented smile.

When you finish eating, San calls for the waiter with a patient smile—sliding a stack of bills down before rearranging the dishes politely and leaving.

San’s thick, calloused fingers grab hold of your hand —threading meticulously before leading you out of the Diner, exhaust fumes of humid street stalls and early autumn conundrum waft into your nose. You feel content. Full. Happy and in love.

You watch his side profile, the breeze tugging gently at his cropped hair. He glances both ways, unfazed by your gaze, then crosses the road with you—heading toward his daddy’s old ’70, the metal sun-warmed and waiting.

You trail your fingers along the muted, rust-red paint while waiting for San to unlock the door—then slip inside as he murmurs a small joke under his breath. He rolls the windows down, knowing you like to rest your head on his arm while he drives, your feet dangling out the window—just far enough to feel free, but never close enough to tempt danger.

At a red light, San reaches a hand towards the glove compartment—digging around before pulling out an old camcorder. A small jingle plays as it turns on, the chime beckoning a giggle from you. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer—just presses play.

“Smile for the camera, pretty.”

Then he gives your thigh a light smack when you laugh, face buried in your hands as you shrink back into your seat, grinning behind your fingers. Playfully, you peek an eye out—laughing with your heart, wind in your hair, and girls just want to have fun by Cyndi Lauper playing in the background.

He gets you home safe and sound, kissing you a little bit rougher than usual. The red light of his camcorder still flickers on his dash—camera becoming a voyeur on top of his dashboard when his hands rest on your thigh, fingers idling just beneath the hem of your dress and pulling lightly to squeeze the flesh it’s sandwiching.

You skip to your porch, all girlish giggles and swaying skirts as you wave goodbye and close your screen door. And San watches.

Intent.

Indulging.

Ravenous.

“She was wearing white today.” San tinkers with a rubix cube, webcam pointed low enough to capture the sharp of his jaw—a canine-like half grin, as he licked his teeth and sucked in a frustrated breath. He unbuttons his dress shirt just enough for a golden sliver of skin to peak out and spreads his legs purposely so that his pants are taut on his form.

Little pings sound from his desktop and he doesn’t bother reading any of the incoming chats from his stream. “It was practically choking her pussy—you think that’s why she chose to wear it? Friction or what not?” He scoffs playfully, rubbing a thumb over the flat of his stomach as he leans back on his computer chair, recalling.

The way you tasted like honey butter and cinnamon and the way your underwear was tight enough to make your flesh swell red.

A celebratory chime rings from his computers speakers, an automated girl singing “points, points!”

[• ch0i’s_fav-kitty_ gifted 200 points and left a note! “Ruin her for the rest of us.” ]

San smirks cunningly.

“Well, since you asked so nicely—I’ll plan a gift just for you, kitty.” He unbuttons the last few notches on his dress shirt, sliding his palm down the flat of his golden tummy and under his slacks. “But until then, I’ll dedicate this show to you.”

Biting at the cuff of his wrist, stifling his moans and keening his neck just enough to keep the crowd satisfied since they weren’t allowed to see his face. San was in his element and this was his arena.

He’ll use the money from this livestream to pay for something sweet, vanilla, and totally boyfriend coded before melting you down into something wrecked. Unrecognizable. Fucked up and pretty just for him.

The best part? He’s waited this long so you’d let him do it willingly.

Choi San knew he had all the makings of the perfect boyfriend—the kind others envied, whispered about, and admired from afar. Charismatic, intelligent, and from a well-to-do family—and upon arriving as a legacy to his university, he was immediately ushered into the most prolific brotherhood of the institution. You’d hear his name uttered in locker rooms, the corners of lecture halls, and in offices as Professors discussed recommendation letters.

He sold the best parts of himself when it came to finding love, but profited the most off the filth he worked hard to keep separated from his offline life.

There’s just one tiny pothole in San’s initially seamless perfection: he liked ruining things. Good things. Especially good girls. On camera.

Everyone believed San had immaculate taste in women. The few he entertained publicly all shared the same quiet allure—graceful, composed, the kind of girls who seemed untouched by anything cruel. Poised. Innocent. Almost too good to be real and too hard to dislike.

What they didn’t know was that San preferred them pure for a reason—because he had a fucked up way of getting off. If he got them to love him enough, then he’d be able to do anything—including filming every moment he got to break them down on camera. The slow sip of corruption dousing a white dress in a way that bested murder. To be caught on tape and immortalized—proof that he had the makings. The power to ruin without apology.

It started as scratching a place he knew he shouldn’t have scratched in the first place— a shaky livestream, stuttered words that left him like he sat in either a confessional or investigation room until he finally settled comfortably into the skin of his darkest desires. The small online community quickly grew once he released his special series, sugarcoat: a long term documentation of girls he dated and taped for his loyal followers—all perfect subjects for their fixation on the act of corrupting.

But with the others before you, it all felt like roleplay. What Choi San wants is what Choi San gets—and this is to his detriment. It was too easy. If he’d asked any of them on the first date to film, he would’ve gotten the green light.

Performative innocence, not even played to the T. C-rate actresses in frills and lace—itching to tear off the costume once shooting ends.

San didn’t camboy for money. He did it as reprieve from the kind of perfection that stifled him with its ideals on a daily basis. Here, he could be horrible.

Desired for his ugliness, for his muck.

And you were the closest thing to a natural high he’d ever felt in his entire life—the sweetest layer of his series. His beloved cherry on top.

“Did you like it?” San chuckles, dimples carving into his grin, softening the sharpness of his features. The flashing LED lights of the carnival dance in his eyes, tiny sparks catching like stars—like every bit of the boy you used to dream about. You’re breathless, and not just from how he looks in that black compression shirt, clinging to him in all the right ways, but from the rollercoaster he’d talked you into riding.

“…Like’s an understatement. Can we go again?” You bounce on your toes, ponytail swinging excitedly. San sighs playfully, and then shakes his head. “Baby, I’ve got a surprise waiting for you at my place—remember?”

Eyes brightening, you hold on tight to his left arm while making your way out the exit. The distance screams of ride-goers and arcade game music muffle your conversations—almost domesticating them. “Come on, can’t you give me a clue? What’s the surprise?”

“No. Can. Do.” He furrows his brows, punctuating, and then slings his arm over your shoulder—pulling you into his arms to lay a kiss on your temple. “Be a good girl. Patience is a virtue.”

Roses.

Take out dinner that arrived just on time and tapestries hung around his dorm room to make it look more cozy and less clinical under the usually bright fluorescent overhead light. He bought an extra toothbrush and filled one of the drawers of his bathroom with a variety of skincare products, essential oils, and menstrual products.

Your favorite ice cream was frozen to perfection in his freezer and the T-shirt you liked stealing from him already waited at the edge of his bed for you, folded kindly.

San shut the door behind him, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched you flit around the room, gently tapping the new fairy lights with the tip of your nail.

“I thought we could have a sleepover now that the term’s over,” he said. “With the internship starting soon, I won’t get to see you as much.”

“San…I love it. Your room finally looks lived in” you jest, elbow bumping his waist, and turn towards him to wrap your arms around the slim of his waist. He flinches slightly, body tensing—sensitive. Internally groaning because you probably don’t realize how close he’s been to snapping.

The air feels…different. Charged. Laced with an unspoken expectation—San sees it in the way you seem to curl shyly when he digs his face into the crook of your neck, your usual behavior and touchiness diluted into something moderately restrained.

You typically fed on physical affection the way someone would drink water, a domesticated sense of skin to skin contact: a pinky locked with his as you studied, legs draped onto his lap while scrolling through your phone or leaning over his shoulder to watch reels with him.

You’re seated between his legs, facing the TV. Some vintage horror movie drones on in the background, as a girl screams in horror when an undead fist pushes straight through cemetery dirt—reaching towards heaven.

She fails to run away in time and you laugh.

He didn’t expect you to find it funny, a quirk to his brow when he swears he hears you mumble “Survival instincts of a peanut” under your breath.

When you adjust, San stills. Breath hitching when he feels the lace of your skirt rub against his jeans and he knows you feel it too.

He tries his luck and slides a palm under your shirt before rubbing the skin of your stomach casually. You lean into it, hips unconsciously rolling towards his hands.

It’s the flush on your face that undoes him, eyes unfocused, looking almost confused by the wetness he knew made your panties cling to your skin.

“—baby. Can I touch you more?” He coats his words in sugar, breathing into your ear sweetly. The edges of his voice beg.

“…mhm.” You nod slowly, hair falling over your cheekbones as you peer up at him. San pulls you closer, your back pressed against his chest as he peppers wet kisses up your neck.

He groans when you shiver and your back to press your breasts into his hands instinctively.

But you flinch away, a quiet embarrassment settling into your bones. You look confused, thighs closing and pressing against each other looking for relief in the pressure. “San, wait—I’ve…never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his gaze steady as he tilts your chin up, capturing your lips in an upside-down kiss. His jaw moves slowly, deliberately, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that’s both soothing and seductive. You hum, eager, reaching up for more—until he pulls back, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I… like filming things,” he continues, voice low, almost coaxing. “I want to remember it. Forever. Can I?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together—conflicted. “Sannie—what if I don’t look good on camera and you have that on you forever?” He shakes his head. “Baby—“ running his hands down your body and under your bra, cupping your breasts and twisting the tips of your nipples. A sharp yelp leaving your lips as he licks up the side of your throat. “I promise, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His serpentine eyes lock onto yours without hesitation, unflinching. His presence wraps around you like a tightening coil, arms holding you in place as you suddenly feel small, almost like prey caught in his grasp.

San guides your hand to lock behind your back. Sandwiching your arm and gripping it above his aching cock. “See what you did to me?”

He grinds into your hand with a deliberate whimper into your ear.

His grip on you tightens, absolutely fucked out. For the love of god he’s waited months. It’s the longest he’s ever held out for. After a couple of beats—hesitation crumpling under the weight of profound lust, you agree. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Fuck.

He’s obsessed—you’re perfect for the gig. For him.

San doesn’t think he wants to share the footage for once, second thoughts running rampant.

“Whatever makes you happy?” he repeats, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you sure? Can I do whatever I want to you?” Wide eyes gaze at him. Pure. Unadulterated with the right amount of curiosity.

“If it’s for you—yes. I trust you.” His mouth clashes with yours instantly before sliding his tongue in when you gasp in surprise. A string of saliva connects your mouth when he lets you go.

“Lay down.” There’s a sudden chill in his tone. An unraveling—strict, direct, impatient and leaving little to no room for hesitance.

Reaching over to his dresser, he pulls the same camcorder and adjusts it so it’s pointing directly at you. San turns the zoom dial, diluting the environment of the room and focusing entirely on you.

Without delay, he casually reaches over to unzip your skirt and pull off your panties like he’s done it plenty of times before.

He lays one of your legs over his lap and spreads you open. Your hands immediately jolt to cover your face, thighs slamming closed in attempts to hide from him.

“Let me see you. You were being such a good girl. I want to look at your pretty little pussy.” Peaking one eye at him through a gap in your fingers, you slowly part your legs. He spits on his fingers, still seated next to you as he leans from the side to gaze down at your cunt.

Making sure that the camera is framing you properly, he pulls at your folds with two hands—one on each side so that the camera catches the fluttering of your fleshy insides. Your body jolts, a small moan of surprises tumbling out when he massages your clit in circles and holds your leg down with a firm hand.

“Does it feel good?” He giggles when you nod in surprise. Doe eyed as you finally put down your hands and stare at his movement.

“It’s such… a pretty color. I wanna see it more.” A smack lands directly above your clit— a silent scream choking in your throat at the intense stimulation and sting. San mentally counts to ten, each slap descending faster, harder, and landing more precisely. Rubbing side to side, your body jolts when you feel your cunt clench around nothing—raising your hips to dig his hand against you with more pressure. Rhythmic moans leave you when your orgasm hits you, but he doesn’t stop after the waves leave you.

You body flinches from the sensitivity, small jerks as you push and pull away from his touch “San—I can’t.”

“Yes you can. And you’ll take it until I want to stop. Understood?” You only cry out, tears welling in your eyes at the intense stimulation. He smacks your cunt again. “Understood?”

“Understood!” You bite out, relenting, and he slides a finger into you—curling and feeling the gummy texture.

He commits it to memory and wishes he had the sort of camera that could film from the inside. He’ll buy that later.

You don’t know how long he fingers you for.

You’re restless—finally growing accustomed to the continuous ministrations of his hand. There’s nothing gentle in the way San drives you flat onto your stomach—his body looming over you like a dark shadow, muscles tense beneath the fabric of his compression shirt. A quick unbuckling and shuffling of him sliding off his jeans later—and your vision goes white when he pushes himself into you in one go.

He’s huge.

San grins darkly when he hears your choked whimper, slamming down into you and pressing his full weight against your back.

The bed creaks repetitively with his brutal pace, muffled screams leaving you as he fucks into you—definitely bruising your cervix in the process. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, drool slipping out of the sides of your mouth—totally icing out the fact that you’re fucking obscenely loud at a dormitory. Someone bangs on the wall but San only fucks you harder, pulling your hair and pressing into you until your body goes limp and lays completely flat on the bed.

Everything is blanking out. Your name, what you’re doing, where you are and with who “S-san I can’t take it.”

He tugs you up by the hair, vulgar slaps against the reddening flesh of your ass continuing their onslaught. “You can take it baby. Just be a good girl and shut up for me.” Slapping your breasts, he flips you over and slides himself snug against you—pelvis pressing yours directly and stuffing himself back in.

Both of his hands wrap around your throat, unrelenting—brutal. The veins on your face rise to the surface, mouth falling open to try and scream but immediately failing. All of his weight is being held on your throat as he uses the force to propel himself forward—digging into you.

You think you pissed yourself mid orgasm, but San keeps going—eyes obsidian and dilated, bordering on animalistic frenzy. Slapping desperately at his arms because of the overstimulation again—you claw at the skin, gasping and seeking breath. He sends three more hard thrusts down before cumming thick ropes into you with a pornographic moan. “F-fuck.”

San swears he’s never seen anything more pretty than you lying under him—bruised, drying tears and smeared mascara—body completely red like it’s fighting a fever. He slaps his cock onto the fat of your pussy before leaning down and breathing in the smell of your sweat gathering in the crook of your neck. He massages your hip, coaxing—and pulls you in to cuddle.

Just as he’s about to slip back into the role of the perfect boyfriend, you murmur sweetly.

“Did that make you happy?”

He stills. Clock ticking in the back of his head up until it hit five seconds

and flips himself onto his back, tugging you along with him—fumbling to push his already fully hardened cock inside. His arms slide under your armpits and lock behind your neck before he jack hammers upwards—pushing past his own sensitivity, fully intent on fucking you until you felt like raw meat. You don’t count how many orgasms you had or how many people knocked on San’s door groggy and pissed only to be ignored.

He groans, pulling out to slap your cunt before quickly sliding back in. “ Do ya like that? Feels good princess? You’re doing so good.”

Your legs grow tired from having to hold your weight up from his chest, feet flat against the bed before going limp—back sandwiched against his damp skin. San doesn’t stop, only slithering a hand down to rub your clit in circles. “Are you happy? Am I being good enough? Sannie, I’m tired.” You whine lightly, eyebrows scrunching as tears threatened to fall.

He whimpers “So fucking good. I’m almost done, sweetheart. Just one more and we can go to bed, yeah?” You almost black out when he fastens his pace, spraying while orgasming and arching your back with vulgar moans.

He pulls out this time, cumming on the fat flesh of your thighs before petting your pussy lightly—appeasingly in performative apology. San holds your body tightly against him, clamping his arms around you while peppering kisses on your shoulder.

“You made me so happy today—seriously, you’re my favorite girl ever.” He rocks you lightly as you giggle.

God, he’s obsessed.

You were the perfect balance between submission and maintained innocence. He’s too tired to look over the footage, but his brain still maps more content ideas.

There’s no way he’s sharing this one but…he’ll still talk about it once he livestreams.

San thinks he might actually love you—and it’s that thought that carries him into deep sleep.

When San’s breathing lulls softly, your eyes blink open in the dark. Slowly, carefully, you reach for his phone, unlocking it with practiced ease. Your thumb drifts across the screen, skimming through his apps—until you find it. A hidden folder buried deep in his files.

Photos, videos, pixelated and zoomed in screenshots of your legs spread open. It’s casual almost—the way your eyes drift around his screen, observing.

Silently, you close out the apps one by one, then inch closer to his sleeping form. Unreadable eyes watching him sleep without blinking. You trace his nose bridge and jaw, kissing him lightly as he slept

slightly unsatisfied by the extent of his hidden perversion.

You thought it’d be worse.

You shut your apartment door—pulling your hair tie away and shake the hairs threatening to fall in your eyes before tugging off the cashmere sweater off like it burned you. The rest of your clothes fall like feathers to the floor, leaving a trail to your bedroom.

You fucking hated cashmere. Fingernail tapping against a custom Zippo—cherry etched into the steel—you flick it open and light a cigarette. Smoke curls around you as you sink into your computer chair, wearing nothing but your underwear. You type in the password: ch0i’s_fav-kitty_.

The page immediately opens to a pending livestream

[ch0i-kitty is online • ]

“—she was such a good girl. Nothing like the others. Pure. Willing to take it and learn—“ You grin, taking a fat drag of your cigarette before leaning back—amused.

Are all boys this dumb? This easy?

All you had to do was play good girl at a surface level for a hotshot like him to come crawling. You watched San for months—committing to the trails of information you could find: a small business card in the backdrop of his stream, the edge of a university hoodie, a fraternity ring—never missing a single livestream to know the exact kind of girl he wanted most but could never find. Not in full at least.

Either too good and too willing to be bad for him. Too slutty from the get go and unable to convince him that they’d never had sex before—rookie stuff.

No one was committed to the bit. Not as much as you were.

Lifting a hand to grab your phone, you call just as San eased a hand down his dress pants—mirroring his actions by peeling your underwear to the side.

You see him grit his teeth and try to control his heaving breaths before answering the phone on live, voice resonating directly into your ear. “Hi baby, you okay?”

Slinking a finger inside, face flushed red with maniacal victory “—nothing. I just called because I missed you.” You grin devilishly when he tilts his head back, stifling a groan as his fist picks up in speed.

“—I miss you too, baby. Already.”

You hum softly, a smile in your voice as you lie—just for a second—saying you had to head back to work. Then you hang up.

You flick the ash off your cigarette, not blinking as you watched him get off. Fingers clicking against your keyboard—positively transfixed by the camboy you’ve obsessed over for a year. He deserves a little treat.

[• ch0i’s_fav-kitty_ gifted 100 points! ]

“Thank you for your donation, kitty. You’re the best.”

Choi San was yours.

And you were his.

because no one could play the good girl better than you.

fin.

[velvetdolor]

as a traveler…. this was so beautifully said. i love this.

Title: Japan, Work, and One Unexpected Night Out 🍶🌆

I’m sitting at the airport right now, waiting for my flight to Korea — the next stop on this work trip. The last few weeks in Japan have been… a mix of emotions, to be honest.

It’s a strange feeling. Even when you speak the language and understand the culture, being alone in a different country — especially for work — can feel like drifting. You move through packed trains, busy streets, polite conversations… and then return to the quiet hum of your hotel room, where everything slows down and the loneliness catches up.

But the other night, I did something small that felt kind of big.

I went out to eat alone.

That might not sound like much, but for someone who overthinks, who hesitates, who usually takes comfort in the familiar — it was a challenge. I almost turned around twice. But I didn’t.

And life, in its quiet way, rewarded me for that tiny act of courage. A group of locals invited me to join them — no pressure, just warmth. We shared food, stories, laughter. They made space for me, and for a few hours, I didn’t feel like an outsider.

It reminded me that connection doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s a shared dish. A stranger’s smile. An open seat at the table.

I’m not really sure why I’m telling you all this. Maybe because we don’t talk enough about the kind of loneliness that follows us even when we’re surrounded by people — or the quiet ways it sometimes lifts.

Maybe I just wanted to say: it’s okay to feel adrift. And it’s okay to take up space anyway. You never know who’s waiting to welcome you in.

And maybe someone needed to hear it.

Oh — and if you made it this far, consider this your soft warning that I’ve got a new Seonghwa mafia fic on the way. It’s darker, deeper, and more intense than anything I’ve written so far. Also out of my comfort zone. Let’s just say… the man in the suit has blood on his hands but only she knows the heart he hides beneath it. 🥀

Stay tuned.

[velvetdolor]

Sylvia Plath, from a letter featured in The Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol. 1: 1940-1956

[velvetdolor]

i send u an ask u never responded did i accidentally send you a request while they were closed? i wanted to apologize if thats the case it was about the street racer au

no worries! i did receive your ask and i haven’t responded because i’m attaching/posting the alternate ending as a reply on there so it’s in the drafts as i work on it bit by bit—i’m not an account that has a request system/that does requests, however i’m always open to hearing ideas and was really interested in writing an alternate ending since hwa felt like a character w a lot of space to expand on.

it’ll take some time as i work on my other WIP’s and get through the humdrum of my day to day life, but it’s in the makings friend :)

[velvetdolor]

@faerouzia i hath arisen just to wake up w STRAYS BEING SHOTTTTTTTT

(literally us planning the multiverse for over a month there’s been so many changes LMAOOOOO)

[velvetdolor]

I CAN FINALLY READ THIS HOLY HELL— as always, phenomenal work and as a VIP reader that got to see the entire process of fae making this… yall aren’t ready BWHAHHAHAH

𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 | 𝘗𝘚𝘏

𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘛𝘞𝘖 | 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

✂︎ 𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: A dreamlike breakfast leads to a chilling brunch with Seonghwa’s parents—too polished, too wrong—and Eunji is suspiciously absent. His touches grow more possessive with irritation but it simmers beneath his charms. Yet, his charms slip when you ask to go home—he’s already taken leave for you. That day, you step past the seam in the gallery (slightly ) after hearing noises again, and something shifts. The air, the walls, Seonghwa himself. It’s the after that sets you deeper into his trap: a visit to the place that makes him feel human. An orphanage. And his velvety creation.

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 11.2k

𝘗𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘚&𝘔 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 | 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 | 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 | 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳

✂︎ 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘳, 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘱, 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱, 𝘥𝘶𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 [𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘴], 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

✂︎ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

[𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 1] | [𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛] | [𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 3]

You didn’t think you’d sleep, technically, you didn't. Eyes shut, body still, but your thoughts never stopped. Instead, they drifted–pulled taut like cello strings–between disbelief and unease. It irritated you, how could he be so suspiciously charming? 

citrus and cedar clung to your skin. Expensive, clean. Still unfamiliar. Still too intimate. It frazzled your mind, how this room reminded you of your own. 

Not your sheets, not your pillows, but so much alike. 

The room was warm. Too warm. A slow-burning kind of heat that settled under your skin.  Your mind stumbled over the silence like a forgotten word. 

Then you remembered the villa and…him. 

The movie that melted into half-finished sentences. His laugh, low and close. The mug of hot chocolate you barely finished because his questions had crept under your skin like silk ropes–soft, but binding. 

Your clothes from last night were neatly folded on the velvet chair across the room. And on the nightstand–a single note, soft creaseed and written in his font. An inked affection he’d taken the time to curate. 

Breakfast waiting, hope you like strawberries -hwa 

He knew. You liked strawberries. You didn’t remember telling him. 

You read it once more. Then a third.

Your thumb brushed the edge of the card. It somehow felt oddly warm. Like he’d been here moments ago. It was…sweet. Romantic, even. But unsettling too.

The paintings, the yellow streaks…the seam. 

They lingered in your mind like smoke from an old fire–not enough to choke, just enough to stay.

The black pyjamas he’d left for you fit too well. A soft, unnerving luxury that seemed made for your skin. Like it had been written on it. Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you this morning–like you were the guest in someone else’s carefully designed story. 

You caught your reflection in the mirror. Assessing yourself. His voice is etched in your memory: "I like to see what’s real.” 

You twisted the faucet on with one hand, the other brushing your bottom lips as if to confirm you were still tangible. 

You stepped out of the room quietly, just as you were. Sleep lines creasing your cheek, hair a little tangled. Soft. Real. 

The scent of roasted coffee beans and sunlit lemon met you in the kitchen–and he was already there. Same suit. No tie. Hair styled. Thick-rimmed glasses that made him look almost innocent. Academic. Softening his otherwise sharp face. 

His breath caught in his throat, “wow, you look—“

“Crazy.” You said.

Steps gliding further into the kitchen.

“Prespossessing” he answered rather rapidly. Each syllable, a clown to his tongue. 

“You didn’t change?” you asked lightly.

His smile flicked up. “Didnt need to. I had everything I wanted already.” 

His eyes dipped briefly to your body, then back up again. Unapologetic. You sat across from him, noting the folded cloth napkins, the crystal orange juice carafe, the decadent pastries still steaming. 

“This is too much.” 

“No.” he said. “It’s just enough.” 

There was nothing in his voice that invited challenge. He reached over the table, brushing crumbs from the corner of your lip with a slow, practiced thumb.

His touch lingered.

You tried not to freeze, but your muscles locked for a heartbeat. And your other heart throbbed at his eyes. His thumb dragged just slightly–too deliberately–down to the curve of your chin before he pulled back, settling into his seat like nothing happened. 

“Strawberries suit you,” he said. “Red always does."

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

There it was again–those comments. The way he said things that felt loaded, too familiar. Like he’d studied you before you even met. 

You set your fork down and huffed, “have we met before?"

He tilted his head slightly. “In another life, maybe."

It was the kind of answer meant to disarm. A joke coated in sugar. But it tasted strange in your mouth.   

His smile deepened at your silence, and you didn’t like how he watched you then–like a predator amused by a deer hesitating in a meadow it thought was safe.

“Seonghwa,” you said slowly. “Park seongwha.” 

He raised a brow. “Yes?” 

You leaned forward, chin resting in your palm. Your tone was light, but your gaze stayed sharp. “You say that name like it’s yours.” 

He blinked–once, slowly. “You say it like it already is.” 

That knocked your breath off balance. Your lips parted, but no words came. 

then , as if on cue, he leaned forward, elbow on table, voice curling like smoke around your pulse: 

“Careful with that, Mrs Park." 

You flinched. Just slightly. He saw it. 

He didn’t laugh.

His gaze held yours for a beat too long—until the air around you both grew warmer than the sun filtering through the windows.

“Relax,” he murmured. “It was a joke.”

But it didn’t feel like one.

Not with the way he said it. Not with the way he stood, walked around the table, and gently swept a hand along your waist as he passed you—only barely touching. Like he had every right to.

“I’ll tell the driver to get ready,” he added. “They’ll be expecting us by eleven.”

You turned slowly, still sitting. “Your… parents?”

He didn’t turn around. Just said over his shoulder:

“They’re very curious to meet you.”

And then he was gone. Only the citrus-laced air and the soft tap of his shoes on marble tile trailing behind him.

The car was too quiet. Even with music humming from the speakers–some classical piano pieces you didn’t recognize–it felt like the sound had been filtered, like the villa had bled into the ride. Muted, pristine, rehearsed. 

Seonghwa sat beside you in the backseat, in a different suit. Unwrinkled. And unreadable. 

You were in the red dress now–the one he’d asked you to wear. Or told you. You couldn't quite remember which. His tone had been velvet-smooth either way, the suggestion wrapped so perfectly it felt like it had come from your own come.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes trailing over you like a brushstroke. “Like something I could hang in my gallery.”

You stared out the tinted window. “Don’t start describing me in color again. It makes me feel like inventory.”

He only smiled.

The car pulled up to a vast property that looked more like a historic embassy than a home. Greystone pillars. Sculpted hedges. A man at the door who nodded like he knew your name already.

“They’re excited,” Seonghwa said, placing a hand gently at the small of your back as he guided you up the steps. “They don’t usually entertain guests.”

“They don’t usually entertain their son’s girlfriends?” you said before you could help it.

There was a slight pause. He tilted his head.

“I haven’t had one worth showing off in a while.”

Your stomach twisted — not from flattery, but the odd weight of being displayed.

The door opened. A housekeeper bowed. And then, there they were. 

His parents.  

Mr. and Mrs. Park. 

impeccably dressed. His ‘mother’ in pearl-toned hanbok, her hair swept into a knot so tight you wondered if it hurt. His father in grey and navy, eyes behind glasses that didn’t quite match his face. 

They smiled. 

But not like seonghwa. Not at all.

“Darling,” his mother said, taking your hand. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Had they?

She kissed your cheek. Her lips were cold. Her perfume was something you’d smelled once in a museum—elegant, expensive, out of time.

You looked at Seonghwa.

He wasn’t looking at them. He was watching you.

Brunch was laid out like a still-life painting: quiche, fruit, rare teas, delicate toast points with rose butter. Not a crumb out of place.

They asked you questions. Polite ones. Rehearsed.

Where are you from? What do you do? How did you and Hwa meet?

But their eyes didn’t flicker with interest. Their hands never reached for each other. Their laughter died too quickly. Like actors missing their cue.

And Eunji — the ever-present assistant — was nowhere. Not a glimpse. Not even a whisper.

Something strange happened when Mr. Park made a joke about grandchildren. A chuckle that veered too close to possession.

You laughed it off. Lightly.

But you felt it.

The hand under the table.

Seonghwa’s palm curled against your thigh.

Warm. Too warm.

His thumb stroked once. Twice. Then squeezed — just as his mother asked another question that didn’t sound like hers.

“Will you be staying long?”

You didn’t answer. Seonghwa did.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

The grip tightened.

You stiffened.

His mouth was smiling. His voice was charming. But his hand was warning you.

Eventually, the brunch ended. You were kissed goodbye like a porcelain doll. Complimented. Admired. Claimed.

The air barely touched you outside. Like it was unalive. 

The car door closed behind you, your mind fuzzed and then you finally spoke. 

But he beat you to it. 

“They’re usually not like that,” Seonghwa said quietly, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves even though they sat perfectly fine. “My parents, I mean. They can be…stiff. But they like you.” 

You glanced at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The smooth composure of someone too used to curating every encounter, every outcome. 

“That’s fine,” you replied with a soft, measured smile. “Everyone’s family is weird.”

He looked at you. Long enough for your skin to warm. His fingers tapped against the leather seat once, then stilled.

“I’m glad you’re not put off,” he said.

But something in his voice was too relieved. Like he’d been waiting to see how well you'd adapt. How well you'd fold into this life he’d wrapped around you like an organza.

“They liked you,” he repeated. But this time, it sounded more like a test. Or a warning.

Your smile faded, but you didn’t say anything.

“I should get home,” you said instead, quietly. “I’ve got deadlines.”

His brow lifted. “No need. I already told your company you were taking leave.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“I sent an email on your behalf this morning,” he said simply. “You’ve been working too hard. You need rest.”

You gaped. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

A sick sort of stillness crawled up your spine. Your voice was sharp now. “How do you even know where I work?”

That got a reaction. A blink—too slow to be real surprise.

“Your mom told me,” he replied easily, like the answer should have satisfied you.

It didn’t.

You stared. “My mom doesn’t even know your last name.”

He tilted his head. “You’d be surprised what parents talk about when they’re hopeful.”

But your stomach twisted. It wasn’t just the knowledge. It was the comfort with which he said it. Like he’d been rehearsing this moment. Like he always had the upper hand.

You turned your body toward the door, jaw tight. “That’s not—”

“The others always liked it. They smiled. They said thank you.” he smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

You sat frozen.

“But you…” he said, reaching for your hand and brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“You bite.”

And he sounded like he liked it.

Your pulse ticked in your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was something deeper now. Thicker. Like the syrupy drag of honey down glass—slow, but inevitable.

“That’s what I like about you,” he said. “You’re not afraid to correct me.”

“I’m not one of your clients,” you murmured.

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re mine.”

You flinched slightly, and he caught it. Let it sit.

He leaned forward.

Not fast, not sudden. But slow—like honey through heat. One hand rose to the seatbelt buckle between you, fingers brushing the skin just below your collarbone.

He stopped with his mouth inches from yours.

So close.

You could feel the shape of his breath. The tension clinging to his lips.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He clicked the seatbelt shut instead. And with the ghost of a smirk, he whispered against the corner of your mouth, “Let’s get home…Mrs Park.”

You sat still, pulse thundering in your ears. The buckle dug cold into your lap. Your mouth stayed apart.

He leaned back into his seat like nothing happened.

But everything had.

The drive back blurred into a haze of silence and nerves. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But you felt the weight of every glance he didn’t steal, every breath measured, every moment his hand could’ve reached—but didn’t. 

By the time the villa came into view, your thighs were pressed together beneath the hem of your dress, the burn of confusion and lust crawling up your legs like static.

The gate clicked open, and you stopped out slowly, your heels crunching on the gravel, mind still stuck on the way his fingers grazed your skin in the car. How close his lips had come. How deliberate the denial had felt. 

Seonghwa walked a few paces ahead of you, suit jacket slung casually over one shoulder, the red of the evening sun bleeding into the white of his dress shirt.

You swallowed hard. 

You noticed the width of his back, the elegant stretch of fabric across his shoulders. The way his spine curved  slightly as he moved–like every step was a secret you weren't allowed to hear. 

Your eyes drifted lower.

His walk was arrogant. Fluid. Relaxed in a way that didn’t match the pressure he exuded. How could a man be so graceful and still feel like a warning sign?

Your cheeks burned at your own thoughts. The line between danger and desire was a blur you weren’t prepared for.

“Are you coming?” His voice snapped you out of it—smooth, velveted, but it held a subtle command.

You blinked, heat prickling down your neck.

He was standing at the front door, looking back at you. One brow raised, one hand extended toward the handle. 

“I–yeah,” you murmured. 

The air shifted the second you stepped inside. Cooler, quieter. The villa always felt a little too quiet—like it had ears.

You moved to slip out of your shoes, but Seonghwa was already beside you, his hand brushing your lower back lightly.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said, eyes flickering down. “You’re home now. Remember?”

That word again. Home.

You stepped forward cautiously, pulse erratic.

He disappeared toward the hallway, but not before giving you one last glance. “Come to the gallery when you’re ready. I want to show you something.”

His voice trailed behind him like silk thread in the air.

You exhaled.

And your feet moved before your mind did.

You followed him down the corridor, heart pounding louder with each step. The wall–still lined with his art—felt different now. More watching than decorative. The yellow streaks that once fascinated you now pulsed in your peripheral vision, like veins beneath skin. 

You stopped just outside the gallery.

Seonghwa stood in the center of the room, back to you. His jacket lay discarded across the long velvet bench, the sleeves of his shirt now rolled to the elbows. He was staring at one of the paintings—one you hadn’t noticed before.

Your breath caught when you stepped in fully.

It was another grey landscape. But this one felt…angrier. The yellow wasn’t a stripe—it was a slash. Jagged, violent, running across the middle like someone had torn the canvas open.

“I don’t remember this one,” you murmured.

He turned slowly, the soft light catching the edge of his cheekbone. His eyes were a little darker than before.

“I painted it the night before you came.”

Your lips parted. “It’s—intense.”

“So were my thoughts,” he said simply.

You felt the air shift again, a new tension blooming. You looked away, trying to steady your breath. His presence behind you was immediate. Silent.

Close.

“You didn’t like how I spoke to my parents,” he said softly, his voice just behind your ear.

You flinched slightly at the sudden intimacy, but didn’t move.

“I noticed the way you looked at me. Like you were re-evaluating something,” he continued, stepping closer, his chest nearly grazing your back.

“I didn’t say anything,” you whispered.

“You didn’t have to,” he replied. Then, his hand slid along your waist. Possessive. Measured. His breath tickled the shell of your ear.

“I don’t care if you’re afraid of me,” he murmured. “As long as you don’t lie to me. The others always lied. Or worse—pretended.”

You turned to face him, nerves flaring—but your eyes locked.

“Others?”

He only smiled. Crooked. Like he knew he was unraveling but welcomed it.

“You ask better questions when you’re scared,” he said.

Your pulse throbbed.

“I’m not scared,” you lied.

His eyes flicked to your mouth. “Mm. Then maybe I should try harder.”

And then he leaned in—closer this time. His lips hovered just over yours. Barely touching. Breathing in your air. Waiting.

You felt your knees threaten to buckle. He didn’t kiss you. He just stayed there, suspended.

Until finally, you spoke. Quietly. Unintentionally. A whisper too weighted.

“Seonghwa…”

He smirked.

“Park, Seonghwa,” he corrected.

And then, almost cruelly low, he murmured:

“Or you can just say Mr. Park.”

You exhaled, heat rushing up your spine and the one place a few had seen the light of.

But you didn’t answer. Didn’t say his name, didn’t give him that satisfaction.

The silence hung thick between you. Breathy. Electric. A test of patience neither of you truly had.

Seonghwa’s jaw ticked.

And then—he chuckled. Low. Rough. Almost a groan, like the restraint physically pained him.

“Oh,” he breathed, tilting his head just slightly, lips still hovering near yours. “You want me to taste you.”

The words dripped like sin.

“But you don’t want to say it.” His fingers slid just an inch higher along your side. Not quite touching your skin—but you could feel him.

Your throat dried. Your heart thundered. Still, you didn’t move.

And that red dress—clinging to you like a second skin—drove him insane.

He’d asked you to bring it. Knew it would suit you. But he hadn’t been prepared for how well.

Like a matador taunting the bull, you stood there—a challenge in silk. And Seonghwa…? He was the bull.

Barely leashed.

Rage, lust, and reverence all pulling at the same thread inside him. 

And the you whispered, just barely,

“..you don’t deserve it.” your eyes met his fully. Fire meeting gasoline. 

“...yet.” 

The shift in his expression was immediate. Amusement laced with disbelief. Shock flickered, only for a moment–before it melted into something darker. 

Wilder. Something vicious.

“God,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Then he stepped back–just enough to let the tension snap like an elastic band. His eyes were sharp, devouring. But his smirk was smug. Impressed. Wrapping you like cellophane. 

“Come one,” he said, voice lower than before. 

“Let’s get you…properly dressed. Before I forget how patient I can be.” 

꧁─𐮛─꧂ ꧁─𐮛─꧂ ⚤ ꧁─𐮛─꧂ ꧁─𐮛─꧂

The silence returned long after Seonghwa had gone still.

Now it was just you and the steam, curled like breath from a waiting mouth. You stood in the shower, water cascading down your back like a weeping sky—Mother Nature mourning something unnamed. Or perhaps baptizing you in the aftermath of restraint.

It should’ve washed him off you.

But it didn’t.

His touch lingered under your skin like invisible ink—faint, hidden, but just one spark away from flaring bright. Every drop traced the memory of his hands: the curve of your waist, the hollow of your throat, the place where his thumb had pressed against your jaw like he could shape your thoughts.

You exhaled. The water blurred your vision, but it wasn’t the heat that stung.

Between your legs, the ache remained. A pulse. A ghost. A tether you weren’t sure you wanted to sever.

His voice still echoed in your chest.

“You want me to taste you, but you won’t say it.”

“You don’t deserve it..yet.”

The way you said it–low, defiant, trembling. And the way he paused. Like you’d cracked something open in him. Pulled the leash taut but you yanked his control right out of his pretty hands.

You hadn't expected to win. But he hadn't expected to lose.

And that made it…fun.

Your lips curved. Just barely. Outside, the villa breathed quietly. You were alone. Supposedly.

Yet his scent still clung to your skin like a possession. Citrus, cedar, something darker. It bloomed against your collarbone, your sibs, your thighs–an invisible rope wound around you tight.

You reached for the soap. But it didn’t matter. Somewhere inside you, he still lingered.

The water kept falling, but something else broke it.

A noise. Low. distant. Unmistakable.

You froze mid-rinse, breath caught in your throat. That wasn’t the pipes. This time it didn’t sound like metal shifting or air conditioning groaning. It was louder, sharper. A whisper caught in the wrong place. A shuffle behind the walls. A thud, not accidental but…intentional.

Your eyes flicked towards the door. Steam curled at your back, thick and concealing, but your skin prickled like something was watching. You reached to shut the water, your hand trembling as silence swallowed the room again.

Silence, except for the sound. Still there.

Your pulse quickened. Throat dry. Mind racing.

Should you check it out?

Seonghwa said it was the pipes.

But no pipe walked.

No pipe dragged across the floorboards with a barely-there echo.

Wrapping yourself in the thick white robe hanging on the back of the door, you didn’t bother with shoes. Skin still damp, hair dripping at your nape, you stepped out quietly—like the villa might spook if you made a sound.

The hallway was dim.

The sound was clearer now. Rhythmic, like movement. Dragging and pausing. It came from deeper down—near the gallery. Near the place you'd seen the seam.

your fingers tightened around the robe’s sash. A part of you screamed go back, find seonghwa, pretend you didn;t hear a thing.

But curiosity slithered stronger. Like always.

You padded barefoot down the corridor, each step lighter than the last. The villa’s warmth did nothing to calm the cold blooming in your chest. Past the dining room, past the row of abstract paintings and flickering sconces. Past the place where seonghwa had once stood and smiled at you like you were already his. And maybe, just maybe…you were.

And there it was again. A creak. A murmur. A mechanical sigh.

Your heart stammered as you reached the edge of the gallery. The air felt wrong here. Too still, like the room had been holding its breath.

You stepped inside. And the seam…was no longer subtle.

It glowed faintly–bright, white almost silver, maybe both–tracing a jagged line along the centre of the largest painting. The colours bled around it like a wound reopened. The sound that seemed to pulse from it. Whispering. Breathing.

You stopped slowly towards it.

It was barely visible before. A slight line, an interruption between brushstokes and concrete–disguised in yellow paint, stitched between the sweeping greys of seonghwa’s landscapes. But now…now it glimmered faintly, like light bleeding through a crack.

You reached out. Pressed your fingertips on the wall.

It didn't feel like paint. It felt like something warmer. Smoother. Less still.

Your palms flattened against the surface as you leaned in, ear brushing close.

And there it was again. That sound.

A low, rhythmic scuff. A quiet clang of something metal. Something moving. Then–an exhale. A wheeze. Like breath trapped behind stone.

Your heart thundered. Every instinct told you to run. But your hands pressed harder. Terrified. And curious.

Your fingers curled near the seam–then you pushed.

The wall gave way. Not with a click, but a shudder.

The painting split in two with a quiet sigh, folding like a concealed door. The colours parted, not smeared or cracked–but hinged. You stood, frozen, as the gallery’s largest canvas unveiled its true purpose.

A dark hallway stretched beyond it. Narrow. Cold.

There were lights–small, flickering, almost like candles in glass. And in the distance, just barely visible, a staircase spiraling downward.

“Looking for something?,” he murmured behind you, voice low and unreadable.

You spun around. Heart pounding in your chest.

Seonghwa stood at the hall, just beyond the frame of the gallery. Half shadowed. One hand in his pocket. The other holding something–keys? A phone?

No. A glass of wine.

He wasn't running toward you, wasn’t angry. Just…watching.

But something about his stillness made your pulse stutter. Like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t have. A child with their hand in the wrong drawer. A trespasser in a home that wasn’t quite theirs.

Your fingers instinctively pulled away from the seam, pressing your chest instead. “I-I heard something,” you stammered, voice far too small in the cavernous hush. “It didn’t sound like pipes. I thought–maybe–”

Seonghwa stepped forward.

Slow. measured. Each step deliberate.

“Its fine,” you added quickly, nerves scrambling to mask themselves with politeness. “I didn’t mean to–i was just curious.”

He took another step. Then another. Still sipping from his wine glass. Deep red staining the crystal.

“Curiosity’s a dangerous thing.”

You didn’t move. Your throat bobbed. Your robe clung damp to your skin, hair still wet from the shower, a single drop of water trailing down your collarbone like a bead of nervous sweat.

Seonghwa stopped only when he reached the marble pillar beside you. Without looking, he placed the glass atop it. The sound of glass on stone echoed in the stillness.

“So you heard a sound,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “And thought to wander?”

‘I wasn’t–”

“Mhm.”

You opened your mouth to speak again but stopped when his hand dropped—slow and fluid—reaching for the back of your knee.

“I didn’t mean–”

“Uh-huh”

“And?”

His voice was all velvet and razor wire.

“Seonghwa—”

But your voice fell apart as he crouched slightly, lifting you with practiced ease. One hand behind your thighs, the other supporting your back. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, breath hitching as your robe parted slightly against the heat of his suit. Your hands found his shoulders, instinctively, like you’d done this before.

He looked up at you. Not smiling. Eyes dark with something unreadable.

“You’re wet.”

You swallowed. His thumbs circling on the damn skin of your thighs.

“I-I was in the shower..”

“Still are.”

The heat radiating from him was unreadable. Your skin prickles where his fingers dug gently into your legs. His lips brushed your ear–not quite a kiss.

“Did you want me to find you there?” he asked, voice a murmur.

Your heart thundered. His scent, the wine, the gallery’s dim silence–all of it melted together until you couldn’t think. Until you couldn;t tell the difference until you couldn’t think.

Your breath caught when he suddenly pressed you closer, your legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. You could feel him now–just barely–but enough to draw a small gasp from your throat. The robe clung to your skin, his fingers kneading your flesh, and then tracing a line just beneath your thigh.

“You always this bold when you’re curious?” he whispered, voice thick with something darker.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere–gentle, teasing, maddening. Palms smoothing along your back, thumbs brushing under the curve of your thighs. Not rushing. Just feeling. Testing. Letting the tension coil in your belly like a trap waiting to snap shut.

He tilted his head, nose brushing yours. A sigh escaped his lips–low and quiet, like a man drunk on restraint.

“You feel that?” he whispered.

You did.

You felt every ounce of him, pressed firm and hot against the soft thin barrier between you. Your breath shook as his hands shifted higher, lips brushing yours.

“You like making me lose control..patience,” he murmured. “Say it.”

But just as you opened your mouth–just as your body leaned into his touch–

He pulled back. His grip loosened.

You blinked, dazed, lips parted in a silent plea.

Seonghwa gava a slow exhale, then set you gently down onto your feet. His hands hovered at your hips, grounding you for a moment before retreating completely.

“We’re going out.” His tone shifted. Light. Teasing. Annoyingly casual.

You frowned, heart still pounding. “What–”

He grinned, brushing a strand of wet hair behind your ear.

“Get ready, silly girl.”

A beat.

“I’m taking you to a special place of mine.”

Like a switch, the temperature of the room dropped. Something hollow opened inside your chest. The seam behind you still gaped slightly, just enough to remind you it wasn’t a dream.

And yet the real mystery had just deepened.

You stood in there for a moment, robe slightly parted, skin now sticky and tingling. The wall behind you was closed again–seonghwa must’ve shut it without a sound. You hadn’t even noticed. Just like you hadn't noticed the way your breathing had changed,or how your body had instinctively leaned into his until it no longer had the warmth to anchor it.

The air was thick now. Not humid, but dense. Like something unsaid had taken root in the space between you both.

He’d walked away easily. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant something—but not enough. Or maybe… too much?

Your hand moved to your chest, fingers curling slightly at the fabric of your robe as you tried to regulate your breathing.

His words echoed: “get ready, silly girl.” “I'm taking you somewhere special.”

You tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out right. A sharp exhale through your nose that bordered on disbelief. A special place? Where?

You now sat on the edge of your bed, heart racing like it hadn't caught up to the sudden turn. From the way he looked at you just minutes ago, to the way he looked through you now–like he’d tasted power and decided to withhold it.

Was it a punishment? A game?

You weren’t sure which answer disturbed you more.

The back of your hand brushed against your lips. Still warm. Still waiting. You hadn’t realized just how close he’d gotten until he wasn’t there anymore.

The room was dimly lit, but the silence was louder than before. You glanced toward the closet—toward the red dress still hanging, taunting you with its place in this unraveling puzzle. You were barely keeping up.

And then it hit you—this wasn't just about curiosity anymore. It was control.

Everything. From the silk pajamas folded neatly for you. The meals timed perfectly to your tastes. The way he knew where you worked—without you ever telling him.

our mother? Maybe. But the precision…it was too intimate.

Too intentional.

Your legs shifted, feet brushing the cold floor. Still barefoot. Still stunned. Still raw.

You looked at the robe’s tie and cinched it tighter. Whatever this place was…you had to go. Not because he asked–but because you needed answers.

The drive was silent at first. Not awkward–but changed. The kind of quiet that filled itself with thoughts neither of you wanted to speak out loud.

Dressed in a beige tux and a black turtleneck, his hair sleeked back. You couldn’t help but admire your peripheral vision.

Seonghwa hadn’t touched the radio. Instead, one hand rested lazily on the wheel while the other tapped rhythmically against his thigh. But his gaze? It strayed. Over and over.

You felt it slide along your skin like invisible fingers–slow deliberate. You shifted slightly in your seat, crossing your legs with the hope of finding a less vulnerable position. But the red dress didn’t allow for modesty. It clung to you like it had been poured over your skin—its hem daring to rise every time you moved, the bodice pressing tight against your chest, your ribs. And your neck, exposed in its entirety thanks to the updo you had thrown together to avoid his smirking request for it to be "neat."

He finally glanced over again, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

"You keep looking," you muttered, voice cracking the heavy quiet, "Is something wrong?"

His lips twitched, eyes raking over you so slow you felt it in your gut.

"No," he answered, deep and unhurried. "Just thinking…"

“Thinking what?” you pressed, even though you regretted it immediately.

He leaned back into his seat with a grin that almost felt too big for his face, dark eyes devouring every curve of you.

“How lucky I must've been in my past life to get you in my passenger seat looking like that,” he said, faux-sincere, the flirtation thick enough to strangle.

You rolled your eyes but your heart flipped, betraying your own restraint. You tucked a strange behind your ear–habit, nerves–and caught the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

His hand moved–rested on the center console, just a few inches from your thigh.

“So where are we going?” you asked, determined to regain footing, even if your voice sounded too breathy.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just exhaled, smiled fading into something more unreadable.

“My comfort place,” he said at last. “A home, in a way.”

You blinked. That told you nothing. But you kinda knew. “You mean an orphanage?”

He nodded once, keeping his gaze on the road.

“Why?” you asked quietly. “Why take me there?”

A pause. Then:

“Because,” he murmured, “it’s the only place I’ve ever felt real. And if you're going to understand me—really understand me—you should see where I come from.”

The car’s hum filled the space between you again. But this time it wasn’t silence. It was a loaded gun.

The road narrowed the farther you drove. City noise long faded, the villa a ghost in the rearview mirror. Trees leaned over the winding path like an eavesdropper, canopies shivering under the wind.

Seonghwa said nothing else.

It wasn’t until the car rolled to a stop that your eyes focused on the building ahead—a modest structure tucked behind a rusted gate and a line of leafless trees. Weatherworn bricks. A sagging roof. Faded letters above the iron gate read: St. Westbury’s Home for Children.

“Home,” Seonghwa said again, eyes lingering on the building like it held the keys to all his obsessions.

“I thought it’d be... bigger,” you admitted, brushing down the skirt of the red dress. It felt wrong here. Too loud in color. Too sharp in silhouette. You suddenly wished you’d worn black.

“It was big to me,” he said softly, gaze distant. “Everything feels big when you’re small.”

You followed him through the creaking gate. The garden had been neglected, save for a few still-living roses growing wild along the face. And as you stepped up to the door, Seonghwa hesitated for the time that day. His knuckles hovered over the wood before knocking softly–once twice.

It opened.

An elderly woman greeted him, eyes widening in disbelief. She took one look at him and reached forward like she might cry. “My God… Hwa?”

She pulled him into a hug, whispering his name like a prayer. Then her gaze shifted to you, softening with sudden realization.

“Oh…is this the beautiful y/n you’ve been talking about?”

Your breath caught slightly. Seonghwa’s hand found the small of your back like it belonged there. Possessive. Proud.

Miss Yun smiled kindly, though her eyes still held a glint of surprise. “He wrote once… said he’d found someone different. Special.”

Seonghwa chuckled, low and pleased, while you gave a polite nod—unsure whether to feel flattered or warned.

“She’s everything I said, and then some,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your spine.

Miss Yun’s smile lingered, but there was a flicker of something else in her expression—like she knew what it meant when Seonghwa grew attached.

The building was aged but well-kept, a mixture of faded wood and sun-filtered halls. Children's laughter echoed in bursts—sharp, joyous, untamed. For a moment, it softened something inside you.

Miss Yun led you both to the central playroom where tiny chairs and primary-coloured toys filled the space. Seonghwa’s hand finally left your back as he crouched, already engulfed by a rush of little bodies yelling his name. His face lit up, the kind of joy that didn’t feel manufactured. He ruffled hair, answered questions, and lifted two squealing children at once.

You stood by the doorway, arms folded and heart oddly warm as you watched him.

This was a version of Seonghwa you hadn't yet seen—so human. So tender. And in the sunlight that spilled through the large windows, with a child on his back and another tugging at his wrist, he almost looked… normal. Like someone you could believe in.

It dimmed the doubts curling in your chest.

Almost.

Your smile faltered when you caught the low way his eyes flicked to you, the barest up-tilt of his mouth. Something about it felt practiced. He turned back toward one of the older kids—maybe nine or ten—and whispered something into the boy’s ear.

You didn’t hear it.

But you saw the boy's face break into a grin as he turned and ran—straight toward you.

"Miss Y/N!" he called breathlessly. “Hwa-hyung says you looked so pretty today he could barely drive without crashing!”

Your eyes widened, and heat rushed up your neck.

The boy tilted his head. “He also said you should come sit next to him before he kidnaps you for real.”

A startled laugh escaped you—half amusement, half nerves.

When you looked back toward Seonghwa, he was already watching. Arms draped lazily over the back of a small couch, legs spread, completely relaxed in a way that was too deliberate. That familiar glint had returned to his gaze. Amused. Possessive.

Dangerous.

And yet your feet moved anyway.

“y/n dear,” miss yun called, head tilting indicating for you to follow. On instinct and out of respect you followed her without asking hwa for permission.

Miss Yun guided you toward the back hallways as the kids flocked around seonghwa like planets orbiting a very dangerous sun. Her voice lowered slightly, more confidential now, as she walked beside you with a slow, thoughtful pace.

“He was always a sweet boy,” she murmured. "Kind. Thoughtful. A little too quiet.”

You glanced at her. Something in her tone made your heart tighten.

She stopped beside a wooden door—aged but carefully polished—and rested her hand on the handle without turning it yet.

“I don’t know how much he’s told you. About his childhood. His… first family.” She hesitated, eyes still on the door. “What they did to him… it didn’t just break trust, it warped it. Messed with his mind and heart in ways I still can’t fully understand.”

Your throat went dry.

You blinked, caught off guard by the way her words coiled around something in you—some warning bell, some wound.

“I tried to help him as best I could. We all did.” Her eyes turned to you gently now, but weighted. “But when Seonghwa’s in pain, he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t call for help.”

She went quiet for a beat. Then straightened.

“But… I think I’ll let him tell you the rest, if he ever chooses to.”

She opened the door.

You stepped inside slowly.

It was a small, tidy bedroom. Not sterile, not empty—just frozen in time. A bookshelf lined with adventure novels. Posters of sci-fi movies and galaxies peeling slightly at the edges. A worn leather sketchbook tucked on the desk, beside a half-burnt candle.

Your gaze drifted toward the framed photos on the shelf. And there it was.

A younger Seonghwa.

A baby, really—maybe five years old at most, grinning at the camera in funky mismatched pajamas, holding up a crooked peace sign with chipped teeth showing. His hair stuck up in tufts. He looked silly. Soft. Unscarred.

Your heart clenched. He’d been just a child. Innocent. Bright-eyed. A world of love waiting to pour out.

And someone had hurt him.

You swallowed, and your fingers brushed the edge of the photo frame, thumb lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Behind you, quiet steps approached—and when you turned, Seonghwa leaned against the doorframe.

He wasn’t smiling.

His gaze landed on the photo in your hand. Then flicked up to your face.

“You found little me,” he said softly.

You nodded.

“I like the peace sign,” you whispered.

He gave a short laugh, one without humor. “Miss Yun always told me to smile when it hurt. Said the world’s less likely to look closer if you’re grinning.”

You didn’t respond right away.

And maybe that silence said enough.

His arms crossed slowly. “She told you.”

“Only a little,” you said gently. “She said she’d rather let you tell it.”

He exhaled, something long and quiet. Then stepped forward and reached behind you, placing the photo back in its place with careful precision.

“I used to pretend I was an alien. That I’d been dropped off on Earth by mistake,” he murmured, voice far away now. “It made more sense than thinking people who were supposed to love me… could hurt me like that.”

You looked up at him. “And now?”

His eyes met yours again. “Now I know I wasn’t dropped by accident. I was left here to survive.”

And then, before you could answer, the mask slipped back on. That charming tilt to his mouth. That teasing lilt.

“Anyway,” he said, brushing invisible dust off your shoulder. “That dress is still driving me insane. Like a red flag in front of a very patient bull.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

He grinned. “Let’s get out of here before I ruin your first orphanage visit with something entirely unholy.”

Miss Yun gave you one last hug at the orphanage gates, warm and lingering like she wished she could tuck you into the folds of her apron and keep you safe.

"Come back soon, will you?" she said, her hands folded gently in front of her. “You’re good for him.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the same little boy from earlier came bounding down the garden path. His tiny shoes slapped against the pavement, one lace untied and flailing in the wind.

“Wait! Miss!”

You turned just as he skidded to a stop in front of you, eyes wide and proud, fist clenched around a folded paper.

He offered it with both hands.

“A letter,” he said. “We made it for you.”

You blinked, touched. “We?”

“Me and Mr. Hwa. But I drew it.”

You unfolded the sheet slowly—colored pencil lines and clumsy hearts danced across the page. At the center was a hand-drawn image: you in the red dress, Seonghwa beside you in his beige suit, both of you holding hands beneath a sun that smiled down with two crooked eyes. Beneath the drawing, in shaky, messy letters, it read:

"Be Our Forever."

Your throat closed. You could feel Seonghwa watching you from behind. And when you looked up, he gave a small, almost unreadable smile—but his eyes were locked on the paper.

It was only when you slid into the car, the door shutting with a soft thud, that silence settled between you again. He started the engine, but didn’t move.

The leather creaked slightly as he shifted in his seat. You could feel his gaze on you again. Lingering.

“You’re quiet,” he said at last, voice smooth like the hum of the tires waiting to roll.

Your hand smoothed the folds of the drawing in your lap. “Just thinking.”

He didn’t respond. The car rolled forward, gentle at first, then stronger as the road opened up.

Outside, the sky began to slip into dusk. A gentle violet bleeding toward gold.

“You looked beautiful in that dress,” he murmured, after a beat. “Almost criminal.”

You turned to him slowly. “You’ve said that already.”

“I know. Still true.”

You caught him glancing at you again, this time more blatantly, and your heart stuttered when you realized his gaze was tracing the curve of your neck. The way your hair was pinned up. Exposed.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, half defiant.

He chuckled. Low. Throaty. “The back of your neck. The way the light’s catching it.”

You blinked. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

“And yet,” he drawled, one hand shifting on the wheel, “you’re blushing.”

You opened your mouth—then shut it again. God. You were blushing.

The mood in the car began to shift again, subtly but undeniably. The air thinned. Tension spun out like silk thread between you.

“I thought this was your ‘comfort place,’” you teased, trying to deflect. “It doesn’t seem very relaxing.”

His hand slid down from the wheel to rest against the gearshift—fingers drumming slowly, deliberately. “It was. Until I brought you.”

You stiffened.

“Why’s that?”

He shrugged, turning onto the winding road that led back to the villa. “Because now I want things I shouldn't.”

Your heart skipped, a strange fluttering panic caught between want and warning.

“I’m not a thing.”

“I know,” he said, voice velvet dark. “That’s the problem.”

The car hummed as dusk deepens, the sky outside casting shadows across the windshield. You stared ahead, watching trees blur past in dark silhouettes, your fingers still folded gently over the child’s drawing.

He hadn’t spoken since his last remark, but you could feel his thoughts–thick and heavy in the air like humidity before a storm.

Then, slowly, almost to himself, he said, “you have a very…motherly aura.”

“Excuse me?” you turned, startled.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. “I watched you,” he continued, like confessing a dream. “You didn’t even pick up a child, didn’t hold their hand. But they followed you. Like they had already belonged to you.”

His voice was smooth, but something under it vibrated with friction.

“That's a weird thing to say, seonghwa.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve said worse…y/n.”

You didn’t respond.

“I’ve brought people to the villa before,” he went on. “Many people, actually. Dinners. Clients. Women.”

Of course he had.

“But I’ve never brought anyone here.”

You blinked. “To the orphanage?”

He nodded. “Not a single one.”

“…Why?”

His jaw clenched slightly, and for the first time all day, he hesitated.

His words landed like a slap. Cold. Blunt. Final.

You turned to him fully now, eyes narrowed. “And I do?”

Another pause. Then, “Yes.”

The silence pressed in. Your heartbeat ticked louder in your ears.

“Because they didn’t matter.”

“Why?” you asked, unable to stop yourself. “What makes me different?”

His fingers flexed on the wheel, and his voice, when it came, was slow—carefully controlled.

“You see me. Not the money. Not the name. Not the mask. You see… the fracture lines.”

“And that makes you want to keep me?”

“No,” he said. “That makes me want to devour you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then—finally. His gaze wasn’t gentle. It was reverent. And terrifying.

“You have no idea what that red dress did to me today,” he said. “You walked around that orphanage like a dream I never deserved. And all I could think about was how easily I could ruin it.”

You stared at him, throat dry. “You’re talking like I’m some kind of—”

“Salvation?” he cut in. “Maybe.”

You swallowed hard. “Or a target.” He didn’t argue. Just smiled slowly, cruelly tender. “Curiosity’s a dangerous thing, remember?”

The car turned off the main road now, gravel crunching beneath the tires as the gates to the villa came into view once more. Your mind reeled, torn between the child’s drawing still in your lap and the man beside you who couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to worship you or trap you in glass.

He pulled the car to a slow stop.

"Come," he said, voice a near-whisper. “Let me make you some tea.”

The floor was soft with layered blankets, woven textures folded and fluffed into a makeshift near the long glass doors. Outside, the garden was quiet under a navy-blue sky, stars flickering behind gauzy clouds. Inside , the lights were dimmed low–warm and gold–and the scent of herbal tea floated lazily between you both.

You sat legs slightly curved, the weight of the cup warming your palms. Seonghwa moved easily across the room, his black turtleneck hugged too perfectly to be casual. He returned with a small ceramic plate balanced in one hand.

Cookies.

You blinked. The shapes were uneven, slightly crisped on the edges. Real. human. Not store-bought, not uniform. Something about that made your chest flutter and your throat tighten. “Who made those?”you asked, eyebrows raising.

He set the plate down between you both. “I did.”

You stared at him, skeptical. “You bake?”

His smile deepened, almost smug, “only when I want to impress someone.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, retreat, or why his words always sounded like silk wrapping around a knife. Because, ‘when the fuck did he make them?’ You thought

He broke the silence first, reaching for a cookie and offering you one. “Try.”

You hesitated, only slightly, until you eventually took it carefully. Brushing fingers by accident. Another pause. The tension eased slightly, replaced with a strange softness as he watched you nibble the corner.

“You always look so careful when you eat,” he said, leaning his cheek against one fist, elbow braced on his bent knee. “Like you’d expected poison.”

You shot him a look, “should I?”

He smiled, then lightly bit his bottom lip. Slow. unreadable. ‘You’re still here.”

You took another bite, chewing slower this time. It was good–too good, like everything here. You tried not to let it show. The tea, the soft lighting, the floor pillows, the way his gaze remained on you like an ever-burning candle.

The air was still, warm, cloaked in a strange sense of ease.You’d laughed at his dry jokes and traded mundane facts—favorite foods, odd quirks, work stories. Just enough to ease the tension, slightly. Somewhere between mentions of childhood dreams and your mutual hatred of slow drivers, you learned that Seonghwa had inherited his birth parents' fortune the moment they passed away. He’d said it so nonchalantly, like it wasn’t a fact that might make someone spiral with questions. But you’d let it settle quietly between sips of your tea.

It was somewhere in the lull that followed that things shifted. Completely.

His fingers, slow and deliberate, began tracing lazy circles on the exposed skin of your thigh. You were still sitting with your legs curled, your dress had ridden up slightly–wheter from movement or his design, you weren't sure. The pads of his fingers brushed slightly, a whisper of contact that sent your thoughts scattering.

“So…” his voice was low, inquisitive. “What’s something you’d never admit to wanting?’ he asked, fingers still circling, and eyes never leaving yours.

You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”

“A…reavealling one.” he chuckled. Breathless. “Don’t worry. You won’t offend me. I’ve heard worse.”

The heat in his voice made your stomach tighten. You licked your lips. “I thought this was tea. Not truth or dare.”

He grinned. “Tea is a truth serum, you know. Especially when shared on the floor with someone who sees you.”

“Sees me?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. Fingers threatening to go higher. “You’re not like them. The ones who pretend.”

A beat. A finger circling.

“You’d be surprised how many people say yes without meaning it.”

Your heart kicked once.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked, but your tone was steadier than you expect. He reached out, brushing a crumb from your collarbone. His fingers lingered for just a beat too long. “Nothing. Or anything. Just stay honest.”

You hummed. “Thats easy.”

“You don't say, well…” He raised an eyebrow. “What are you into?”

Into?

He smiled–knowing, dangerous. “In bed y/n.”

You felt your pulse thrum, a laugh shattering from your lips. “That’s a jump.”

“We’ve already shared our worst first dates. This feels appropriate.”

“You’re too comfortable asking personal things,” you teased, though your voice had softened, eyes narrowing on him in intrigue.

He hummed, still idly stroking along your leg. “I’m just interested.”

“In you. What makes you tick. What your boundaries taste like. What your real answers sound like when you don’t lie to yourself.”

When you gave him a tentative answer—nothing too revealing, just enough to test the waters—he made a sound low in his throat, almost a hum of satisfaction. His fingers didn’t stop. They moved higher, slightly, dangerously, before pausing again.

“And what else?” he asked, eyes never leaving your face.

You smiled, nervous but amused. “I think you like hearing people spill secrets.”

“I do,” he admitted shamelessly, leaning forward now, nose brushing yours as his lips hovered just shy of kissing you. You could taste him in the air. “Especially yours.”

But just as the tension threatened to snap into something scorching, you pulled back, clearing your throat.

“What… what was Miss Yun going to tell me?”

The air shifted again. Seonghwa’s neck tilted backward, head falling for a moment in thought. His jaw worked slightly, and he exhaled a long, low breath through his nose before straightening and turning his gaze to you—deeper, darker now.

“Would you like to see, instead?” he asked.

You hesitated. His question wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Weighted.

“See what?” you asked, voice quieter now, unsure.

Seonghwa titled his head slightly, eyes fixed on you like he was trying to read something beneath your skin. “Everyhting,” he said softly, “or at least enough to make sense of me.”

There was no jest in his tone now. No teasing glint in his eye. Just the low, molten hum of a man holding secrets by the throat. His fingers, once tracing mindless circles, now settled palm-flat against your thigh. Warm. Steady.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” he asked, like he was giving you a final out.

“Yeah,” you echoed.

He stood, but not before squeezing your knee. Then offered a hand. You took it, legs slightly stiff beneath you as the blankets unraveled. He didn’t speak as he led you out of the room—just held your hand with a kind of solemnity that made your chest tighten.

He led you into the gallery. You felt your stomach twist.

The room looked the same–serene, rich with an oil on canvas silence. But your eyes immediately found the seam in the wall. That small, too clean line that had mocked your curiosity the night before.

Seonghwa said nothing. He simply approached it. And then, without pause, he pushed. Just like you did before but with more ease.

The wall gave way with a soft groan, the edges of the painting parting. It's cracked open–no longer a guilty mystery, but an invitation. Seonghwa walked further into the hallway, guiding you with his confident stride.

And then he paused in front of a door you’d barely noticed. It looked like a closet at first glance–plain, a little narrow, fitted into the far end of the hallway like an afterthought.

But his fingers paused on the handle like it was sacred.

He looked at you once. Then he opened it.

Inside, the air changed. Warmer. Thicker. The lighting dimmed into a sultry red glow that spilled out over his shoulders as the door creaked open fully.

What waited inside was velvet.

Velvet and leather and silence.

A room built in secret, every detail heavy with intent. Whips hung in elegant formation. Ropes looped neatly from burnished hooks. A bench. Cuffs. Shelving, polished and sterile, with items that made your mouth dry.

You hadn’t even stepped inside yet, but the air clung to your skin like perfume.

Seonghwa walked in without hesitation.

“This,” he said softly, “is what they never let me understand properly.”

You stepped forward slowly, heart in your throat.

It was beautiful. Erotic. And somehow sacred.

“My first family,” he murmured, running a hand across the wall, “they hurt me. Tied me up when I made mistakes. Beat me when I didn’t. Starved me. Locked me in.”

Your lungs stilled.

He crossed to a glass case mounted into the far wall. Inside it—carefully framed and underlit—was a blade. Sharp. Clean. Revered.

“I pretended to sleep one night,” he continued, gaze far away. “My mind…blank. And then something just snapped,and I used it.”

Your body locked in place.

He turned to you again, more grounded now, voice low. “I didn’t cry. Not once. After it was done, I sat there until the morning. Miss Yun helped me clean everything up. Took me back in. But no one wants a boy with blood on his hands. Not at twelve. So I grew up and paid for parents. Hired people to wear the right masks.”

You didn’t know when your eyes had watered. But now he saw it.

“I’m not scared of you,” you whispered, throat tight. “But I don’t know what to do with this.”

He nodded once. Slowly, relieved but not quite, not yet as he stepped closer.

And you didn’t move. Not back. Not forward. You simply stood—rooted in place, watching him watch you.

“Because,” he said, the low thrum of his voice brushing up your spine, “you’re the perfect fit.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick. Drawn out. As if even the walls were waiting for what came next.

Your eyes dropped to his hand–wrapped around a velvet rope, fingers moving slow, almost hypnotic. It wasn’t lewd. Not quite. But there was something sexy in the way he touched it. The way his thumb pressed into each knot like he was remembering something with his skin.

“I miss it sometimes,” Seonghwa murmured, voice low. “Being tied.”

Your breath caught.

“But not in the way you think.”

He finally looked up at you, eyes calm, steady—glinting with something deeper than lust. “Not the bruises. Not the control. Not the fear. Just…” he breathed in, then out, “the silence. The stillness. The feeling of surrender, in a world that always tried to take.”

You watched him. Everything in you is frozen. Listening.

“But it didn’t quite suit me,” he admitted. “Not anymore.”

“So instead,” he continued, stopping just before you, “I thought maybe... I could give it. The right way. Tie someone not to control them—but to protect them. To worship them.”

The weight of his confession hit you with a strange warmth and fear twisted into one.

He didn’t ask to touch you.

He didn’t have to.

It was in the way he looked at you—like you were already in his grasp, held in a knot he hadn’t even tied yet.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m not,” you lied, voice barely a breath.

He stepped closer again. Now near enough that you could feel the quiet heat radiating from his chest, from his breath when he tilted his head slightly downward.

“You are,” he whispered, but he didn’t touch you. Just let the moment stretch—his presence looming, gently suffocating in its closeness.

And the worst part? You wanted him to close that final space. You wanted to lean into the tension just to feel it snap.

“You don’t even know what I like,” you said, a shaky attempt at deflection.

A soft hum left him.

“No,” he admitted. “But I know what makes you squirm.”

Your breath caught.

He angled his head to the side, voice dipping even lower. “You’re curious. Even if you won’t say it.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You want to ask how it feels,” he interrupted softly, “to be tied. To be watched. To let someone else decide how to touch you.”

The words scraped softly along your nerves, and he saw it—the way your body responded before your brain could. The slight sway of your hips, the stutter in your breath.

“You can leave,” he offered. “Right now. Door’s behind you.”

You didn't turn. Not even slightly.

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Or you can ask me what it’s like. And i’ll show you. Not all of it. Not yet. Just enough to taste.”

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

He stepped to your side, not in front, and traced a finger down the curve of your arm—just the lightest drag of skin on skin—and somehow that felt more dangerous than being thrown against a wall.

But still, he gave you space.

Still, he waited.

And that’s when you realized it: seonghwa didn’t seduce like a man starved. He seduced like a man who knew you’d come to him.

Because he made sure you wanted to. You hated that part of yourself that leaned slightly in his direction. That ached with a confusion too heavy to carry, too electric to ignore.

Your voice was quieter this time. “Why me?”

He exhaled, jaw flexing faintly before he answered—his tone quieter, like he wasn’t used to admitting it aloud.

“I built this… for you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked down at the rope in his hand, winding it slowly around his fingers. “The noises you heard. The late nights? It wasn’t the pipes.The construction. It was this.” He lifted the rope slightly, letting it dangle from one hand before twining it between his knuckles again.

“I’ve never gone this far. Ever,” he confessed. “The others—it was just sex. Casual. Quick. Unattached. They didn’t matter.”

Your stomach twisted.

“But with you…” he continued, the rope cinched between two fingers now, a subtle tension pulling at the velvet. “With you I felt it. Something different. Something I didn’t want to ruin by rushing. I wanted it right.”

He looked up again—eyes softer now, but no less intense.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I wanted to… protect.”

You said nothing. Because something in your chest was folding in on itself.

“You don’t have to understand yet,” he added, stepping closer now. “But I need you to know—this wasn’t about control. It’s about care. I wanted to build something that matched you. That held you, not just physically—but entirely.”

Your voice cracked. “And the room?”

He nodded slowly. “It’s a reflection. Not of pain. Not anymore. But of transformation.”

He held the rope out. “For your wrist,” he said simply.

You stared.

“You won't be tied,” he clarified. “Just…reminded.”

you didn’t take the rope.

Not yet.

Instead, you looked at it—at how soft it seemed in his hand. Velvet, yes. But there was weight to it. A history. One that hummed between you both like a secret not fully spoken.

“Seonghwa,” you murmured, his name trembling slightly on your tongue.

He met your gaze, wordless.

“ I don't know what to do with this.”

A pause. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said gently, his voice dipping back into that oddly tender place. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”

“But you built this, all of this…for me.”

His smile this time was small, but real. “Yes.”

The thought lingered—of him spending weeks, maybe months you don't know, quietly putting all of this together. Not for a kink. Not for shock. But for a feeling. For a thread he couldn’t name but knew he didn’t want to lose.

“I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now,” you admitted quietly.

He moved to sit beside you, not touching. Just… near. Like a presence anchoring you in place.

“You don’t have to explain it,” he said. “Just feel it.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s terrifying.”

“Feeling?”

“Feeling something this… strong. For someone like you.”

He tilted his head. “Like me?”

You looked at him.

“All of this,” you whispered. “The villa. The secrets. The way you speak to me like you already know what I’m thinking.”

His eyes searched your face, lingering at your lips before drifting back to your eyes.

“I don’t know everything,” he said, quiet. “But I pay attention. Because you matter.”

That shouldn't have landed so hard. But it did.

And for a moment, you let yourself sink into it. Into the silence between you, filled only with the soft hum of a house that suddenly felt alive. Breathing with your unease. Holding your doubt.

You looked back at the rope. Then to him. “Maybe I'm not ready for that,” you said.

“Okay.” he nodded.

No pressure. No pout. No persuasion.

Just… okay.

And somehow that was worse. Because it made you want him more. When he stood, you thought he was walking away. But instead, he turned to you and offered his hand.

“Sleep with me tonight,”

You took it.

There was a shortcut leading you straight to the hall where his room was. It was quiet. Not ominous. Just…quiet.

Stepping inside, it was a den of polished shadows and soft, decadent heat. The walls shimmered in dark taupe, almost metallic in how the light danced off them, rich like espresso under moonlight.

Everything felt intentional—textured drapes, matte black accents, a plush rug beneath your feet that your toes sank into.

It didn’t feel like a room to seduce. It felt like a room to possess.

The bed was large, sunken slightly in the middle, its frame heavy wood, the sheets thick and cool in tone–ash, charcoal, smoked cream. But he didn’t move to change.

Hwa simply kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed as he was. You stood there a moment longer before following.

Your dress creased slowly as you crawled in, not bothering to change either. It felt strange–intimate–not to undress before bed. Like holding onto armor, even in silence.

He opened his arms to you without a word. And you–after the long day, the gallery, the orphanage, the rope, the what of his eyes–you folded into him.

Your back met his chest. His arm curled under your neck, the other low on your waist. A breath. Then two, inhaling your scent in content. The room hummed with quiet traction.

His fingers moved first.

Just one, slow and exploratory, sliding down the length of your bare arm where the dress had slipped.

A trail of goosebumps rising as you shivered from his touch.

He hummed in approval, low and pleased.

Then his hand flattened at your side, massaging gently, kneading your hip with slow, languid motions that grew bolder with each breath.

He found purchase there—feminine softness beneath his palm, and you sighed.

Unconsciously, your arm stretched back toward him, fingers brushing his neck. He groaned softly, head ducking, lips meeting the exposed curve of your neck. Not a kiss.

A graze.

Then a nibbled–gentle, calculated. His teeth dragged lightly against your skin, and your breath hitched.

The warmth of his mouth paired with the slow roll of his hand against your hip was unbearable. You could feel your body betray you–a throb low in your core, heat pulsing as wetness bloomed between your thighs.

He could smell it. It maddened him. You hadn't even been touched there, and still–

The way he moved, so close, so deliberate, it was as if he’d mapped your body before even laying a hand on it.

His palm gripped tighter, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you flush against him. Let you feel exactly what you were doing to him.

But instead—

He stopped.

His lips lingered for a breath too long before they pulled away. His chest pressed to your back, his hand loosening its hold.

“…We should sleep,” he murmured, voice hoarse and thick with restraint.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. Because now you were wide awake—throbbing, aching, breath unsteady. And all he did was hold you there. Too close. Too careful.

And still not close enough.

✂︎ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵: @etherealcherrie @velvetdolor @cromerstudios @ninjakitty15 @honghwalvr @every1studio @eshia16 @a-tiny-thing @ramadiiiisme @yearningmuse @the-midnight-blooms

𝘈/𝘕: 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪’𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 6𝘵𝘩, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵. 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴!!! 𝘏𝘦𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 (￣ε￣＠)

[velvetdolor]

sugarcoat

𝙂𝙀𝙉𝙍𝙀: 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩, 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘺'𝘢𝘭𝘭, (evil) secret camboy with a corruption kink au, 18+

𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙛! 𝙎𝙖𝙣 (𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙚) 𝙭 𝙄𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎: He was sweet—almost too sweet. The kind of boyfriend who said all the right things, touched you like you mattered, and smiled like he had nothing to hide. But the charm was a mask, carefully crafted to disarm. Behind the softness lurked something darker: a hidden lifestyle he documented regularly online under the pseudonym ‘ch0i-kitty’, who posted content of girls he slowly corrupted on camera, vulgar perversion and live streamed conversations about his target of choice.

You thought you were falling in love.

You didn’t realize you were being documented.

AKA In which your sweet boyfriend isn’t as sweet as you originally thought and is a pervert with a taste for corrupting girls on camera. wc: 7k

warnings: characters have little to no moral code, corruption kink, impact play, full nelson, strangling, hair pulling, overstim, dubcon (somewhat), rough sex. dom!san, mindbreak, coercion/intended manipulation, san’s a massive pervert and a red flag (like genuinely, it’s pretty bad), reader gets photos of them taken without their permission—heads up, plot twist!

don’t read if u don’t like it

this is arguably the filthiest thing i’ve written on this blog thus far…. and that’s saying something LMAO

“Baby, did’ya eat today?” San reaches across the table, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. You shake your head, hair swaying, and take a sip of your iced tea. The condensation seeps into your fingers, and without thinking, you wipe your hand on your lap. Bunny’s diner—a diner owned by San’s childhood friend Seonghwa—was bustling under the brunch traffic. You don’t notice San’s gaze drifting upward—nor the way he taps his finger against the salt shaker, nudging it just enough to send it tumbling off the edge.

“Fuck—sorry.” Face chagrin and flushed as he tries to reach under the table, purposely bumping his head against the edge. San gets on his knees, scraping at the excess salt on the floor slowly—eyes darkening as he makes contact with your skin tight panties that practically restrict the blood flow around your cunt.

You’re wearing white today.

Cute.

He makes sure his phone’s on silent before he snaps a photo, pocketing it before sliding back into the booth, and sighing exasperatingly. “Why am I so fucking clumsy?” He groans and threads his fingers into his head to curl into himself. “—I feel like everyone heard that.”

They didn’t. He knew they didn’t. Not under all that clanging going on in the Diner’s kitchen.

You reach forward, grabbing his hand with doe eyes. “No one heard it! It’s okay, baby. I drop things all the time.”

It takes everything in San to not moan.

You were perfect.

He couldn’t stop talking about you when he live-streamed last night: everything he wanted and planned to do to you, your name falling out of his lips as he touched himself slightly out of frame—gripping tightly, grinding—stifling his moans with gritted teeth against a belt so you wouldn’t hear him during your call.

You called for no reason. All you said was “I called because I missed you. I love you.”

Sugary. Honey. Cotton candy and the color pink. You were the sweetest fucking thing.

And he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to ruin something so badly. None of the other girls before you wore innocence as well as you did.

To them? It was an aesthetic—something subject to change. They wanted him to ruin them. But you?

You were his idle angel and sweetness incarnate—doll like lashes without a hint of suspicion or mal-intentions. Shy. The type to naturally hold a hand out when you needed help getting down from somewhere and not flinching when a big arm wrapped around your waist to pick you up.

The type to kiss San and plan on a wedding—not him stuffing you full of cock and fucking you dumb into a stale pillow in his dorm room. To flinch and pull away in embarrassment when his hand crept under the cup of your bra, begging him kindly to take it slow.

Which he did.

He has been.

He savors the push and pull—it’s how he knows you’re the real deal.

San watches you slice into the Canadian ham, a content smile tugging at his lips as you happily dig into your eggs Benedict. You’d need all the energy you could get.

He slides his pancakes over to you, smearing honey butter and packing on the cinnamon just the way liked them and tells you he’s too full to eat anymore.

“You’re missing out, Sannie.” You jest, tapping the tip of your fork against your teeth playfully. “You barely ate—“ you pause to take a bite, smiling at him mid-chew. “Something on your mind?”

He bites back a smile, eyes folding into half moons as he stared at you for a couple of beats “It’s just cute—the way you look when you eat.”

“The way I eat?” You tilt your head.

“Yeah—you just…stuff your mouth until it’s super cramped. Careful” he wipes cream from the side of your mouth ”— you might choke if you take too much all at once.”

A sudden tension threads through his voice, pulling your eyes up from the plate, curious. You nod, offering him a sweet smile.

“Aye, captain!”

San always worries about the smallest things.

He scrolls through his phone as you finish your meal, the clink of your fork masking the soft swipes of his finger. You don’t see the images flashing by—candid frames of you lost in thought, others taken while you slept, your shirt slipped just high enough to expose the delicate curve of lace against skin. Some are closer, hungrier: your legs parted in sleep, revealing only the faintest swell of softness. He lingers on that one a moment longer, gaze unreadable, mouth still curled in that contented smile.

When you finish eating, San calls for the waiter with a patient smile—sliding a stack of bills down before rearranging the dishes politely and leaving.

San’s thick, calloused fingers grab hold of your hand —threading meticulously before leading you out of the Diner, exhaust fumes of humid street stalls and early autumn conundrum waft into your nose. You feel content. Full. Happy and in love.

You watch his side profile, the breeze tugging gently at his cropped hair. He glances both ways, unfazed by your gaze, then crosses the road with you—heading toward his daddy’s old ’70, the metal sun-warmed and waiting.

You trail your fingers along the muted, rust-red paint while waiting for San to unlock the door—then slip inside as he murmurs a small joke under his breath. He rolls the windows down, knowing you like to rest your head on his arm while he drives, your feet dangling out the window—just far enough to feel free, but never close enough to tempt danger.

At a red light, San reaches a hand towards the glove compartment—digging around before pulling out an old camcorder. A small jingle plays as it turns on, the chime beckoning a giggle from you. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer—just presses play.

“Smile for the camera, pretty.”

Then he gives your thigh a light smack when you laugh, face buried in your hands as you shrink back into your seat, grinning behind your fingers. Playfully, you peek an eye out—laughing with your heart, wind in your hair, and girls just want to have fun by Cyndi Lauper playing in the background.

He gets you home safe and sound, kissing you a little bit rougher than usual. The red light of his camcorder still flickers on his dash—camera becoming a voyeur on top of his dashboard when his hands rest on your thigh, fingers idling just beneath the hem of your dress and pulling lightly to squeeze the flesh it’s sandwiching.

You skip to your porch, all girlish giggles and swaying skirts as you wave goodbye and close your screen door. And San watches.

Intent.

Indulging.

Ravenous.

“She was wearing white today.” San tinkers with a rubix cube, webcam pointed low enough to capture the sharp of his jaw—a canine-like half grin, as he licked his teeth and sucked in a frustrated breath. He unbuttons his dress shirt just enough for a golden sliver of skin to peak out and spreads his legs purposely so that his pants are taut on his form.

Little pings sound from his desktop and he doesn’t bother reading any of the incoming chats from his stream. “It was practically choking her pussy—you think that’s why she chose to wear it? Friction or what not?” He scoffs playfully, rubbing a thumb over the flat of his stomach as he leans back on his computer chair, recalling.

The way you tasted like honey butter and cinnamon and the way your underwear was tight enough to make your flesh swell red.

A celebratory chime rings from his computers speakers, an automated girl singing “points, points!”

[• ch0i’s_fav-kitty_ gifted 200 points and left a note! “Ruin her for the rest of us.” ]

San smirks cunningly.

“Well, since you asked so nicely—I’ll plan a gift just for you, kitty.” He unbuttons the last few notches on his dress shirt, sliding his palm down the flat of his golden tummy and under his slacks. “But until then, I’ll dedicate this show to you.”

Biting at the cuff of his wrist, stifling his moans and keening his neck just enough to keep the crowd satisfied since they weren’t allowed to see his face. San was in his element and this was his arena.

He’ll use the money from this livestream to pay for something sweet, vanilla, and totally boyfriend coded before melting you down into something wrecked. Unrecognizable. Fucked up and pretty just for him.

The best part? He’s waited this long so you’d let him do it willingly.

Choi San knew he had all the makings of the perfect boyfriend—the kind others envied, whispered about, and admired from afar. Charismatic, intelligent, and from a well-to-do family—and upon arriving as a legacy to his university, he was immediately ushered into the most prolific brotherhood of the institution. You’d hear his name uttered in locker rooms, the corners of lecture halls, and in offices as Professors discussed recommendation letters.

He sold the best parts of himself when it came to finding love, but profited the most off the filth he worked hard to keep separated from his offline life.

There’s just one tiny pothole in San’s initially seamless perfection: he liked ruining things. Good things. Especially good girls. On camera.

Everyone believed San had immaculate taste in women. The few he entertained publicly all shared the same quiet allure—graceful, composed, the kind of girls who seemed untouched by anything cruel. Poised. Innocent. Almost too good to be real and too hard to dislike.

What they didn’t know was that San preferred them pure for a reason—because he had a fucked up way of getting off. If he got them to love him enough, then he’d be able to do anything—including filming every moment he got to break them down on camera. The slow sip of corruption dousing a white dress in a way that bested murder. To be caught on tape and immortalized—proof that he had the makings. The power to ruin without apology.

It started as scratching a place he knew he shouldn’t have scratched in the first place— a shaky livestream, stuttered words that left him like he sat in either a confessional or investigation room until he finally settled comfortably into the skin of his darkest desires. The small online community quickly grew once he released his special series, sugarcoat: a long term documentation of girls he dated and taped for his loyal followers—all perfect subjects for their fixation on the act of corrupting.

But with the others before you, it all felt like roleplay. What Choi San wants is what Choi San gets—and this is to his detriment. It was too easy. If he’d asked any of them on the first date to film, he would’ve gotten the green light.

Performative innocence, not even played to the T. C-rate actresses in frills and lace—itching to tear off the costume once shooting ends.

San didn’t camboy for money. He did it as reprieve from the kind of perfection that stifled him with its ideals on a daily basis. Here, he could be horrible.

Desired for his ugliness, for his muck.

And you were the closest thing to a natural high he’d ever felt in his entire life—the sweetest layer of his series. His beloved cherry on top.

“Did you like it?” San chuckles, dimples carving into his grin, softening the sharpness of his features. The flashing LED lights of the carnival dance in his eyes, tiny sparks catching like stars—like every bit of the boy you used to dream about. You’re breathless, and not just from how he looks in that black compression shirt, clinging to him in all the right ways, but from the rollercoaster he’d talked you into riding.

“…Like’s an understatement. Can we go again?” You bounce on your toes, ponytail swinging excitedly. San sighs playfully, and then shakes his head. “Baby, I’ve got a surprise waiting for you at my place—remember?”

Eyes brightening, you hold on tight to his left arm while making your way out the exit. The distance screams of ride-goers and arcade game music muffle your conversations—almost domesticating them. “Come on, can’t you give me a clue? What’s the surprise?”

“No. Can. Do.” He furrows his brows, punctuating, and then slings his arm over your shoulder—pulling you into his arms to lay a kiss on your temple. “Be a good girl. Patience is a virtue.”

Roses.

Take out dinner that arrived just on time and tapestries hung around his dorm room to make it look more cozy and less clinical under the usually bright fluorescent overhead light. He bought an extra toothbrush and filled one of the drawers of his bathroom with a variety of skincare products, essential oils, and menstrual products.

Your favorite ice cream was frozen to perfection in his freezer and the T-shirt you liked stealing from him already waited at the edge of his bed for you, folded kindly.

San shut the door behind him, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched you flit around the room, gently tapping the new fairy lights with the tip of your nail.

“I thought we could have a sleepover now that the term’s over,” he said. “With the internship starting soon, I won’t get to see you as much.”

“San…I love it. Your room finally looks lived in” you jest, elbow bumping his waist, and turn towards him to wrap your arms around the slim of his waist. He flinches slightly, body tensing—sensitive. Internally groaning because you probably don’t realize how close he’s been to snapping.

The air feels…different. Charged. Laced with an unspoken expectation—San sees it in the way you seem to curl shyly when he digs his face into the crook of your neck, your usual behavior and touchiness diluted into something moderately restrained.

You typically fed on physical affection the way someone would drink water, a domesticated sense of skin to skin contact: a pinky locked with his as you studied, legs draped onto his lap while scrolling through your phone or leaning over his shoulder to watch reels with him.

You’re seated between his legs, facing the TV. Some vintage horror movie drones on in the background, as a girl screams in horror when an undead fist pushes straight through cemetery dirt—reaching towards heaven.

She fails to run away in time and you laugh.

He didn’t expect you to find it funny, a quirk to his brow when he swears he hears you mumble “Survival instincts of a peanut” under your breath.

When you adjust, San stills. Breath hitching when he feels the lace of your skirt rub against his jeans and he knows you feel it too.

He tries his luck and slides a palm under your shirt before rubbing the skin of your stomach casually. You lean into it, hips unconsciously rolling towards his hands.

It’s the flush on your face that undoes him, eyes unfocused, looking almost confused by the wetness he knew made your panties cling to your skin.

“—baby. Can I touch you more?” He coats his words in sugar, breathing into your ear sweetly. The edges of his voice beg.

“…mhm.” You nod slowly, hair falling over your cheekbones as you peer up at him. San pulls you closer, your back pressed against his chest as he peppers wet kisses up your neck.

He groans when you shiver and your back to press your breasts into his hands instinctively.

But you flinch away, a quiet embarrassment settling into your bones. You look confused, thighs closing and pressing against each other looking for relief in the pressure. “San, wait—I’ve…never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his gaze steady as he tilts your chin up, capturing your lips in an upside-down kiss. His jaw moves slowly, deliberately, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that’s both soothing and seductive. You hum, eager, reaching up for more—until he pulls back, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I… like filming things,” he continues, voice low, almost coaxing. “I want to remember it. Forever. Can I?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together—conflicted. “Sannie—what if I don’t look good on camera and you have that on you forever?” He shakes his head. “Baby—“ running his hands down your body and under your bra, cupping your breasts and twisting the tips of your nipples. A sharp yelp leaving your lips as he licks up the side of your throat. “I promise, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His serpentine eyes lock onto yours without hesitation, unflinching. His presence wraps around you like a tightening coil, arms holding you in place as you suddenly feel small, almost like prey caught in his grasp.

San guides your hand to lock behind your back. Sandwiching your arm and gripping it above his aching cock. “See what you did to me?”

He grinds into your hand with a deliberate whimper into your ear.

His grip on you tightens, absolutely fucked out. For the love of god he’s waited months. It’s the longest he’s ever held out for. After a couple of beats—hesitation crumpling under the weight of profound lust, you agree. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Fuck.

He’s obsessed—you’re perfect for the gig. For him.

San doesn’t think he wants to share the footage for once, second thoughts running rampant.

“Whatever makes you happy?” he repeats, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you sure? Can I do whatever I want to you?” Wide eyes gaze at him. Pure. Unadulterated with the right amount of curiosity.

“If it’s for you—yes. I trust you.” His mouth clashes with yours instantly before sliding his tongue in when you gasp in surprise. A string of saliva connects your mouth when he lets you go.

“Lay down.” There’s a sudden chill in his tone. An unraveling—strict, direct, impatient and leaving little to no room for hesitance.

Reaching over to his dresser, he pulls the same camcorder and adjusts it so it’s pointing directly at you. San turns the zoom dial, diluting the environment of the room and focusing entirely on you.

Without delay, he casually reaches over to unzip your skirt and pull off your panties like he’s done it plenty of times before.

He lays one of your legs over his lap and spreads you open. Your hands immediately jolt to cover your face, thighs slamming closed in attempts to hide from him.

“Let me see you. You were being such a good girl. I want to look at your pretty little pussy.” Peaking one eye at him through a gap in your fingers, you slowly part your legs. He spits on his fingers, still seated next to you as he leans from the side to gaze down at your cunt.

Making sure that the camera is framing you properly, he pulls at your folds with two hands—one on each side so that the camera catches the fluttering of your fleshy insides. Your body jolts, a small moan of surprises tumbling out when he massages your clit in circles and holds your leg down with a firm hand.

“Does it feel good?” He giggles when you nod in surprise. Doe eyed as you finally put down your hands and stare at his movement.

“It’s such… a pretty color. I wanna see it more.” A smack lands directly above your clit— a silent scream choking in your throat at the intense stimulation and sting. San mentally counts to ten, each slap descending faster, harder, and landing more precisely. Rubbing side to side, your body jolts when you feel your cunt clench around nothing—raising your hips to dig his hand against you with more pressure. Rhythmic moans leave you when your orgasm hits you, but he doesn’t stop after the waves leave you.

You body flinches from the sensitivity, small jerks as you push and pull away from his touch “San—I can’t.”

“Yes you can. And you’ll take it until I want to stop. Understood?” You only cry out, tears welling in your eyes at the intense stimulation. He smacks your cunt again. “Understood?”

“Understood!” You bite out, relenting, and he slides a finger into you—curling and feeling the gummy texture.

He commits it to memory and wishes he had the sort of camera that could film from the inside. He’ll buy that later.

You don’t know how long he fingers you for.

You’re restless—finally growing accustomed to the continuous ministrations of his hand. There’s nothing gentle in the way San drives you flat onto your stomach—his body looming over you like a dark shadow, muscles tense beneath the fabric of his compression shirt. A quick unbuckling and shuffling of him sliding off his jeans later—and your vision goes white when he pushes himself into you in one go.

He’s huge.

San grins darkly when he hears your choked whimper, slamming down into you and pressing his full weight against your back.

The bed creaks repetitively with his brutal pace, muffled screams leaving you as he fucks into you—definitely bruising your cervix in the process. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, drool slipping out of the sides of your mouth—totally icing out the fact that you’re fucking obscenely loud at a dormitory. Someone bangs on the wall but San only fucks you harder, pulling your hair and pressing into you until your body goes limp and lays completely flat on the bed.

Everything is blanking out. Your name, what you’re doing, where you are and with who “S-san I can’t take it.”

He tugs you up by the hair, vulgar slaps against the reddening flesh of your ass continuing their onslaught. “You can take it baby. Just be a good girl and shut up for me.” Slapping your breasts, he flips you over and slides himself snug against you—pelvis pressing yours directly and stuffing himself back in.

Both of his hands wrap around your throat, unrelenting—brutal. The veins on your face rise to the surface, mouth falling open to try and scream but immediately failing. All of his weight is being held on your throat as he uses the force to propel himself forward—digging into you.

You think you pissed yourself mid orgasm, but San keeps going—eyes obsidian and dilated, bordering on animalistic frenzy. Slapping desperately at his arms because of the overstimulation again—you claw at the skin, gasping and seeking breath. He sends three more hard thrusts down before cumming thick ropes into you with a pornographic moan. “F-fuck.”

San swears he’s never seen anything more pretty than you lying under him—bruised, drying tears and smeared mascara—body completely red like it’s fighting a fever. He slaps his cock onto the fat of your pussy before leaning down and breathing in the smell of your sweat gathering in the crook of your neck. He massages your hip, coaxing—and pulls you in to cuddle.

Just as he’s about to slip back into the role of the perfect boyfriend, you murmur sweetly.

“Did that make you happy?”

He stills. Clock ticking in the back of his head up until it hit five seconds

and flips himself onto his back, tugging you along with him—fumbling to push his already fully hardened cock inside. His arms slide under your armpits and lock behind your neck before he jack hammers upwards—pushing past his own sensitivity, fully intent on fucking you until you felt like raw meat. You don’t count how many orgasms you had or how many people knocked on San’s door groggy and pissed only to be ignored.

He groans, pulling out to slap your cunt before quickly sliding back in. “ Do ya like that? Feels good princess? You’re doing so good.”

Your legs grow tired from having to hold your weight up from his chest, feet flat against the bed before going limp—back sandwiched against his damp skin. San doesn’t stop, only slithering a hand down to rub your clit in circles. “Are you happy? Am I being good enough? Sannie, I’m tired.” You whine lightly, eyebrows scrunching as tears threatened to fall.

He whimpers “So fucking good. I’m almost done, sweetheart. Just one more and we can go to bed, yeah?” You almost black out when he fastens his pace, spraying while orgasming and arching your back with vulgar moans.

He pulls out this time, cumming on the fat flesh of your thighs before petting your pussy lightly—appeasingly in performative apology. San holds your body tightly against him, clamping his arms around you while peppering kisses on your shoulder.

“You made me so happy today—seriously, you’re my favorite girl ever.” He rocks you lightly as you giggle.

God, he’s obsessed.

You were the perfect balance between submission and maintained innocence. He’s too tired to look over the footage, but his brain still maps more content ideas.

There’s no way he’s sharing this one but…he’ll still talk about it once he livestreams.

San thinks he might actually love you—and it’s that thought that carries him into deep sleep.

When San’s breathing lulls softly, your eyes blink open in the dark. Slowly, carefully, you reach for his phone, unlocking it with practiced ease. Your thumb drifts across the screen, skimming through his apps—until you find it. A hidden folder buried deep in his files.

Photos, videos, pixelated and zoomed in screenshots of your legs spread open. It’s casual almost—the way your eyes drift around his screen, observing.

Silently, you close out the apps one by one, then inch closer to his sleeping form. Unreadable eyes watching him sleep without blinking. You trace his nose bridge and jaw, kissing him lightly as he slept

slightly unsatisfied by the extent of his hidden perversion.

You thought it’d be worse.

You shut your apartment door—pulling your hair tie away and shake the hairs threatening to fall in your eyes before tugging off the cashmere sweater off like it burned you. The rest of your clothes fall like feathers to the floor, leaving a trail to your bedroom.

You fucking hated cashmere. Fingernail tapping against a custom Zippo—cherry etched into the steel—you flick it open and light a cigarette. Smoke curls around you as you sink into your computer chair, wearing nothing but your underwear. You type in the password: ch0i’s_fav-kitty_.

The page immediately opens to a pending livestream

[ch0i-kitty is online • ]

“—she was such a good girl. Nothing like the others. Pure. Willing to take it and learn—“ You grin, taking a fat drag of your cigarette before leaning back—amused.

Are all boys this dumb? This easy?

All you had to do was play good girl at a surface level for a hotshot like him to come crawling. You watched San for months—committing to the trails of information you could find: a small business card in the backdrop of his stream, the edge of a university hoodie, a fraternity ring—never missing a single livestream to know the exact kind of girl he wanted most but could never find. Not in full at least.

Either too good and too willing to be bad for him. Too slutty from the get go and unable to convince him that they’d never had sex before—rookie stuff.

No one was committed to the bit. Not as much as you were.

Lifting a hand to grab your phone, you call just as San eased a hand down his dress pants—mirroring his actions by peeling your underwear to the side.

You see him grit his teeth and try to control his heaving breaths before answering the phone on live, voice resonating directly into your ear. “Hi baby, you okay?”

Slinking a finger inside, face flushed red with maniacal victory “—nothing. I just called because I missed you.” You grin devilishly when he tilts his head back, stifling a groan as his fist picks up in speed.

“—I miss you too, baby. Already.”

You hum softly, a smile in your voice as you lie—just for a second—saying you had to head back to work. Then you hang up.

You flick the ash off your cigarette, not blinking as you watched him get off. Fingers clicking against your keyboard—positively transfixed by the camboy you’ve obsessed over for a year. He deserves a little treat.

[• ch0i’s_fav-kitty_ gifted 100 points! ]

“Thank you for your donation, kitty. You’re the best.”

Choi San was yours.

And you were his.

because no one could play the good girl better than you.

fin.

[velvetdolor]

𝔞 𝔪𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔰

𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴! 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔦 𝓍 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯! 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰: The vessel of the Crow God is banished from your homeland and slain on its outskirts, as a new faith arrives and sets its anchor in the village, where people were once raised to revere the old gods of nature.

—and you, his scorned lover, are set ablaze by his death, ready to burn the world he left behind. But whispers of a new vessel of the Crow God begin to surface—and to your disbelief, you come face to face with the very man you endured everything to avenge.

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰, 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔬 ?, 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔡𝔶, 𝔣𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔶, 𝔪𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔩, 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔰𝔱, 𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔲𝔤𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 18+!

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔲𝔤𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱.

𝔴𝔠: 3.5𝓀

𝔭𝔱. 𝔦𝔦 (𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩)

This is a tale of timeless love—drenched in the blood of an ancient crow, upon the tombstones of an old world—where a woman, hysterical with grief, vows to avenge not only her god, but the man she loved madly, as her final act of devotion.

The old gods walked among us. In sunlight and shadow, love and grief—our fingertips grazed one another’s as we passed the village fruit stalls. Children greeted and bantered with relics of nature. Some were taught to leave offerings and sweet words to accompany their small, humanly pleas to them.

When you looked at Mingi, you saw your God every quiet morning—intentionally waking a few minutes before he did to watch the slow pulling of his eyelids in the light of the morning sun. The soft amber of his eyes glistened like warm honey, contrasting the rest of his obsidian features.

Song Mingi was the vessel of the Crow God, Corvus, that your family line had been devout to for centuries. He was quiet and kind, soft-spoken and slow-moving—intentionally, solemnly observant. Seemingly lonely in company. Despite his intimidating stature, Mingi tried to carry himself… to be smaller. He enjoyed being in the company of children even when he didn’t know how to speak to them, and wanted to avoid scaring them even further with his appearance.

He was the cloak and tongue of Corvus—an oracle who would deliver his words and do his bidding in the physical realm. The god chose him young. A murder of crows signaled his arrival and delicate omen upon Mingi’s small home consisting of only him and his mother. Mingi merely stood under the rain of dark feathers, calm eyes absorbing the morbidly beautiful sight as they consumed the carcass of a young lamb lying still: blood dried upon the small incision in its throat from the hours that had drifted past since its early morning, blue-hour-doused death.

Corvus never needlessly killed. He fed upon naturally occurring death, never wasting the flesh left behind by the soft mortality of beings who bore souls. Similar to his god, Mingi carried unwavering reverence for the cycles of life and death.

He was gentle, undemanding, and quietly selfless.

Above all else—even before being the favored child of your god—Song Mingi was inarguably the love of your life.

Yet upon the arrival of foreign men who bore the insignias of an unknown god, massive ships treading dark water for many moons—many villagers conformed under the slow simmer of doubt. Our gods became… seemingly lesser. Impure. Wrong.

Vessels of the harvest and moon were slain first, bodies found staining the golden wheat fields crimson. When famine came, mercenaries of the foreign god cried in outrage, “Your gods do not care for you. They damn you. They starve you in defiance.”

The others followed slowly: children of the rivers, of pomegranate, and fertility. Their devotees grew too fearful to fight against the bloodthirsty reverence and follies of the new god. In their ignorance, they didn’t value Mingi’s existence enough to consider him a threat. Not until Mingi’s divinatory omnipresence reared its head when he began helping vessels go into hiding one by one after predicting their incoming deaths.

Some, he knew, were predestined—meant to remain undeterred. In those solemn circumstances, he would bring the god’s chosen children to their designated temple and watch over their bodies as they either chose to starve as a final offering or bleed out on their god’s tomb in peace.

They saved him for last.

And when it happened, Mingi didn’t resist. Even now—years later—the cold morning still haunts your dreams. Despite the mechanical rage simmering in the dark cesspool of calculated vengeance, it numbs you, and with it, your humanity.

It was the only time Mingi woke before you. He sat on a small brown stool beside your shared bed, the steam from freshly brewed tea curling gently in the light spilling through the curtains. He held your hands tenderly, pressing slow kisses to each of your knuckles.

“My love—forgive me.” Despite his whisper, something ominous woke you with a startle, jolting from your bed with a confused sob and visibly relaxing at the sight of him. When you threw yourself into his arms, bubbling your dreams into his chest—he merely stroked your hair and digested the sound of your voice, memorizing its cadence, its fear, its love.

“I had a horrible dream, Mingi. Please don’t take the child of the hearth. Not today. I fear that something horrid awaits you if you try to help him escape to the outskirts.” He pauses.

And you knew his resolve didn’t waver.

“You know I can’t do that.” His words comb through strands of your hair. “—Jongho’s too young and bright to disappear like that.”

You whip your head up, pleading with your eyes. Gripping at the meat of his upper arms until the dimpled skin burned white under your reddened fingers. “Please. Just this once I beg of you–stay.”

Mingi’s breath stills, his heartbeat pulsing so loudly it drowns out every other familiar sound in your shared home. His eyes drift over the worn wooden floor, tracing the small indents left behind by moments only the two of you remember—like that time he chased you, laughing, after you stole his last sock just to delay his leaving for a mandatory meeting. You always hated when he had to go without you—especially knowing that the vessel of pomegranate had her eyes on him, and that even Corvus himself must know the kind of horrors mead awakens in Mingi, who, tragically, was always too shy to refuse a drink.

You tried to block him with a chair before clumsily falling forward, face first, and accidentally knocking it into the doorframe—splintering a chunk of wood.

Mingi’s never laughed that loudly in his life.

His gaze lands on the warm pile of unwashed laundry in the basket, the delicate slip of your cotton dress lying forgotten, dainty on the floor, and the familiar warmth of your body beneath the sheets—nude, and achingly close.

He says nothing, but moves a hand forward, gently pushing aside the blankets to run a large hand down your stomach and cradle the flesh.

Corvus. Please protect her.

Kissing the silent prayer, foreboding and heartbroken, onto your lips. You don’t know that he’s halfway gone in your arms. Timestamped. Doomed.

But he doesn’t rush. The kiss is deliberate—delicate, sacred. In the haze of your heartbeat, you don’t notice the tremble in his hands—the subtle shaking born not of cold, but of parting. He already knows once he steps out of your home, he’ll never touch you again.

You, the woman he’s loved since he was sixteen. The woman who’d beat away any bully that came his way in unwavering defiance when he lacked the spine,

The girl he kissed beneath willows, tasting of honey sticks and plums—smelling of grass, palo santo, and amber blessing.

His ferocious girl

—his wife.

Mingi’s tongue falls on your collarbone, marking your skin with a pathway to your pelvic bone. Hands drift up and around your waist, as his face digs into the flesh of your stomach—gazing up at you as he falls on his knees and bares your body to him once he pulls the blanket off fully.

He counts the goosebumps on your skin and your quick breaths—praying to the slick between your thighs that drop like tears, and consumes you like a man on the brink of death. For hours, he fed into this reverent cycle. At the time, you didn’t question the nostalgia caving out of him. Despite the rarity of so many words leaving Mingi all at once when he brought up old memories of your school days or of every bruise your time together had left on your home.

And then he was gone.

By the time Mingi arrived, Jongho’s body was already cold. Soon after, they took him to the sea cliffs, where he had taken flight one final time—falling like Icarus from the sun. They cast his bleeding body into the water, his dark hair drifting gently like ink through the tide.

The village was quiet and dreamless the night he died. Cold. Stale. No hearth nor bird song once morning came.

“Pig.” You huff out quietly, wiping your dagger clean against a handkerchief. The body of a mercenary thuds onto the dirt lot of an old tavern, merriment echoing from the warm lights and celebrations inside. With a grunt, you drag his stiff corpse across the lot, heaving him into an old hay barrel before shoving it into a shadowed corner—his boots still jutting out, barely hidden.

Good. Let them know their kind is dying. One by one.

Sighing, you push the thick wooden door open, readjusting your cloak to obscure your features more securely as you took a seat in front of a dark and handsome man. “Little crow get her hands dirty again?” He purrs out, catlike in cadence. He winks—his beauty mark creasing beneath the smile, framed by the crow’s feet at the corners of his striking eyes.

Jung Wooyoung—son of the previous vessel of wine and delirium. Charming. Charismatic. And a deadly epicenter of all sorts of information. You only reply by rolling your eyes but it does little to deter his amusement. “How many does that make it now? 453?”

You snort. “I lost count.” It was well over that number —but Wooyoung knew more than enough as is. You couldn’t sleep and blood seemed to be the one thing that quelled your anxiety.

He whistles, eyes glistening with intrigue. “I fear our dearest blackbird isn’t being the most honest.”

Your eyes glimmer like steel—cold. Sharp. Ready to break open and strike. It never mattered who sat on the other end of your gaze. Softness was a rarity, a mere glimmer of the fire you once were before Mingi’s departure cooled you beyond a point of return. “You know enough, Jung Wooyoung. The blood on my hands has very little to do with you, lest you’d like to be on the receiving end of my dagger.”

“You underestimate how much I enjoy being threatened by beautiful women.” He leans forward, taking a slow sip from a cup of mead. A waitress bumps into his chair, almost smacking his head with a tray before he instinctively ducks.

You sigh, crossing your arms “Though you’re the information hub, don’t underestimate my ability to see the obvious.” He sits back in seat, running thin hands through silky hair. “—nonetheless, you never seem to hate whenever I lick your wounds, little crow.”

It’s a thing of the past really. The lack of sleep and need for something to channel your aggression into resulted in finding reprieve in rented beds for a night.

“Find another woman to beat you to sleep, Jung.” You relent, wanting to get the night over with. “Ah—but none of them want to kill me enough.” He ends the conversation with a fox-like smile.

“However, that’s old news. There’s been talk lately���interesting talk.” The usual mask falls off his face, unveiling dark, desolate eyes.

You knew what this meant.

Wooyoung had one very sore spot—one achingly similar to yours and it rarely bled out in the open. This has to be news about Vessels.

“There’s been word about a vessel of the Crow God, Corvus. Too much of the information is muddled—the townsfolk’s chatter diluted whatever truth may have lied there.” Your breathing stops, palms growing clammy as you claw at your equilibrium.

“The Gods haven’t taken any vessels after they were slaughtered for years. It must be a lie. A half-chewed hope for any devout remnants.” You counter flippantly and try your hardest to disguise the trembling of your hands by gripping your mug tighter. Wooyoung observes you, eyes drifting across your face

“Maybe. But in the case it isn’t… that means there’s a vessel and the gods may be returning.” He eases the words out—not gentle, but honest.

“Where were they when we needed them most? They took my Mingi and with him—my faith. The gods are idle. And the blood? The muck? It’s in my hands.

I won’t rest until the head of the very last mercenary is clutched and weighing heavy in my hands. We are a godless land and if any god got in my way—they too, will burn.”

For the last five years, it’s been an unforgiving cycle. You’ve become a machine. Blood before consumption—your system fed on murder and calculated agendas over rest and nutrition. Mingi haunted you every minute and hour of every day.

Time ticked slowly. When Mingi died you set fire to your home and left to the seaside to drown yourself.

But when an unfortunate foreign mercenary crossed your path on the way there, you found new meaning and reprieve after slaughtering him.

All of them had to die.

And only then—were you allowed to rest and join Mingi in his beautiful, eternal sleep.

Everything changed.

Shortly after Wooyoung had relayed the information of a possible vessel appearing, and not just any vessel, but a Vessel of the Crow God—he also quickly spilled his usual: the locations of clusters of mercenaries.

When Mingi, the last known vessel, died—the foreign devil’s laid their regimes on thick. Towns people were forced to attend masses in dedication to the foreign god and adhere to the teachings of their people.

Gone were the days when children could speak to the trees and wheat without being condemned—hushed and pulled away in haste with fears of being overheard. To commune with anything other than the new god meant committing a great sin.

You hear nothing other than your dagger slicing cold through flesh, groans and pale death echoing in the hollowness of your body. You don’t recall when you’d last slept.

A dark knight, marked by the cursed insignia, raises his sword and brings it down. Your body jerks—feet bracing, rooting into the earth beneath to withstand his crushing weight. He’s the last one left in the camp. The others died in their sleep, throats slit and tents set ablaze to make sure no one got away.

The bags on your eyes look like heavy moons—your beauty a pale visage of the softness you once were. Gaunt. Heartless. Hungry for destruction beyond repair. The wounds from this particular duel will more than likely leave a multitude of scars, but the sudden caw of a crow freezes the blood in your veins.

All crows had left the land after Mingi’s death. No longer was there any birdsong in the morning—as if the world had willingly gone quiet with his leaving. A sudden rush of adrenaline pulses through you. You raise your dagger, unleashing a flurry of desperate strikes against his sword, then slide past his guard and drive the blade into his jugular.

You pay no mind to the blood soaking the cloth of your shoes and his pained, prolonged gurgling. Searching hastily, your eyes greet the pale moon hanging in the air as a backdrop to the arrival of a murder of crows—And then, your gaze lands on a dark silhouette standing motionless atop a distant rooftop, watching.

Only a dull ringing in your ears accompanied the moment as you took in the sight—a body, a stance, a gait hauntingly familiar. It was the same shape you had bled and killed for, night after night.

No features were visible, but you knew that silhouette. The slope of his shoulders. His broad frame. His shadow.

Your dreams had never let you forget his face, though they offered only fragments—faded echoes that paled beside the vivid memory of him alive.

Your dagger slips from your grasp the moment he turns—just enough for the moonlight to catch the quiet, haunting gleam in his eyes.

Mingi.

It couldn’t be him. There’s no way.

You felt his death when it happened—not just saw it, not just heard it. Somehow, in some unspoken way, you knew. He was gone.

And his eyes… they felt foreign on your form. Like you were a stranger. And maybe you were.

He said nothing.

Mingi usually said nothing—but this silence was thinner. Less careful. Colder—calculating.

Not soft. Not like linen in the breeze.

The girl you once were is gone—but what remains is a fractured reflection of her, twisted by loss and love. She stands there now, broken and bloodied, watching as the man she believed to be dead take shape once more in living flesh.

And then your stomach burned after the slow dropping of realization.

“Song Mingi!” You roared. With rage. Betrayal. Hysteria. His eyes widen a fraction, as if hearing his name from your lips surprised him. Like you weren’t supposed to know the letters that composed his existence or he didn’t understand why your eyes looked so…sad beneath the cold blanket of anger above the surface.

He steps back instinctively, even though the distance between you is still wide. Then, a crow lands on his shoulder. He turns his head toward it but keeps his eyes one you, cheek brushing its beak as if it were whispering something in his ear.

Mingi wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not now. Not for a while—he knew Corvus is especially particular of this rule.

Yet when he arrived at the camp he intended to infiltrate, he was met not with silence, but with the clash of teeth and steel, and the roar of rising flames. In the chaos, a dark silhouette battled a much larger man—each movement laced with red grace. He couldn’t move from his spot, lured in by sight of a beautiful woman who wore tragedy in her gait like armor.

And then she said his name like he was a god that abandoned her, like his name was an impossible weight to carry in her body—eyes caving in with an unsaid question she didn’t know how to form yet.

Mingi barely hears the expletives you threw at him, unfocused—hazy, and only watches transfixed with the way your mouth formed words. And he smiles without thought.

Your breathing halts—eyes watering at the boy-like expression changing the entirety of his face. His eyes, still unreadable, watch you more curiously. Lukewarm, but not cold.

And finally you utter the words you never thought you’d say aloud outside of a dream—

“You’re still…alive?” Your voice breaks, shudders—trembles as an onslaught of sobs crash into your body.

Mingi’s confused, because Mingi doesn’t remember you.

And he hardens because he has a feeling he can’t afford to.

Despite the burning in his heart that screamed at him to hold you and not walk away from your tears,

black wings emerge from his back, silken, tragic, ominous—and he’s gone.

You cling to a feather the wind drifts towards you like makeshift comfort, clutching until the skin of your palms turn white from the indentations your fingers leave behind.

Author’s Note: yeah this came to mind so I’m just posting it

[velvetdolor]

𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙫𝙤𝙧𝙮 | 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: Forbidden romance, angst, eventual hard smut, semi-slow burn, enemies/lovers/manipulative counterparts, vampires 18+ (read the warnings please!)

Pureblood! Stepbrother Wooyoung x Pureblood! Reader, Pureblood Childhood Friend! Hongjoong x Pureblood! Reader

—synopsis: Pure bloods are a dying breed in vampyr society—coveted, revered, and feared. When your father suddenly weds the widowed matriarch of the influential Jung family, the union is meant to strengthen alliances. But behind the flawless image of your new blended family festers something far more twisted: an illicit entanglement with your enigmatic stepbrother, Wooyoung.

He’s possessive, sharp, and impossible to predict. You're the only one who can sate his bloodlust, and he knows it. What begins as an unspoken dependency spirals into a brutal game of dominance, jealousy, and seduction. In a house ruled by secrets and power, love is just another weapon—and you’re both armed to the teeth.

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: stepcest (they were not raised together) , blood, rough sex, light gore, biting, and everything under the sun. this is filthy so if u don’t like it…don’t read. chapter specific warnings will be provided.

chapter i.

chapter ii.

chapter iii.

chapter iv.

[velvetdolor]

bwahahaha we’ll definitely be seeing more of hongjoong next chapter (it’s already partially drafted)

i was giggling the entire time writing this because although I’m not an enemies to lovers girly irl (i can’t stand bratty, sassy, or stern men) the undertones i had to write in here…i felt things.

somehow i feel like the fates would still try to get in the way of their meeting even in another universe. rather than soulmates, i feel like they’re quite the opposite—more of a manifestation of stubborn, irreversible carnality that actually resonates more with their vampyric nature because of how violent the emotion/ pull is! but as always, i love leaving it up for interpretation and it’s always interesting to hear other takes from readers!

(and yes, there will be a fair amount of angst. nothing too crazy planned though, for now.)

𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙫𝙤𝙧𝙮 | i.

𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: Forbidden romance, angst, eventual hard smut, semi-slow burn, enemies/lovers/manipulative counterparts, vampires 18+ (read the warnings please!)

Pureblood! Stepbrother Wooyoung x Pureblood! Reader, Pureblood Childhood Friend! Hongjoong x Pureblood! Reader

—synopsis: Pure bloods are a dying breed in vampyr society—coveted, revered, and feared. When your father suddenly weds the widowed matriarch of the influential Jung family, the union is meant to strengthen alliances. But behind the flawless image of your new blended family festers something far more twisted: an illicit entanglement with your enigmatic stepbrother, Wooyoung.

He’s possessive, sharp, and impossible to predict. You're the only one who can sate his bloodlust, and he knows it. What begins as an unspoken dependency spirals into a brutal game of dominance, jealousy, and seduction. In a house ruled by secrets and power, love is just another weapon—and you’re both armed to the teeth.

WC: 3k (unedited)

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: stepcest (they were not raised together) , blood, rough sex, light gore, biting, and everything under the sun. this is filthy so if u don’t like it…don’t read. chapter specific warnings will be provided.

Wooyoung feels your eyes before he even sees you, running a silken tongue over his sharp incisors. His hand drapes lazily over the shoulder of a visiting Pureblood’s daughter—eyes gleaming with performative hunger, sharp and deliberate. He was a good liar and a disgusting churning filled his stomach, carrying the threat of vomiting under the dishonesty of his pointed want.

It’s a ploy at vacancy even though he was full of you. Visions of your bleeding neck and him saddled above you—your panting mouth. Your beloved beauty. The glazed fever of your eyes and thoughts of you drag him slowly to a dangerous corner of quiet madness, where obsession coils beneath a calm exterior, ready to snap. You belong to him, though no one else sees the storm waiting to break.

The blood in his mouth isn’t yours and he hated that.

A soft tension fills the room. The seemingly transient kind that wafts and reaches forward before putting a hand down after careful, morose consideration. Others are blind to it, but for you and Wooyoung—there’s a spiked line waiting at the edge of something bloody between you two. The air crackled and bared its teeth. The veins on his neck slowly rose to the surface, tongue bleeding under the pressure of his teeth.

Your voice echoes in the room, turning heads at its siren-like cadence. “Where’s father?” He almost shivers when your dark eyes fall on him, naturally sullen under the thick lining of your obsidian lashes.

“Off somewhere making love to mother, probably. I’m not his keeper.” He puts up a poor mask of nonchalance. A distant humor—practiced familiarity, like adults forced to play at being siblings after knowing each other only briefly.

You hum, disregarding him after the dry reply. The waves of your dark hair drape down your back, basking the air with the fragrance of something heated. Anise, pepper, an undetermined sweetness somewhere lost in its notes. But your eyes drift to the arm laying around an unknown woman—a quiet simmering brewing violently under the surface.

You take a seat next to Hongjoong—a mutual childhood friend and another Pureblood, before leaning towards his neck. He doesn’t flinch when you puncture the skin with your teeth and continues flipping through the pages of his book, sighing lightly.

You rarely asked anymore—he’d been your personal blood bag since you were preteens. Even among the elite, you were the unrivaled princess of the purebloods. Wooyoung’s fist clenched minutely as he gazed at the open wounds on Hongjoong’s neck.

“Could’ve sworn I saw you feeding on the son of the head of Southern India’s precinct,” Hongjoong drawled, shooting you a sidelong glance. You say nothing—just lick the remnants of blood from your lips. “You drive me mad with your gluttonous behavior, Y/N.” He finalizes with a quiet mutter.

Opulence surrounds the grand expanse of your manor: Tucked away on the outskirts of New Orleans and cemetery overgrowth, pretentious and lively—wealthy and immortal laughter humming in the backdrop of the gala’s operetta and jazz tunes to fit the changing tastes of the times. Lace curtains, taper candle chandeliers, and opium drunk humans lay naked at the center of the room—billowing red on the previously cream textile. This was staple entertainment, center stage dining.

Their silhouettes cast dull shadows on the fabric, small moans leaving open mouths. Your eyes flash maroon once you take on the sight of a particular human with raven black hair and asymmetrical eyes.

Adjusting the length of your dress, you step forward—each movement deliberate. All eyes follow, drawn to the rare spectacle of you approaching a human to feed. Most days, you kept to your own kind, carrying an innate distaste for lower life forms.

Your cold hand tilts his face upward, fingers brushing against his cheek. He’s half-lucid, drowning beneath the haze of opium and something heavier—dependence, maybe.

“Human,” you say softly, enchanting and elegant. “What’s your name?”

Your deadly seduction didn’t demand much from you. A small touch was enough for his gaze to grow warm and half lidded.

“Aramis.” He whispered, looking less and less like Wooyoung with his submission. You wanted him to die.

You wanted to spit out whatever of his remains you forced yourself to chew.

“Aramis—“ you start, nodding—acknowledging. “Will you die for me?” Wooyoung watched, transfixed—all fabricated nonchalance and coldness fading under the light of your hunt. The room falls silent, pinprick curiosity freezing the air as the partygoers turn with unrestrained interest. Even the musicians pause, resin-rubbed bows slackening in their hands.

He watches you—watches the flicker in your eyes, quick and sharp, as blood-red spills across your irises like ink dropped in water.

That.

That’s what made you even more dangerous among your kind. Your dark gift of compulsion. It’s never failed. Not once.

“Gladly, princess.” There’s something sorrowful in Aramis’s eyes—and you fleetingly recognize that he would’ve said yes even without the usage of your gift. He bows his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his neck. What a cruel life—and a cruel, unsurprising end for a man like him. Doomed from the start: young, wretched, and beautiful. So beautiful, he drew the eyes of monsters—creatures who make a habit of destroying anything that dares to rival their own reflection.

You were a vampyr—cold blooded murder was branded instinct. But it was his eyes that beckoned you and the moles on his face—so strikingly similar to the man you will never admit to wanting—that allowed a certain softness to the eventual sinking of your teeth. As if on queue, the soft shrill note of a violin proceeds to play in accompaniment to the moment. Its morose. Heavy. Foreboding and enigmatic in tone. A cello joins shortly, mellow timber carrying a promise of death and slow draining.

Hushed whispers fill the room when you meet Aramis’ lips with yours. It’s deceivingly apologetic and lulling. A slow massage. A parting message.

Both a promise of doom and branding of foolish loyalty.

Wooyoung stills, eyes flashing a shade of cold steel. He flinches when his mother’s soft laughter greets him, her arm wrapping around his in amusement. “It seems that your sister’s ability to hunt rivals your own. How interesting.”

Your father arrives shortly after, not paying your spectacle much mind. “Strange. She doesn’t like human blood.” He utters, mildly appalled before excusing himself to speak with a nearby gentleman.

When your eyes rest on him just as you dug your teeth into Aramis’s jugular, a dark heat poisons Wooyoung’s body. He knows exactly why you chose that human.

You were a cruel, cruel woman.

And he loved that above any sweetness any others had to offer. This is why he damns you.

Aramis’s body goes limp and his beauty proceeds death—his bleeding neck is the only thing giving away that he wasn’t, in fact, sleeping.

And so when you rise slowly, elegantly brushing your hair to drape down one side before leaving the room—Wooyoung waits exactly three minutes before excusing himself and evaporating into dark mist before arriving in your room. Moments like these made him grateful for his gift of teleportation.

You undressed yourself slowly before the fireplace in your room, ivory silk dress falling softly onto the floor—skin molten and flushed from the heat licking at your skin. Wooyoung’s silent entrance carried the weight of a heavy storm—a soft gasp tumbling from your lips when a veiny hand wraps around your throat from behind before his fangs pierce through the skin.

He groans in relief, eyes scrunching from the bitter aftertaste of Aramis’s blood still pulsing through you. “Did you enjoy ingesting filth?” He spits out lowly, sheathing his fangs out with heaving breaths.

Your eyes glisten, but there’s no warmth in it—only something brittle, cracking beneath the gloss. A sharp incisor glints as your lips part into a cold, amused smile.

“And you?” The words drip slow and deliberate. “Didn’t you savor that tiny blonde diplomat just a little too much?”

It’s a jest by form alone—every syllable cut to sting.

“You already know the answer to that,” is all he offers—just a whisper of confession—before sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His arms wind around your waist from behind, fingers pressing slowly into the soft flesh of your stomach, possessive and unhurried.

You shiver unintentionally when his left hand trails to your breast, palming softly as he took in more blood. There’s a lightness that accompanies a vampyr’s bite, and only one kindness nature provided for prey—a friendly delirium injected from jagged edges of teeth to soften the eventual decay.

“Hongjoong’s a good man.” He starts with—flicking at the sensitive tip of your nipple and smiling softly when he feels goosebumps raise under his hand. “—I could already imagine the grandiose wedding your father will start planning once he takes notice of how often you indulge in him.”

Thinly veiled jealousy, as always. Like clockwork, it begins as a play on words—friendly suggestions and table talk whenever he slid his fangs out your throat.

And you’d bite back.

“I suppose if it were anyone, I wouldn’t mind it being Hongjoong.” You sigh out in pleasure, guiding his other hand downwards towards the slick building around gummy flesh. He stills, eyes visibly darkening as the air thickened.

“You wouldn’t mind?” He repeats, tone breaking open—sharp at its edges.

“And who else should I consider?” You snap and pull away from him.

Wooyoung chuckles darkly, undertones of bitterness splotching his words “Ah yes—that’s right. You like power. And none of the other purebloods can match the height of your pedigree with the exception of him.” He hated the acidic envy he began to carry towards his old friend for the nature of his abilities.

Hongjoong was the golden child of a lineage whose lore strongly intertwined with your own—it’s appalling that there weren’t any arrangements made between your families before. His distinct ability to read memories made him a troublesome opponent—thankfully, he rarely drank from you, despite the fact that you treated him like your personal blood bag.

The tension’s so tight it could snap. You were agitated. Flashes of that diplomats daughter laying in his arms—him being already half full by the time he came to your room. It made something ugly burn inside of you.

You turn and slowly wrap your arms around his neck, enjoying the way his breathing stills when your bare chest presses against his leather jacket—intimacy and skin contact only separated by a layer of fabric. “I enjoy having power no less than you. But you know what I think?” You whisper softly against his lips. “I think it’s drives you mad that I am the only non-negotiable in your life. You have no jurisdiction over me—not in the ways you truly want to. And you can’t rid yourself of me either, Wooyoung.”

His face is immaculate—porcelain and a professional layer of casual, unphased coolness—staring down at you stiffly. Poker faced.

“You may be right—“ voice unreadable, sweet cadence filling the air. “But don’t fool yourself into thinking you have any power, little fang. I hear you call for me in your sleep. I feel your eyes on me each time you have to drink from someone else.

You can’t control yourself around me and that’s what scares you the most.”

The air is an electric hum, throbbing. Full.

Pointed eyes refusing to relent and bodies refusing to part. Your eyes fall on the blood on his lips before reaching up to drag your tongue across the flesh.

Two singular heartbeats pass before he kisses you fiercely, breaking the silence with a gasp—hands cup your cheeks and pull you towards him to deepen it. You sift through the kiss—finding traces of the blonde in it and sink your teeth into his bottom lip, reprimanding. He tears himself away, rawness in his gaze and lips. Bleeding.

He looks like the air between you hurt him.

Like he wanted more of you even if it ended up with you in a coffin.

And then a sudden black mist, perfuming the air—like he was never there and both the blood in your mouth wasn’t his and on your neck wasn’t yours.

Exhaling shakily, you sit in front of your antique vanity, combing your hair with a boar’s brush. Fingers dragging over the sealing wound his teeth left behind.

It’s in a vampyr’s nature to desire power. To be above all things. And loving Wooyoung meant wanting to see him in tatters beneath you. You’d only admit it if he finally submitted to you.

But you weren’t the only Pureblood in the equation and his teeth on your neck promised possession and murder.

This was the dance—the very game you’d been playing since your parents’ sudden marriage two years ago. By the time you and Wooyoung officially met, it already felt too late: you were both too old, too distant, and burdened by a tension no one dared to name. His name had floated through your social circles for years, a familiar echo from your youth that you had to piece together to visualize. His father’s unexpected passing, just as he turned seventeen, only deepened the gap between your worlds. It was as if fate tried its best to delay your meeting—until the night of your 25th gala, when he arrived without warning.

Raven black hair falling into distinctly shaped eyes, sharp features, and beauty marked like the stars laid claim on him. A hypnotic clinking of silver earrings with each step he took. He arrived in mist. Cloud. Smoke. Without notice or heralding.

Although his gift wasn’t particularly notable—Wooyoung’s ability to hunt with ease proceeded him. It was his effortless charm, uncanny seduction, and silver tongue when needed be. It was strange to see the man you’ve heard of all your childhood stand before you after being a phantom in your life.

You remember first feeling the weight of his gaze—a small click in your diaphragm as you digested it. Neither of you said anything for a minute. No room for pleasantries or etiquette when a strange carnal rawness rose to the surface of a room upon first meeting.

The two of you found out about your parents involvement only a week later—but the week served enough of its dues. Prolonged glances, grazed fingers over dinner plates, a drunken confession of confused allure from Wooyoung’s end.

And when you found out, you tried your best to stifle it. For a time, it worked—with Wooyoung growing colder by design, keeping a distance, and your ability to perform disinterest. Together, you looked the part of a regal family. Flawless. Untouchable. Ink and ivory.

Cold.

No ties of blood, but a shared experience of unadulterated bloodlust pulsing through you. The lot of you stood above all others—even the greatest of your society, with your parents alliance.

But the crash was inevitable. And once Wooyoung had a taste of you, he couldn’t let you go.

“My dearest, has no Vampyr bitten your heart yet? Still?” The tone in your father’s voice is careful. Like there are eggshells under his feet he couldn’t afford to break. Wooyoung pauses briefly from cutting into his steak, knife clinking against the porcelain plate.

He saw this one coming.

Nonetheless, you carried on. “Hm, not that I recall— sorry father.” Nonchalant, elegantly apologetic. Clearly disinterested in the conversation that you only entertain out of respect for your father.

“What of the Kim’s son?” Ah. He must’ve finally aught on to your closeness.

You were a hard woman to please. Distant—as if constantly daydreaming and living vicariously through a song only you knew how to play. Eccentric. Strange. Hard to keep up with and rarely held any interest for interpersonal relationships—thus, the only suitors your father could deem having a chance were among the few friends you had.

And the fact you even drank from one source regularly was a feat on its own—to a boy of his stature no less? He doesn’t know how he’s missed it, but your father’s jumping on the chance.

Your chewing slowed, deliberating. Glancing briefly at Wooyoung with a curious fire to your eyes. “I suppose I don’t hate him. He’s one of the very few men I could say that about.” You turn towards him, playful—covert intentions and jealousy poking at the bear.

“Oh, but what of Wooyoung? Did you see the daughter of the Russian Diplomat curled in his lap?” Your voice rang like a bell—sweet, bright, and edged. “He so rarely lets them stay after drinking.”

His mother perked up at that, her eyes gleaming with sudden interest.

“Is that so? In all my days—my boy’s all grown up now.” She dabbed delicately at her mouth, beautiful and radiant. Even as a Vampyr—a race carved in shadows—she was the sun incarnate. Brilliant, impossible.

Wooyoung’s unreadable, calm, and collected. “She was a well behaved girl— I have little to no complaints.”

The tension in your heart could slice like a heated knife. “She looked lovely with your teeth in her throat.” You smile teasingly, but your eyes don’t hold the same gleam. “—good catch, brother.”

Your own teeth catch and scrape at your fork as he watches you swallow slowly. Refined wit wrapped in quiet cunning.

Internally, Wooyoung was seething. You knew he hated the rare occasions you called him that—and every time you did, it was deliberate. A bratty little jab that practically screamed: Well, go on then. Fuck off if you want her so badly.

And so he played the game with bitter precision—inviting her over, leaving the door just ajar enough for the sounds of her bliss to spill into the hallway. He made sure to catch your eye as you passed, your expression unreadable. Each time he rocked into her, building up intensity until it bordered on frenzied violence—he thought of you under him. Of your open mouth and curls splaying on his red silk sheets.

Your gasps and delighted humming in his ear, legs wrapped around his waist in hazed want. You were his opium flower—and no one, in all the wide, wretched expanse of your cursed universe—would ever truly possess you. No wedding will break the forbidden union already festered between you. What encompassed the secret and wretched bond between you two wouldn’t be ruined by the sweet candor of politics and light hearted love.

He wasn’t surprised that in response to his bitter agenda, you tripled the stakes by inviting Hongjoong into your room, where he gave into you as he always did, and indulged in his servitude for seemingly hours. The house wreaked of blood and incense.

When Hongjoong emerged, he only gazed at Wooyoung with a certain knowing. He knew your secrets now.

Your body.

Your blood.

And most of all—by ingesting you, he knows Wooyoung and one of your most well kept secrets.

This is what truly got under his skin.

You allowed Hongjoong to know the most profound parts of you when you let him drink from you—and in their world, society knew that act was rare for someone like you. Sacred, even. You were above all else—exclusive, hard to reach. While others willingly offered themselves to you, the action was never reciprocated in full. To drink from you was almost a promise: of seclusion, of vulnerability. The Princess of the Vampyr and the Golden son of the Kim’s lineage, tied together in their hushed whispers

When your father asks if Hongjoong had your heart now, you only smile—calculating gaze cracking onto Wooyoung’s form, and choose to remain silent to maintain enough mystery to keep them all suspended.

You offered him a slow, knowing grin as you mouthed the word checkmate—no sound, just intent. And then you left without another glance, your perfume the only proof you’d ever been there at all.

Wooyoung takes a slow sip, eyes trained onto the door you just disappeared through. Brooding. Planning.

Authors note: spicy, spicyyyyy~

[velvetdolor]

letting yall know that i’m dropping a fuck ton of drabbles and two part series because I’m a maniac this week and have been brainstorming different manuscript ideas (and as some of my frequent readers know—that means my fanfiction will serve as a prototype…)

my other series—for the thrill of the hunt, devil’s catch, fatal attraction (final part is almost complete), and jagged have not been forgotten! there’s massive story mapping happening, so I’m taking my time with it. the house on dahlia street is on the backburner since I’m having major writers block with that oneshot.

i write drabbles and oneshots excessively because i try and write a new plot every other day + make it a habit to write daily.

but yea, small little announcement for my readers! I’ll try not to be so unreliable but I’ll update what i feel called to and not filter getting new ideas and writing them out.

[velvetdolor]

crispy night in the graveyard

[velvetdolor]

literally cherrie

Siren, fae and smt posting every other day and piling me up with stuff to read 😭😭😭

[velvetdolor]

@etherealcherrie @faerouzia

OH OHOH WAIT WAIT WAIT PAUSE

u both are my favorites…..sending so many kisses of apologies FORGIVE ME MY LIEGE

𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 | 𝘗𝘚𝘏

𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘖𝘕𝘌 | 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

✂︎ 𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: You hated blind dates. Desperate times called for desperate measures—your parents insisted you give this one a shot. Then, to your surprise, he was perfect. Charming, attentive, and almost too good to be true, the chemistry crackled like static between you. Jokes flowed, and your walls melted away. Just like that, he asked, “Meet my parents at our villa this weekend?” Was it excitement or dread? This fairytale was moving fast, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 9.3𝘬

𝘗𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘚&𝘔 | 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 | 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦

✂︎ 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳, 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

✂︎ 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

[𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 2]

The sharp knock at your door didn’t give you a chance to answer before it burst open.

“Get up. You’re meeting him tonight.”

your mother’s voice cut through the haze of sleep like a blade, her words brisk, different–already dressed in perfume and pearls and whatever else made up her illusion of control.

You groaned into your pillow. “Meeting who?”

She sighed, like she couldn't believe she had to remind you. “The man your father and I arranged. Park Seonghwa. Wealthy. Charming. Excellent family. Don't make that face, you agreed last week.”

You cracked one eye open, “I said I'd consider it.”

“You said ‘fine’ and that's a yes in my language.” She strode into your room like it belonged to her–which, technically, it did. The scent of her signature gardenia filled the air, suffocating. “He’s expecting you at seven. Wear something feminine. No black. You always wear black. It’s depressing.”

You flopped onto your back and stared at the ceiling, already regretting every life choice that led you here. “Isn’t that what blind dates are for? Depressing people dressing up to disappoint each other?”

“You’re pushing thirty,” she snapped. “This is not the time to be picky.”

There it was–the ultimatum wrapped in silk gloves. Your mother never shouted, never threatened. She didn't need to. Her disappointment was an institution. Her silence was a weapon. And when that didn’t work, she’d pull the ultimate card: your future.

You closed your eyes again. “Can’t wait to be emotionally manipulated into marriage.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” you muttered. “Just thrilled.”

She turned to leave but paused in the doorway, giving you one last sweeping glance. “Be presentable, and try not sound cynical. You have the tendency to ruin first impressions.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the morning light casting sharp angles across your room. It was too early for wine, too late for hope, and apparently the perfect day to sell your soul over salad and small talk.

“Yippie,” you groaned.

You dragged yourself out of bed, limbs heavy, heart heavier.

You stood in front of your open closet like a woman being asked to choose her own noose.

Silks, satins, neutrals. Your mother had trained you well. Nothing too loud, nothing that screamed for attention–just whispered, I'm tasteful , I'm available, I bleed pedigree.

You reached for a slip dress in dark burgundy, paused and then snatched your hand back. ‘No black’, she said. You’d never figured out if she meant it symbolically or literally.

After twenty minutes of internal war, you settled on a muted sage green wrap dress. It clung enough to suggest curves, but not enough to be accused of trying. You pulled your hair into a soft updo, letting a few strands fall around your jaw–effortless but strategic, like everything else in your life.

Makeup: minimal, flesh coloured gloss that tinted with pink glitter.

In the bathroom mirror, your reflection stared back, calm but skeptical.

This wasn’t your first parental set-up. There had been others–men who were overly polite, well educated, and wildly uninteresting. One called you “opinionated” like it was a threat. Another had asked if you’d be comfortable leaving your career “after children.”

You’d mastered the art of soft rejection over salmon tartare.

Still, something about tonight itched beneath your skin. The way your mother said his name–Park seonghwa–like it carried weight. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t take no for an answer.

You hated how curious that made you.

By the time 6:30 rolled around, you were dressed, masked, and quietly resigned. The scent of your perfume clung to your collarbones, floral and sharp, the kind that lingered long after you left a room. And of course, the final cherry on top, your mom’s diamond bvlgari earrings.

You slipped on your heels, checked your phone.

1 New text–mom

Don't embarrass us. Be polite. Smile. He’s not like others.

You rolled your eyes.

Sure. Because that’s not ominous at all.

At exactly 6:45, a sleek black car pulled up to your building. No uber logo. Tinted windows. You stepped inside, half-expecting to be offered champagne or chloroform.

The driver didn’t speak, didn’t look at you. Just nodded once and started toward the restaurant.

You watched the city blur past your window, light bleeding into glass, everything too quiet inside the car. A fairytale carriage wrapped in shadow. You weren’t afraid.

Not really. Just…aware.

There was something about the night that felt pre-written.Like you’d already said yes to something you didn’t understand.

The car pulled up to a place that didn’t need a sign. Glass and stone. Subtle lighting. A doorman in an earpiece who opened your door like he knew your name.

inside, everything gleamed. Tables dressed in white linen, gold-rimmed crystal, the kind of ambient music you didn’t notice until it stopped. Wealth whispered in this place–it didn’t scream.

The hostess greeted you with a tight smile. “Right this way. He’s already waiting.”

Of course he was.

She led you to a private table in the back corner, near a glass wall overlooking the city. One man sat alone, wine glass untouched, posture relaxed–like he owned the view. Like he’d been carved into the room.

Park Seonghwa stood when he saw you. And for a moment, your breath caught.

Tall. Immaculate. A black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to hint at collarbones. His features were sharp, symmetrical–the kind of beauty that made you want to look twice just to confirm you weren’t imagining things.

He smiled. Not too wide. Not too eager.

Measured.

“It's good to finally meet you y/n,” he said, voice smooth as silk over stone. “You look–”

A beat. A ficker of approval in his gaze. “Even better than your mother described.”

You offered your hand. He took it gently–but there was nothing weak in his grip. His palm was warm, controlled.

“And you must be Park Seonghwa,” you said, tone neutral. “My blind date with the ominously perfect reputation.”

He chuckled. “Is that what they told you?”

Before you could reach for your chair, he stepped forward smoothly and pulled it for you. The gesture was precise, elegant–like he’d done it a thousand times–but the way he held the chair until you were fully seated felt deliberate. Intentional.

You murmured a soft thanks, smoothing your dress with a calm you didn’t feel as he moved to sit opposite you.

“Only every day this week,” you added, lips curling into a faint smile.

The waiter appeared like smoke, pouring wine without asking. You noticed that the bottle was already open. Chilled just right.

You took a sip. Dry. Aged. Expensive.

“Do you make a habit of arriving early?” you asked.

“I Like to observe.”

Something in the way he said it made you still for half a second. He didn't elaborate.

Dinner unfolded like a well-rehearsed play.

Seonghwa asked questions—not the shallow kind, but ones that cut straight to your edges and tested their sharpness.

“What’s something you’d never told your parents?” he asked, eyes fixed on yours over the rim of his wineglass.

You blinked. “Is that your idea of a first-date ice breaker?”

He smiled, "I find the surface boring.”

You hesitated, then deflected. “Probably that I like chardonnay. But I drink it around them because they think it’s classy.”

“I suppose,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But most people aren’t aware they’re doing it.”

A beat passed.

Then: “do you like what you do? Or are you good at it?”

That one made you pause, “architecture? I'm good at it.”

“But?”

“But that doesn’t mean I sleep well.”

He didn’t laugh this time. Just nodded, slowly. As if filling your answer away under something important. When he leaned in, it was never too close–just enough to make you feel like you were sharing something dangerous. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and smoked amber, a scent that curled around your senses like a promise you didn’t understand yet.

He kept going.

“What would you change about your life if no one was watching?”

“What’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever thought and never said?”

“Have you ever loved someone you couldn’t trust?”

Each question was velvet gloved and razor-edged. You threw some back, trying to test him the same way.

“What about you? Ever been in love?”

“Yes,” he answered easily.

“What happened?”

“She loved who I showed her,” he said, swirling his wine. ”Not who I am.”

You arched a brow. “And who are you?”

He smiled, “still figuring that out. You're helping.”

The chemistry was real. But so was the tension.

His eyes didn’t just look at you—they read you. Like he could see the fear buried beneath your humor. The control you mistook for confidence. The calculation behind every smile you gave him.

You told yourself you were being paranoid.

And yet.

You leaned back in your seat, swirling your wine like it could distract you from the way his words lingered long after they were spoken.

“Do you always ask such invasive questions on a first date?” you said lightly.

He gave a soft chuckle, not at all ashamed. “Only when I'm interested.”

“And you’re…interested?”

Seonghwa rested his chin on one hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re composed, intelligent. You deflect like a professional. But you’re not hiding because you’re afraid. You’re hiding because you’re testing me.”

That startled something in you–not fear, exactly. More like a jolt of recognition. As if he were naming things you hadn’t admitted to yourself.

You gave a slow smile. “Or maybe I'm just not easily impressed.”

His expression didn’t shift. "Then I'm enjoying the challenge.”

You reached for your water, trying to ground yourself. The air between you had grown thicker–weighted with things unspoken, things implied.

“so ,” you said, voice steady. “If I'm being studied, can I ask a question or two of my own?”

He nodded “of course.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done?”

There was no hesitation, whatsoever. Like he’d been waiting for a question of this sort.

“I loved someone who didn't know what I was capable of.”

Your breath caught. You weren’t sure if it was the words themselves or the way he said them–quiet, calm, almost poetic. As if it was a memory, not a warning.

“And what are you capable of, Seonghwa?”

He smiled then, slow and deliberate, "exactly what's needed.”

A pause. Just long enough for you to realise he was watching your reaction as much as he was enjoying the game.

You looked away first. He seemed satisfied.

Then, with the same smoothness that he carried every moment so far, he shifted gears.

“I’d like you to meet my parents,” he said casually, as though it were the natural next step after dessert. “This weekend. We'll drive up to our villa.”

Your head snapped back toward him. “That’s…direct.”

“I prefer not to waste time.”

You searched his face for a hint of irony, a smirk, something to suggest this was a joke.

He gave you nothing.

“I don't even know you,” you said slowly, eyes digging into him with an amused smirk.

“Then get to know me,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Let them get to know you, too.”

“You meet one woman and already want to bring her home to Mom and Dad?”

“I’ve met more than one woman,” he corrected. “Only one has me curious.”

You were quiet for a moment, fighting the urge to full on blush at his implications.

“And if I say no?” You asked, teasingly sipping at your wine.

He didn’t blink. “Then I'd respect that.” Another beat, “but I'd still think about you.”

The silence settled thick between you, like the air before a thunderclap. Somewhere outside the window, the city lights flickered against the night like tiny signals–warning, or invitation.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn't say no either. And when he reached out–two fingers brushing yours across the table–you didn’t pull away. They were warm and soft, just like his palms.

Seonghwa’s fingers didn’t linger long. Just the lightest brush–two fingertips grazing the back of your hand. Enough to pull your focus to the space between you. Enough to feel the warmth even after it was gone.

You withdrew your hand gently, more out of instinct than discomfort. “You’re very sure of yourself,” you said.

“I'm sure of what I want.”

“And what is that exactly?” His gaze softened, but it didn't lose its sharpness.

“Someone I don't have to pretend with.”

You raised a brow. “So you pretend with everyone else?”

“I pretend with people who expect perfection,” he said, tone even. “Who want surface-level safety. Predictable affection. You're different.”

You gave a dry laugh. “How would you know?”

“Because you’re not trying to impress me. You’re trying to figure out what I’m not telling you.”

That disarmed you. Mostly because it was true.

You didn’t like being read so easily. Especially not by a man who wore his mystery like a custom suit.

Still, there was something about him—dangerously composed, disarmingly honest. You couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or if sincerity was just another performance.

Maybe that was what intrigued you.

Or maybe it was the fact that, even now, part of you didn’t care.

The check was handled without discussion—already paid, apparently. You weren’t surprised.

As you both stood, Seonghwa stepped behind you again, pulling your chair back with quiet grace. His fingers brushed the back of your shoulder as he helped you up, and for the briefest second, you thought you felt him exhale.

Not sighing. Not tired.

Just…watching.

You adjusted your dress, cleared your throat. “So what happens now?”

He offered you his arm, as he lightly bit his lip.

“I walk you to the car. And if you’ll let me, I’ll see you again.”

You smiled. Only slightly so.

The valet pulled up in a near silence. Not your original driver. A different car–smoother, sleeker. You hesitated, but he opened the door for you, hand extended in silent invitation.

You climbed in. Before the door shut, he leaned in–close enough for his breath to warm your cheek.

“I’ll pick you up Friday morning," he said. “Nine o clock.”

You tilted your head, amused at how he’d already made the decision that you’d go. “No driver?”

“I prefer to handle important things myself.” He didn't smile this smile. He didn’t need to.

Then, almost as an afterthought–though nothing he did felt accidental–he leaned in.

“...and bring something red.”

The door clicked shut behind you. The car eased into motion like a whisper, and he was gone.

The rest of the city blurred past your window in gold and glass. But your mind stayed fixed on him—on that quiet certainty in his voice, the weight behind his gaze. The way he said red like it meant something only he understood.

Your phone buzzed.

1 New Message–Unknown number

“Thank you for tonight. You were…radiant.” “Friday. 9AM” “I’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t reply. Not because you didn’t want to.

But because something in your bones whispered: he already knows what you’ll say.

꧁─𐮛─꧂ ꧁─𐮛─꧂ ⚤ ꧁─𐮛─꧂ ꧁─𐮛─꧂

The smell of fresh coffee hit you before you even opened your bedroom door. Your mother was already in the kitchen, moving with her usual precision–robed cinched at her waist, hair pinned just so. She didn’t look like someone who’d been waiting by the phone all night for an update, but you knew better.

She glanced up the second she heard your footsteps. “Well?”

You moved to the counter, grabbed a mug, and stalled. “Well what?”

Her lips pursed, the tiniest glimmer of impatience breaking through the façade. “Seonghwa. Don’t act like I didn’t see the way your father was practically glowing when the driver called to say he’d picked you up from Velare.”

You took a long sip of coffee. Bitter. Unsettling. Fitting.

“He was… something.”

“Something?” she repeated, amused. “That’s a very noncommittal answer.”

You shrugged. “Charming. Smart. Intense.”

“Oh?” Her brow lifted. “Intense how?”

You leaned against the counter. “He invited me to meet his parents this weekend.”

That got her full attention. “Already?” Her expression turned curious, amused. “Well, someone’s not wasting time.”

You hesitated. “He said to pack light… and—”

You met her gaze carefully.

“—to bring something red.”

There was a pause.

Then, to your surprise, your mother laughed. A low, knowing sound. Like you’d just told her a juicy secret.

“My, my,” she murmured, setting her cup down. “So he has a little spice in him after all.”

You frowned. “That’s what you took from that?”

She gave you a conspiratorial smile, eyes glinting. “Darling, any man worth his salt knows how to play with intrigue. It’s been so long since I’ve heard a line like that. Refreshing.”

You stared at her, uncertain if she was being serious or just enjoying the moment too much.

She waved a hand. “Don’t overthink it. Red is sexy. Red is bold. He probably wants to see if you can command a room in it.”

Or bleed in it, your mind supplied.

You didn’t say that out loud.

You stood in front of your closet again, the same way you had just days ago–except now, the silence felt different. Sharper.

Your fingers brushed over soft neutrals, your usual go-to pieces. Then slowly, you reached into the back.

Velvet. Silk. lace.

And there it was. The red one.

You didn’t even remember buying it. A draped slip dress–low in the back, high on suggestion. It looked like something made for candlelight and consequences. You laid it in your suitcase carefully, as if it might shatter.

Your phone buzzed.

1 New Message–Park Seonghwa

“Outside.”

You checked the time again, 8:45. Not 9:00.

Not fashionably early. Not conveniently on time. Deliberately–precisely–early.

Your stomach turned, “shit.”

You darted back into your room, heart racing as you zipped up your overnight bag with one hand and tried to shove your phone charger and makeup pouch inside with the other. Your toothbrush was still by the sink. You hadn't even thrown on shoes.

He hadn’t said he’d come in.

But somehow, you knew he might.

You sprinted to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, quickly patting down the faint edges of your under-eye concealer. You barely recognized your own reflection—flushed cheeks, chest tight, a strange pressure at the base of your spine that hadn’t been there before.

Too fast. Too soon. Too much.

Your hands trembled slightly as you jammed your toiletries into the front zipper of your suitcase and dragged it toward the door.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You froze.

Three slow, calm raps.

You turned toward the sound like prey toward a predator—instinctively, silently.

Another knock.

Your heart galloped. You glanced around your room as if expecting something to tell you what to do. Did he really come to the door? You hadn’t even told him your unit number. The front gate didn’t buzz.

Of course he didn’t need to.

Of course Seonghwa knew.

You smoothed your blouse with damp hands and moved to the door, bag half-zipped, shoes forgotten. You hesitated with your fingers on the handle. Inhaled once, deeply.

Then you opened it.

There he was. Still in that same immaculate coat—black, cashmere, tailored to the angles of his frame. His hair was wind-swept just enough to look natural. He held out the coffee tray, one brow lifted.

“Morning,” he said. “I figured you might be a little behind.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Only certainty.

You blinked. “I thought—nine?”

He smiled. “I wanted to give us a head start.”

You couldn’t tell if us meant you and him, or him and the schedule he had in his head.

Still, you took the coffee from him and stepped back.

“I just need… two minutes.”

He didn’t enter. He didn’t offer to help. But he didn’t leave the threshold either.

“Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”

You moved quickly—grabbed your heels, zipped your bag completely, slipped your coat on. Every motion felt watched, even though he wasn’t looking directly at you anymore.

Still, you could feel his presence like a shadow pressing against the edge of your space.

Exactly 120 seconds later, you emerged, suitcase in hand, breath tight in your chest.

He took it from you wordlessly.

Opened the car door.

Waited.

And just before you climbed in, he leaned in close, so close his breath brushed the shell of your ear.

“I like the shade of red you picked,” he murmured.

You hadn’t told him what you’d packed.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality. The interior of the car smelled expensive—leather, faint bergamot, something else underneath that lingered like the memory of smoke. The seats cradled your body as you settled in, warm and too comfortable.

Seonghwa slid in beside you and closed his own door. He didn’t start the car immediately. Instead, he took a sip from his coffee cup, then glanced at you over the rim.

“Everything alright?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… rushing.”

He turned the engine on. The car hummed to life—silent, smooth. You barely felt it pull away from the curb.

“I didn’t mean to throw off your routine,” he said after a beat, gaze still forward. “I assumed you’d appreciate a head start. I hate lateness. It chips away at… things.”

You didn’t ask what things. You just looked out the window.

City blurred into suburban hills. You passed rows of manicured hedges and stone walls that got taller the farther you drove.

A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke again.

“So,” he said lightly, “tell me something you didn’t say last night.”

You turned to him slowly. “About what?”

“Anything. Something unedited. Unpolished. No parent-approved answers this time.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup.

He glanced at you, his smile soft but expectant.

You looked ahead. “I don’t like mornings.”

His chuckle was low, appreciative. “Neither do I. But they reveal people.”

You arched a brow. “Reveal them how?”

“Most people aren’t pretending at 8 a.m.,” he replied. “That’s when the masks slip. That’s when the decisions we make aren’t curated—they’re instinctual.”

You looked at him for a long second. “Is that why you showed up early?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just kept driving, eyes on the road, lips curving into a knowing smile.

“I like to see what’s real.”

You turned back to the window, heart kicking harder in your chest.

The road narrowed. Trees thickened. The city had disappeared behind you, swallowed by green and gold and mist.

He reached over and adjusted the heat slightly, the soft brush of his fingers near your knee drawing your attention.

“So,” he said again, his voice deceptively casual, “what did you pack?”

You hesitated. “Clothes. Basics. The red dress.”

He smiled wider. “Good girl.”

The words were said without malice—low and warm, like praise.

But they wrapped around your ribs too tightly. You didn’t reply. You couldn’t help but to hide the way you bit your lip, damn.

The car rolled smoothly along the winding road, trees passing like a metronome, each one a beat in the slow build of tension.

You sipped your coffee to keep your hands busy, your gaze flitting to Seonghwa. He was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. But there was something… still about him. A kind of quiet that felt curated, like a painting hung just slightly off-center to make you stare longer.

“Do you always like control this much?” you asked suddenly, surprising even yourself.

He didn’t flinch. In fact, he looked amused.

“Would it scare you if I said yes?”

You held his gaze. “I guess it depends what you’re trying to control.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face. Then he smiled—slow and clean.

“Everything,” he said. “But not for the reason you think.”

He glanced out the window, then back to the road.

“I grew up in chaos,” he continued. “You’d never guess that now, would you?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.

“There were times when I didn’t know if the lights would come on. If I’d find my mother where I left her. If someone I trusted would still be there the next day.” He paused. “It teaches you to anticipate everything. To keep one hand on the pulse of the room, and the other on the door.”

You studied him, unsure whether he was telling you this to connect—or to test.

“I’m not afraid of mess,” he added after a moment. “I just don’t let it live in my house.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the car began to slow.

And that’s when you saw it.

The trees parted like theater curtains, revealing a long gravel drive framed by low lanterns and lush, unbroken greenery. At the end of it stood the villa—tall, white stone, lined with glass and vines. Elegant. Immaculate.

Dead quiet.

No staff in sight. No cars. No voices.

Just the rhythmic crunch of the tires as Seonghwa pulled into the drive.

“Wow,” you whispered. It slipped out without permission.

He smiled faintly. “It’s peaceful.”

It was more than that. It was pristine. The kind of untouched that made you nervous to breathe too loudly.

He parked, stepped out, and came around to open your door before you could even reach for the handle.

You stepped out slowly, the chill of the morning sinking through your clothes. The breeze carried faint traces of lavender and lemon—but there was something metallic underneath it.

You couldn’t place it.

“Come on,” Seonghwa said, gently placing his hand on the small of your back. “They’re waiting.”

You blinked. “Your parents?”

He smiled. “In a way.”

That didn’t make sense.

But before you could ask, the massive front doors swung open.

A woman stood in the doorway, perfectly composed in a dark emerald dress. Her features were delicate, her gaze sharp.

She didn’t smile.

Seonghwa gave her a polite nod.

“This is Eunji,” he said. “She runs the house.”

Not our housekeeper. Not assistant. Just… runs it.

“Welcome,” Eunji said to you, voice smooth as velvet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

The phrasing made your pulse spike.

We.

The doors closed behind you with a low thud. The sound echoed too far for a place that was supposed to be warm and lived in.

Eunji stepped forward, hands folded in front of her.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

Your room.

Not guest room. Not Seonghwa’s room.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floors as you followed her through the main hall. Everything was polished to perfection—gleaming stone, neutral tones, antique lighting fixtures that flickered slightly as you passed.

Too perfect.

There were no fingerprints on any surface. No shoes near the door. No idle coffee cups. The house looked prepared, not inhabited.

“This wing is private,” Eunji said. “You’ll find everything you need in the suite. Fresh towels, a wardrobe, toiletries.”

You stopped to admire the space. It was much to your liking, a little too much though. 

Eunji turned back, that same unreadable expression fixed on her face. “Mr. Park requested it be rearranged to your specifications”

Your mouth was dry. “How did he—”

“Mr. Park is… attentive.”

Before you could respond, she pushed open a door to a guest suite. Bigger than your entire apartment. Cream and grey, accented in dark wood. The scent of rosewater clung faintly to the air.

The bed was the staple. Satin sheets, similar to the ones in your room. Delicate but commanding.

It looked like temptation woven into fabric and a succulent mattress. 

“We dine at seven,” Eunji said, already backing out. “You’ll be called when it’s time.”

And with that, she left. No footsteps. No closing door.

Just silence.

You wandered the halls afterward, pretending to admire the architecture while your mind scrambled for grounding.

You found Seonghwa seated in what looked like a study—dim lighting, bookshelves, and a large window overlooking the garden. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Getting acquainted with the house?” he asked without looking up from the book in his hands.

You lingered in the doorway. “Trying to figure out if it’s a house or a museum.”

That drew a soft laugh. “It’s both, in a way.”

You stepped inside slowly. “Eunji said something about my room being rearranged to my specifications. Which is… ”

He set the book down carefully and looked at you.

“weird?,” he said. “I told you that I like to observe. So I had the room prepped from my observations.”

“That’s thoughtful,” you said. “And a little unsettling.”

“Why unsettling?”

“You somehow replicated my bedroom, in a way.”

“I observe.”

There was no apology in his tone. Just that same infuriating calm.

“You don’t think it’s invasive?” you asked.

He stood and moved toward you—not fast, but deliberate. Stopping a foot away.

“I think most people spend their lives begging to be seen,” he murmured. “And when someone actually sees them, they get scared.”

You swallowed. The room felt warmer now.

He tilted his head. “Are you scared?”

You didn’t answer.

His hand reached up—not touching—just hovering near your jaw. Like he was daring you to lean in. To close the distance.

You didn’t move. But your heart did. Loudly.

Then he stepped back.

“Seven o’clock,” he said, voice returning to velvet. “I’ll have something ready for you to wear.”

You stood in front of the full-length mirror, holding the hanger in both hands. It was black. Simple, elegant. However the cut was barely your style.

It had been left on your bed while you were in the shower, with a single note looping in cursive:

Wear this today. I’d like to see you in black.

–Hwa.

You weren’t sure why the request made your chest tighten. It wasn’t the dress itself. It was beautiful, a little too perfect though. A little too…picked. Like a costume for a part you weren’t sure you agreed to play. 

The room was beautiful—of course it was. Tastefully lavish. But something about it felt… prepped. Like a stage set waiting for the first scene. Not a wrinkle on the comforter. Not a single personal item in sight. Even the orchids on the dresser looked like they’d been chilled before being placed.

You walked toward the tall windows, parting the sheer curtains.

The view stretched out into what felt like nowhere. Acres of manicured garden, symmetrical hedges, and beyond that, a wall of trees that looked too dense to explore. No roads. No city skyline. Just… removed.

You picked up your phone.

No signal. You furrowed your brows.

You checked the Wi-Fi. Connected, but everything felt monitored—too fast, too filtered. You could Google the weather, but couldn’t open your texts. Couldn’t send anything out.

A quiet panic stirred in your chest.

You paced. Opened the wardrobe. All high-end designer clothes… not all yours.

Two of the dresses still had the tags on, and neither were familiar. One of the blouses bore the faint scent of perfume you didn’t wear.

You pulled open a drawer. Silk lingerie—red, black, delicate.

They’d prepared for you.

Expected you.

You sat at the vanity. Your reflection stared back, quiet and still. For a second, you didn’t recognize her. Your eyes looked bigger in this lighting, almost too bright. The fear behind them didn’t belong to someone who’d gone on a simple date.

Your mother’s voice rang faintly in your mind—“Mysterious is sexy. Don’t overthink it.”

You looked at the dress again.

It lay there like a dare.

And she said no black, what are the odds.

Still, you slipped into it. 

The fabric whispered across your skin, cool and unfamiliar. It clung to your curves like it knew them already. When you tried to reach the zipper in the back, your fingers fumbled once. Twice. 

Then, you heard him behind you. You didn’t even hear him enter your room which was…weird.

“Let me.” he said.

You stiffened. Seonghwa’s hand touched your shoulder slightly, gently. The other found the zipper, slow and smooth, dragging it up your spine like a whisper. You felt the what of his breath at your neck. His cologne brushing past your nostrils like a secret, intoxicating…

“You look breathtaking in black,” he murmured, the zipper locking into place with a soft click. 

You met his gaze in the mirror expression still but thankful his hands still on your shoulders.

He was smiling–but his eyes told another story. Not hunger. No pride.

possession.

You turned to face him, arms crossed. “What’s the occasion?”

He stepped closer, touching a loose curl behind your ear. “No occasion. I just like the way it contrasts against your skin.”

“That’s kind of intense,” you said softly, attempting to make it sound like a joke. His head tilted, smile never faltering.

“You have no idea.”

With that, a soft chuckle left your lips. It was all too odd really, you just couldn’t put a finger on it. But that smile, those gentle pearly whites, subtly hypnotized you.

Dinner was served in a smaller, more intimate room than the sprawling dining hall you’d seen during the villa tour. This one was quieter. Tucked away behind a velvet-draped arch, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened into a darkened courtyard bathed in moonlight.

A single table. Two chairs. A candlelit centerpiece that flickered like your heartbeat.

Seonghwa pulled your chair out for you again, his fingertips brushing the curve of your shoulder before retreating.

“Red wine tonight?” he asked. You nodded, sitting carefully in the black dress that still felt more like wrapping than clothing. He poured for you. Not a drop spilled.

You watched the wine bloom into your glass like ink.

The food came–an aromatic truffle risotto, grilled white asparagus, some kind of pear salad that looked more like artwork than something edible. He watched you take your first bite. Watching the way your lips settled onto the fork, before lifting his own.

It took a few tender bites for him to start speaking. It's not that he was nervous or scared, it was a calculative tactic. You know, waiting for the perfect moment.

“I’m glad you’re still here," he said simply, eyes now fixed on yours. “Many would’ve run by now.”

“Should I have?” you asked, half-smiling. Curious as to what he might be hiding from you.

“You tell me.” There was the tension again–slippery, warm, and slow-burning. Like he enjoyed seeing how far he could push before you flinched. You picked up some wine, to buy time.

He leaned forward, voice low. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

Your fingers tightened around the glass stem before you could stop them. You didn’t answer right away. Instead you smiled–small and sharp. “Should I be?”

He chuckled low and velvety. “No. Never. But I think you’re curious. I think you’re trying to figure out if I'm real.”

You exhaled through your nose, setting the wine down.

“Maybe I am.” His smile didn’t break. But his gaze dropped slightly—as if savoring the fact that you hadn’t denied it.

The risotto had long gone cold on your plate, but you barely noticed. Your glass was half empty. Or half full. You weren’t sure anymore.

Seonghwa was watching you with that quiet, unreadable expression again–chin resting on his hand, his elbow propped on the table like he had nowhere else in the world to be. His presence filled the room. Warm. Intoxicating. He hadn’t touched his phone once. Hadn’t looked away from you unless it was to refill your glass or cut your food.

“So…” you started.

He blinked, “mm?”

“You said I'd be meeting your parents this weekend,” you said carefully, keeping your tone light. “Will they be joining us anytime soon?”

There was a pause. A fractional pause. Not long enough to be obvious. But just long enough for your nerves to thread themselves together. Then came the smile. Yes, that smile.

"They're out of town,” he said smoothly, as if that explained everything. “Business in Vienna. Last minute. I didn't cancel just because of that.”

“Oh.” you nodded slowly, swallowing back the knot forming in your throat. “Right. That makes sense.”

“They’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” he added, lifting his glass. “You’ll meet them at brunch.”

“Okay,” you said, even though it wasn’t okay.

Because something didn’t add up.This entire trip—his invitation, your mother’s delight, the way he’d worded it—“Meet my parents at our villa this weekend.” Not “sometime.” Not “if they’re around.”

You shifted in your seat, feigning interest in your wine again.

Outside, the trees swayed gently under the moonlight. The air smelled like jasmine and something faintly metallic. Maybe iron.

Inside, your heart thudded against your ribs with each tick of the quiet wall clock.

“Do you trust me?” Seonghwa asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the table between you.

“I can tell you’re holding something in. Your eyes give it away.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your throat felt dry.

“I want you to be honest with me,” he said, voice lower now. More intimate. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s complicated. I’m not going to judge you.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

But you didn’t tell him what you were thinking.

You didn’t say: Your phone hasn’t buzzed once this entire time.

You didn’t say: None of the staff make eye contact with me.

You didn’t say: You knew my size. You chose my clothes. You knew I’d say yes.

Instead, you forced a smile.

“Well,” you said, trying to sound amused, “I did pack something red just in case.”

His eyes gleamed. Just for a second.

Then he stood, walked around the table, and offered his hand.

“Why don’t you show me,” he said, “after dessert?”

You held his gaze, lips parted in a soft, thoughtful breath. The suggestion hung between you like thick perfume–delicate, almost playful, yet unmistakably bold. It wasn’t a demand, not exactly. But it wasn’t a question either.

You glanced down at your wine glass, then up again, letting your lashes dip just enough to soften the edge of your smirk.

“Hmm,” you hummed, swirling the stem gently between your fingers. “I think I’ll let your imagination do the heavy lifting… for now.”

A flicker passed over his face—so fast you might have missed it.

Something sharp. Something hungry.

But then it was gone, replaced with his usual cool charm. He chuckled under his breath, and leaned in closer, voice low and molten. “Bratty.”

Your pulse jumped.

Heat bloomed just beneath your skin. But you stayed still–calm, composed, sipping your wine like you hadn’t just thrown a match into a pool of gasoline.

“I’m pacing myself,” you said smoothly. “You did say this weekend was long, didn’t you?”

Seonghwa tilted his head, appraising you like a riddle he hadn’t quite solved. His fingers tapped once on the table. Deliberate. Measured. Then he stood, slow and graceful, rounding the table again—not to press, not to push.

Just to linger close enough for your skin to recognize his presence like heat from a candle.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek, “I like that you make me wait.”

Then he turned, glancing over his shoulder as he walked toward the hall.

“Come on,” he added lightly. “I’ll show you the gallery.”

You rose from your seat slowly, your gaze fixed on his back.

Because despite the teasing, despite the smirks—you knew something had shifted.

That one word—bratty—wasn’t just flirtation.

It was a thread. A test. And you’d just tugged on it.

You followed him down a quieter hall, this one narrower–less grand than the others. The walls were washed in a soft eggshell white, the lighting warmer, more intimate. It felt different here. More… personal.

At the end of the corridor, Seonghwa pushed open a door you hadn't noticed before. The hinges let out a soft creak. The muscles on his back tensed through his shirt as he opened the heavy door.

Inside was a long, private gallery. Quiet, almost reverent. Paintings lined the walls–neatly framed, evenly spaced. It wasn't flashy or curated for guests. This was something else. A sanctuary. A secret.

You stepped in slowly, your breath catching without warning.

They were beautiful.

Monochrome landscapes in graphite tones—stormy skies, blurred fields, skeletal trees in motion. Each canvas was haunting in its stillness, filled with ache and longing.

But every single one had the same strange detail:

A single, deliberate stripe of yellow—sometimes thick like a road, other times narrow like thread—cut through the canvas. Always vertical. Always off-center.

“What…” You trailed off, unable to stop staring. “You painted these?”

Seonghwa nodded, quiet pride glinting in his eyes. “In my free time. Therapy, I suppose.”

“They’re incredible.” You meant it.

He watched you, but didn’t speak. You moved closer to one of the pieces, fingers twitching not to touch. “The yellow…is it meant to be a path?”

He smiled softly. “Interpret it however you like.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. The color wasn’t a warm yellow. It was too sharp—like caution tape or the edge of a blade. It didn’t lead through the painting. It cut into it.

Still, something about the pattern tickled the back of your mind, like a song you couldn’t place. You reached for your phone—maybe to snap a picture, maybe to look up if his style reminded you of another artist. But—

No signal.

You frowned. Same as earlier. Still no service. The thought prickled at you, but you forced yourself to keep calm “do you sell them?”

Seonghwa stepped closer, his voice low near your ear. “Only to people who understand them.”

You turned slightly, startled at the nearness. But he didn’t push further—just let the silence sit between you like mist.

Your gaze wandered to the next canvas, and then the next. And then—

You paused.

There was a break in the gallery wall. Not obvious at first. Subtle, even clever. But the line that ran through the drywall behind one painting didn’t match the rest of the seamless gallery. It was vertical, about the width of a doorframe.

A seam.

A hidden door?

You stepped toward it unconsciously, blinking.

The painting above it—like all the others—featured that yellow stripe.

But this one?

It aligned perfectly with the line in the wall beneath it.

A coincidence?

You looked over your shoulder. “Seonghwa?”

He was watching you with unreadable eyes.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Instead, you smiled. “Your technique is… meticulous.”

He stepped forward, gently guiding you away from the painting, his hand warm on your back.

“Come,” he said instead, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Why don't we watch a movie? Something simple to end the night.”

You blinked, the image of the yellow-streaked canvas still fresh in your mind. The hidden seam behind it pulsed at the edges of your memory like a bruise you kept pressing. But Seonghwa’s voice was gentle, coaxing. Soft enough to make you follow.

You nodded. “Sure. A movie sounds good.”

By the time you returned from changing, the air in the room had shifted. The formal dining atmosphere was gone, replaced by dim lamplight and the soft hum of an old projector spinning to life in the corner. You curled into the plush side of a velvet couch in your comfiest black pajama shorts and a worn t-shirt. Seonghwa, oddly enough, hadn’t changed—still in that sleek black suit, not a wrinkle in sight.

He handed you a mug of hot chocolate. You blinked at the steam curling out, rich and velvety.

“This smells unreal,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around it.

“It’s my own recipe,” he said, smiling. “Dark chocolate. Chili. A dash of clove. It’s meant to… warm you from the inside out.”

You took a sip and blinked. He wasn’t lying. The flavor unfolded across your tongue, unexpected and addictive. Complex. Like him.

The movie flickered on—something foreign and slow-paced. Beautiful cinematography. A soundtrack that lulled rather than filled. It played more like a dream than a film.

But Seonghwa didn’t seem too interested in watching. His attention lingered sideways, eyes on you between sips of wine and your hot chocolate. He didn’t press too close. He didn’t need to.

“So…” he said, low and unhurried, “what makes a night unforgettable for you?”

You glanced at him. “Hmm?”

He smiled softly. “The little things that leave a mark. A sound. A scent. A... sensation.”

You shifted under the blanket. “That depends.”

“On?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Who I’m with.”

He hummed. “And if you’re with someone who listens closely... who pays attention... would that change what you’re willing to reveal?”

You stared into your mug for a moment, then looked back at him.

“Are we talking about favorite colors, or… something more intimate?”

He laughed under his breath, low and indulgent. “I suppose that depends too. Maybe I’m curious about both.”

Your pulse tapped behind your ribs.

“Alright,” you said slowly. “Favorite color first.”

“red,” he answered without hesitation. “And yours?”

You licked your bottom lip, letting your eyes drift back to the screen. “Grey. Lately.”

“Like fog?” he asked. “Or something heavier?”

You met his gaze again. “Like a sky that doesn’t know whether to break or hold itself together.”

His smile faltered—just slightly. “That’s beautiful.”

The air thickened between you.

He leaned back, letting the quiet stretch, letting you choose what to do with it. But even in his stillness, there was presence. A hum beneath the surface.

You took another sip, trying to focus on the movie—but your thoughts wandered.

Back to the gallery.

Back to the yellow slash through every painting.

And back to that one painting in particular—where the yellow aligned perfectly with a seam in the wall.

A door, maybe. You hadn’t imagined it. You were sure of it now. You swallowed hard and looked at Seonghwa again. He caught your stare, and this time he didn’t smile.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. And lied.

“Just the movie.”

You weren't sure when the movie ended.

The film blurred into a quiet hum, shadows dancing lazily across the walls. Your hot chocolate mug sat empty on the side table, the warmth from it now lingering only in your chest. Somewhere between the third stretch of silence and seonghwa adjusting the throw blanket over your bare legs, your eyes felt heavier.

You didn’t fall asleep, but the space between seconds began to bend.

“I should..” you started, voice low and slurred with exhaustion. “Probably go back to my room.” He didn't answer right away.

Instead, his finger brushed your ankle–just the barest contact, warm and deliberate. A feather-light trace up to the back of your knee, where the blanket slipped. Your breath caught.

“I could show you the way back,” he murmured. “or …you could stay here. Sleep beside me.”

He’d never done this. Ask for a woman to stay beside him, let all alone sleep. He was far more secluded to even think that. But why now park seonghwa? Why with you?

The way he said it–gentle, suggestive with no pressure at all–was worse than if he’d demanded it. It made you want to lean in. It made your skin tingle with anticipation.

You didn't move. He turned slightly toward you.

this felt…different. Less like a polite offer. More like a choice. A test. You looked up at him. His dark eyes like pools–but his expression soft. inviting . and somehow…patient.

Still, your mind kept circling back to the gallery. To that seam behind the painting.

You swallowed and gave a soft, coy smile. “Not tonight.”

A beat passed.

He leaned in just slightly—just close enough for his voice to skim the shell of your ear.

“alright,” he whispered with a faint exhale, not angry—almost amused. Almost proud.

The word sent heat crawling up your neck. Your thighs instinctively pressed together under the blanket.

You pulled away from his proximity with a weak laugh. “You’re still in your suit.” He glanced down, straightened his lapel. “Do you want me out of it?” You gave him a playful glare, even as your heart raced.

He stood then, slowly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your room.”

The hallway felt quieter than earlier—darker too, despite the golden sconces that lit the way. You walked side by side, your bare feet padded silently on the polished floors, and his dress shoes clicked a half-step behind you, always steady.

When he opened your bedroom door, he didn’t enter.

He leaned against the frame, head tilted.

“Goodnight,” he said, low and velvety.

You stepped inside and turned, catching the outline of him still in the doorway. The urge to say something else clawed at your throat—ask something, press for more—but instead, you said:

“Thank you for tonight.”

His smile this time was softer. Almost… disappointed. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

The door closed.

And only then did you let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

You turned toward the lavish bed, the silk sheets, the marble fireplace flickering low—and yet your mind remained in that gallery.

That stripe of yellow.

That line in the wall.

That door.

You didn’t want to believe you were being watched.

But as you stood there in the silence of your room, you couldn’t help but glance toward the far corner… where no mirror hung, but something still felt like it reflected you.

Your sleep started off quiet, yet subtle interrupted. You awoke to a sound you couldn’t place. Not loud. Not obvious. Just…there.

A soft scrape. Like furniture shifting across marble. A hush of weight against weight.

The fire in the hearth had dimmed, but the embers still cast a dull, pulsing glow across the room. You blinked slowly, registering the shadows on the ceiling, the heavy weight of satin sheets, and the odd hollowness in your chest.

3:21 a.m.

You sat up. Waited. Nothing.

And then–again. Just barely. Like something being dragged…somewhere close. Your mouth was dry. You kicked the sheets off and slid your legs over the side of the bed. The floor, cool and grounding.

The door closed, and the hallway beyond it, silent. But that wasn't where the sound had come from. Your eyes shifted toward the far wall.

The gallery.

The paintings.

The door-shaped seam behind the one with the sharp yellow gash. You pulled one of seonghwa’s button downs off the back of the velvet chair and slipped it on over your camisole. As you crept through the hall and down the sweeping staircase, your bare feet whispered against the cold floor.

The mansion didn’t feel asleep. It felt like it was waiting.

You passed the entryway, then the darkened dining room. The soft glow of security lights caught edges of polished furniture and glass frames. No alarms. No staff.

Just you and your heartbeat.

The gallery doors weren't locked. You pushed open one gently, its heaviness threatening to louden and eventually crept inside through the small crevice.

Still. Silent. Cold. until–

There it was again. A faint rustle. You scanned the room, gaze sweeping the series of grey landscapes. Familiar now. Their melancholy palette interrupted only by that single, jarring yellow stroke in each canvas.

Your fingers hovered in the air as you moved toward the far wall. The one painting that had drawn you back. You stepped closer.

And there it was: the seam. A thin, imperfect line splitting the wall behind the frame, just slightly to the right.

You started at it, breath shallow. It wasn’t your imagination. This wasn't just an irregularity in the paneling. The paint was different around it–like something has been sealed.

You lifted your hand–

And then a voice, quiet and deliberate, behind you:

“You’re not supposed to be here.” you froze.

Seonghwa.

Standing a few feet behind you, still dressed in his dark suit, unbuttoned now. His hair slightly tousled and eyes unreadable.

“I heard something,” you said, turning to face him. “I couldn't sleep.”

Seonghwa stepped closer, unbothered, as if you’d merely commented on the weather. His voice was calm–light, even.

“Old houses,” he said with a soft smile. “The air conditioning pipes shift at night. Pressure builds up, especially when the temperature drops. It echoes through the walls.”

You hesitated. Something in you didn’t quite buy it–but he looked so sure. So at ease. His eyes scanned your face gently. “You’re curious. That’s natural,” he added, this time like consolation, not a confession.

Before you could ask more, his hand brushed a piece of lint from your sleeve. The gesture was oddly intimate. Disarming.

“Come back to bed,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You watched him, letting the silence stretch, “the pipes,” you repeated, nodding slowly. “Right.”

Seonghwa smiled, just a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Of course. I had them replaced last winter, but this house likes to make itself known.”

You forced a light laugh, folding your arms. “Well, it certainly has personality.”

He stepped closer, his bare hand grazing your wrist as if by accident. “Don’t let it scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” you lied.

His eyes dropped to where your arms were crossed—like he was reading you in real time. Every blink, every breath, every thread of doubt in your voice.

“I believe you,” he said, but the words were honeyed and amused, like he didn’t believe you at all.

His gaze lingered just a second too long. Then he turned, hand resting briefly on the gallery door. “Come on. You shouldn’t be cold and barefoot at this hour.”

You nodded and followed, silently allowing him to guide you out.

Back in your room, he paused at the threshold once again, eyes sweeping over you like a question he hadn’t asked aloud.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, voice softer now.

“Sleep well,” you offered.

He nodded once and closed the door behind him without another word.

You stood there, heart hammering.

The pipes.

He hadn’t even asked which sound you meant. Or which painting you’d stood in front of. Or how you’d gotten in without setting off an alarm.

As if he already knew.

You sat on the edge of the bed, gaze drawn back to the corner of your room. The ceiling vent was silent. Not a single groan from the so-called shifting pipes.

Still, you didn’t go back to the gallery. Not tonight.

You lay back in bed and stared up at the ceiling, the image of that yellow stripe haunting your thoughts like a warning.

Not scared, you’d said.

But if that had been true… Why did it suddenly feel like every part of this villa had eyes?

@etherealcherrie @cromerstudios @velvetdolor

[velvetdolor]

….. (it’s just a tiny snippet fae…. not tooooo much of a spoiler)

:’)

Siren, fae and smt posting every other day and piling me up with stuff to read 😭😭😭

[velvetdolor]

// Franz Kafka

[velvetdolor]

LMAOOOO we’re like. the holy trinity of insomnia but at least we haven’t released any of the 10k-15k one shots we have planned for a collab…yet

Siren, fae and smt posting every other day and piling me up with stuff to read 😭😭😭