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WHAT WAS THAT? HELLO?

⊹Ghost⊹ | Choi Su-bong

⊹Pairing: Choi Su-bong (Thanos) x The Reader

⊹Summary: a broken girl gives everything to the boy she's loved her whole life, only to fall into tragedy when he can't give anything back

⊹Warnings: emotional abuse, sexual content, self-harm, eating disorders, suicide, and toxic relationships

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You don’t remember what city you’re in—only that the streetlights outside Su-bong’s apartment flicker like dying stars and that your heart has been beating too loud since the show ended.

His voice is still echoing through you. Raw. Raspy. Angry. Alive. The crowd worshipped him, chanting his name like a gospel, drowning in bass and flashing lights. But you were the only one who noticed the slight tremor in his hand when he passed the mic, the way his jaw clenched tight when the spotlight hit.

You followed him home. Like always.

The night air is thick with silence as you walk beside him. He doesn’t reach for your hand. Never has. But you keep your steps in rhythm with his, like maybe he’ll notice that you remember how he walks when he’s hurting. You glance sideways at him under the dull neon buzz of a convenience store sign. His hood is pulled low, casting shadows over his face. All sharp edges. Hollow eyes.

He doesn’t speak until he’s unlocking the door to his apartment.

“You coming in or just planning to stand there like a ghost?”

The words sting more than they should. You step in quickly.

His apartment is a dim cave of cigarette ash, half-empty soju bottles, and lyrics scribbled on napkins and pizza boxes. The curtains are drawn, the air stale. There’s incense burning on the windowsill—sandalwood and sorrow.

He shrugs off his coat and lets it fall to the floor.

“You looked pathetic out there,” he mutters, moving to the kitchen to grab a drink. “Standing in the crowd like some obsessed fan.”

You flinch.

“I just wanted to see you perform,” you say softly.

“You’ve already seen me perform a hundred times.”

You force a smile. “I moved three times this year. Just to be closer.”

He turns slowly, leaning against the counter, glass in hand. The look in his eyes isn’t anger. It’s worse. It’s indifference.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The silence after is brutal. It claws at your throat, makes your hands shake. You want to scream, or cry, or grab him and shake the numbness out of him. Instead, you whisper, “I know.”

And then he’s kissing you. Hard. Urgent. Not tender. His mouth bruises, his hands grip like vices, fingertips digging into your hips like he wants to anchor himself in the pain. It’s breathless, desperate—a collision more than a kiss. He tastes like vodka and menthol, all sharpness and bite. It feels like he’s trying to erase something—maybe himself, maybe you. You let him. Because if you’re honest, even pain is something when it comes from him.

He spins you roughly, your thighs catching the edge of the counter as he lifts you onto it with a grunt. The cold tile bites into your back, and a sharp clatter fills the room as a half-empty bottle of soju topples, crashing to the floor in an explosion of glass. Neither of you look down. He doesn’t even flinch.

His hands roam like they’re searching for something buried beneath your skin. He kisses like he raps—fast, unrelenting, messy with emotion. His tongue tangles with yours, desperate and angry, teeth occasionally clashing. Your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt, bunching it in your fists, because this is the only moment he touches you like you matter.

His voice is ragged when he speaks, broken between gasps.

“You only exist when I want you.” He rips your dress off. Buttons pop, scatter like bones across tile.

“You think dressing up makes me care?”

“You’re good for one thing, and it ain’t love.”

"I know." You whisper.

The words fall from your lips like a confession. He stills for a second. Then his mouth is back on yours. Desperate. Angry.

Your throat tightens, but you keep your eyes on him. Always. You memorize the way the light hits his cheekbone, the flicker in his pupils. You drink it in like poison. It’s still him. Still your Su-bong. Somewhere under the venom.

He pulls back from your mouth, panting, pupils blown wide. His hands slip down to your thighs and lift you off the counter with a grunt, his grip firm but trembling. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your bodies collide again, half-naked and gasping, as he stumbles blindly through the narrow hallway.

The world becomes a blur of breath and sweat and desperation. You knock against walls, shoulders grazing framed photos with curled edges. His mouth finds your neck. You arch into it, clutching the fabric of his shirt until it's tugged free. He kicks open the bedroom door with a careless shove.

You fall into the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat. The sheets are rumpled, the air thick with incense and leftover smoke. He pauses at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, and looks at you like he’s trying to see through you. His lips are red from kissing, his knuckles white from gripping. You feel the heat between you—more than physical, it’s desperation, fear, longing, shame.

“I can’t think,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You reach up and touch his jaw, tentative, like he might shatter. “Then don’t think.”

He exhales, a broken sound, and collapses into you.

You tumble back together, all friction and aching breath. The bed creaks as you fall into it, bodies tangling in a knot of raw hunger. His fingers trace the edge of your ribs, linger on the hollow space between your collarbones, like he can feel the things you gave up just to be here.

“You starved yourself for me,” he whispers suddenly, not a question. His lips press against the corner of your mouth. “That’s fucked.”

“So fuck me,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “Make it worth it.”

He curses under his breath, grabbing your waist like he’s angry with himself. You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his hips, holding on to this terrible tenderness.

There is no ceremony. No pretense. Just the sound of your breath and the way your bodies meet like waves crashing into rock. A raw need to forget, to feel, to burn it all down.

Later, you lie in his bed, body sore, heart bruised, staring at the cracked ceiling. He’s already halfway out of reach. Smoking at the window, back turned.

“Do I make you feel anything?” you whisper. “Even a little?”

He exhales a cloud of smoke. “You make me feel tired.”

You get up without a word. The sheet slips from your body like silk and shame. You walk to the balcony and step out into the cold. The city below hums like a distant lullaby, glittering and indifferent.

You sit on the railing, legs dangling, a cigarette trembling between your fingers.

He joins you. Naked, too. The night wraps around you both like a secret you can’t tell anyone. His hand finds your waist. Loose. Present. Barely.

“I stopped eating, chewed on ice,” you say. You try to make it sound light, but it lands heavy. “Not because I wanted to. Just... felt like I had to. To look like the girls you like. To be someone you might actually see.”

Su-bong doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches. Unbearable.

“I didn’t ask you to do that either,” he mutters finally, voice low.

You laugh, a bitter, cracked sound. “I know. I know you didn’t. But I did it anyway. I did everything. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Your voice breaks. You hate how small it sounds.

“I gave you all the pretty parts of me. Starved away the soft. Painted my lips red. Wore the dresses you liked on other women. I thought if I became your dream, maybe you’d look at me like I was real.”

The cigarette slips from your fingers.

You feel his hand tighten around your waist, just slightly.

“Don’t,” he says.

You lean back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

“Let me go,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. His grip on your waist tightens for a moment, trembling. You can feel his breath catch against your shoulder. But he still says nothing.

You tilt your head, just enough to glimpse his face in the faint light. He looks at you the way people look at ghosts—like he’s already mourning something lost.

And then, you lean.

The air shifts.

His arms jerk around you too late.

Your body slips through his hands like water.

He screams your name, hoarse and broken, the sound ripped from somewhere deep. The night swallows it. A dull thud echoes below.

For the first time, Su-bong crumbles.

He stays at the edge, knees buckling, face pale and hollow under the city’s glow. Smoke still clings to the air.

And he finally says your name—not like a curse, not like a command, but like a prayer.

Too late.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath@lovelycarmenn @tabibabib

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360 ◎ Choi Seung-Hyun

◎ Summary: In the neon-lit heart of Seoul, two fierce rivals—an edgy gallery owner and a sharp-tongued artist—circulate dangerously close in a high-stakes orbit of competition, teasing and tormenting each other with barbed words and heated glances, until one electric night breaks down their walls, and enemies become something far more complicated.

◎ Warnings: features intense sexual tension, biting/teasing banter, power dynamics, and enemies-to-lovers vibes. please read responsibly if you’re comfortable with heat and a little bit of chaos

◎ Peaches' note: i'm so excited for this brat summer challenge! please show a lot of love to these amazing writers who are participating in this. and separate, the biggest thank you to @gdinthehouseee! i'm so thankful to you for seeing my work and inviting me! <3

◎◎◎

You saw him before you heard him. Seung-Hyun had a presence that didn't just walk into rooms—it claimed them. Tall, sharp-suited, cigarette always dangling from his fingers like an afterthought, he was the kind of chaos that came wrapped in velvet.

"You're in my spot, Jagiya," he murmured, his voice like silk drenched in smoke, standing over you with that lopsided smirk that had already ruined a dozen women and at least two men. He was all expensive indifference, the kind of man who made even defiance feel like foreplay.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned back in the black leather barstool, the dim gold lighting glinting off the crystal in your drink, and crossed your legs in a deliberate, languid motion. The slit in your silk dress shifted higher. "I made it better. You're welcome."

His eyes dipped, unapologetically, lingering just a breath too long before finding yours again. "Arrogant. I like that. Suits you."

"You should try it sometime. Oh wait, you already did."

He laughed then—a low, dangerous thing, like a drum roll before an explosion, like he was one second away from either kissing you or lighting a match to the room.

The city pulsed around you both, neon lights casting green and blue shadows across his chiseled jawline. He looked like sin dressed in couture. You were no saint either.

Everyone in Seoul knew your names. You were rivals in the art world. His edgy gallery, your provocative installations. He sold allure; you sold meaning. But when your eyes met across rooms, parties, exhibitions, there was always that electricity—that magnetic pull, like two stars in a tight orbit, constantly threatening to crash.

You hated how well he knew it.

"Tell me," he drawled, swirling the drink in his glass, "how does it feel to orbit me?"

You leaned in, letting your perfume mix with his expensive cologne. "You wish. But you’re just spinning because I make the world tilt."

It was always like this. Biting. Banter that scorched.

The penthouse in Cheongdam was glittering with Seoul’s elite. Models, influencers, art dealers, actors. A DJ spun something dark and bass-heavy. The walls were draped in crimson velvet, and champagne flowed like liquid gold.

You wore black silk and danger—a sinfully backless dress that clung to you like temptation itself, the slit climbing high up your thigh, a silent challenge. He wore midnight blue velvet, his signature arrogance stitched into every inch of fabric, from the open collar to the slow, deliberate way he sipped his whiskey.

When you walked in, every head turned, but his eyes locked on you like he’d been waiting all night. Calculated. Intense. Like a sniper choosing his shot.

"Did you dress like that to impress me or destroy me?" he asked, suddenly at your side, voice low enough to skim the shell of your ear. You could feel the heat from his body through the mere inches between you.

You sipped from your champagne flute, letting the bubbles glide across your tongue. Your smile curved slow and dangerous. "Why not both?"

He leaned closer until his breath warmed your neck, a whisper of scent—cologne, smoke, something darker. "You know this tension between us? It’s practically art."

You turned your head, and your lips almost brushed. Noses nearly touching. The energy between you buzzed, electric, unyielding.

"Too bad you're not the type to appreciate true art. Just things you can hang up and claim."

He gave a low chuckle, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his tailored trousers. "You calling yourself a masterpiece, Cheonsa?"

Your eyes didn’t waver. "No," you said, voice low as a blade in silk. "A weapon."

A beat of silence passed. Then another. He licked his lower lip, as if imagining exactly how you'd wound him. And you knew—he would let you.

"God, I love a little blood in my art," he said finally, eyes burning.

You turned away with a flick of your wrist, but not before letting your fingers brush the back of his hand—barely there, a whisper. Just enough to promise more.

The conversation flared with every word, all sharp edges and coiled heat. He followed you through the crowd like a shadow stitched to your heels, his eyes never once breaking from your silhouette. Every step you took, he trailed—close, deliberate, like a storm that hadn't yet decided whether it would kiss or strike.

When you danced—hips swaying to the bass-heavy rhythm, your eyes locked on his over the rim of your glass—he didn’t blink. He leaned against the velvet-draped wall, watching with that predator stillness that made your skin spark. The room could have caught fire and he wouldn't have noticed. Not when you moved like that.

When he laughed with another woman, his fingers brushing the low back of a leggy actress, you didn’t flinch. But your retaliation was surgical. You crossed the floor like you owned it and let your touch graze the arm of a rival collector, whispered something in his ear that made him blush and nod like a schoolboy. You didn’t look back—but you felt it. The way Seung-Hyun’s jaw tensed, the shift in his posture. You were playing a game, and he knew it.

Then, just as you were about to disappear into the crowd, a voice purred behind you.

"Careful," Seung-Hyun said, his breath tickling your ear. "You're not the only one who knows how to make someone jealous."

You turned, lips inches from his. "Good. I’d hate to play alone."

He tilted his head, eyes dark and hungry. "Just admit it. You love when I chase."

You smirked, dragging a manicured nail down the lapel of his jacket. "No, Seung-Hyun. I love when you almost catch me."

And then you slipped away again—leaving behind your perfume and a grin that promised hell.

But eventually, you found each other again on a balcony overlooking the Seoul skyline.

He handed you another drink. "You keep running."

"You keep chasing."

"Maybe we like it this way."

You looked at him. Really looked.

And then, silence. The kind that throbs between two people right before something breaks.

He leaned against the railing, the Seoul skyline stretching behind him like a dream blurred by neon. You stood beside him, the cold air biting at your shoulders, your drink half-forgotten in your hand.

"You always run hot and cold," he said after a moment, not looking at you. "Like you want to dare me, but you're afraid of what happens if I call your bluff."

You turned toward him, letting your body angle close enough that your perfume tangled in the space between you. "I’m not afraid of you, Seung-Hyun. Never was."

His gaze snapped to yours. "Then why are we still dancing around this?"

You studied him—the subtle clench of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes that belied his calm. He was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful. Elegant. Deadly.

"Maybe I like the build-up. The tension. The almost." You set your glass down on the ledge without breaking eye contact. "It’s like foreplay."

He stepped in then, slow and deliberate, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. "So stop pretending."

The balcony shrank around you. His hand slid around your waist. Your breath hitched.

"Say it," he murmured.

You whispered, "I want you."

That was all it took. The air shifted. His mouth was on yours, hands tangled in your hair, hips pressing you against the railing like he couldn’t stand another second of restraint.

Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. The city went on without you. But in that moment, you were gravity. You were the storm.

And you knew exactly where the night was headed.

You ended up in the back of his car. Glass tinted. City lights streaking past in a blur of neon pinks and electric blue. The hum of the engine was nothing compared to the pulse thrumming between your bodies.

He slammed the door behind you, and before the driver could even glance in the rearview, a dark divider slid up with a mechanical hush. Privacy cloaked you both like smoke.

Seung-Hyun was on you before the first red light. His hands found your waist, dragging you across the seat until you straddled him, the silk of your dress bunching around your hips.

"You’re trouble," he growled, fingers slipping under your slip, warm palms gliding over bare skin.

You arched into him, lips brushing his, teasing. "And you’re addicted to it."

"Can’t argue with that." His mouth captured yours in a kiss that was all teeth and heat, his tongue sweeping past your lips like he was staking a claim. You matched him bite for bite, tugging his hair hard enough to make him hiss.

His hands roamed with purpose, cupping your ass, lifting you so your core pressed down against the hardness beneath his tailored pants. He dragged your dress higher until the fabric was nothing but a suggestion. "You think you’re in control," he rasped, his fingers finding the heat between your thighs, the wet proof of how long this tension had simmered.

You ground against his palm with a gasp. "I don’t need control. I have you."

The laugh he gave was guttural, low and wrecked. "Fuck, you drive me insane."

Clothes unraveled in hurried whispers. Buttons popped. Your panties slid off, forgotten. He fisted your hair, pulling your head back to kiss the column of your throat while his other hand gripped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

You rocked against him, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles that had him cursing in Korean under his breath. "You’re a fucking menace," he whispered against your skin.

"Then ruin me, Seung-Hyun," you dared, nails dragging down his chest.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He shifted you over, pressing you against the seat. Leather squeaked beneath you, windows fogging up as heat filled the car. When he entered you, it wasn’t gentle. It was need—sharp, immediate, and unrelenting.

You cried out his name, clinging to him as he thrust deep, again and again, hitting you where it hurt in the most perfect way. Each motion was a challenge. Each gasp, a surrender. The rhythm of your bodies was urgent, primal—music set to war drums.

"Look at me," he ordered, gripping your chin as you tried to close your eyes. "Let me see what I do to you."

And you did. You met his gaze. What you saw there wasn’t just lust—it was history, obsession, hate, hunger, and something dangerously close to reverence.

You clenched around him, the wave crashing through you, and your moan was his name, drawn out and raw.

He followed, head falling to your shoulder as he gasped your name like a prayer.

Afterward, tangled and breathless, his hand brushed your thigh, lazy and possessive. "This doesn’t change anything."

You traced a finger down the hard line of his chest, nails light. "Of course not. We’re still enemies."

He smirked. "Enemies who fuck."

"Enemies who orbit," you corrected, voice honey-laced and satisfied.

And he kissed you again—slow this time, reverent. Like he knew this was just one revolution.

Because 360 doesn’t end. It just keeps turning.

challenge taglist: @szonyix6277 @aizshallnotbefound @keiraryan @sternilei

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Tenth Circle Of Hell ◎ Choi Seung-hyun

◎ Summary: During a late-night hangout at Ji-yong's penthouse, playful conversations about sex take a darker, more intimate turn when Seung-hyun sets his sights on redefining what "hell" truly feels like.

◎ Warnings: almost sex, orgasm denial, power play, teasing, a bit of mature language, i guess

◎◎◎◎◎

The velvet night outside Ji-yong's penthouse window stretched like spilled ink across the skyline, Seoul glittering below like a bed of scattered diamonds. Inside, laughter echoed off polished marble and glass, warm and unrestrained, swirling around you like the scent of Seung-hyun's vintage wine—bold, complex, and entirely too easy to indulge in.

You were curled into a corner of the expansive leather sectional, your legs tucked under you, a half-full glass of something red and ruinous balanced in your hand. Around you, your friends sprawled in various states of delight and disarray—Jiyong with his feet propped up on a designer ottoman, Mina doubled over in laughter, her head on her boyfriend's lap, and Seung-hyun, lounging too gracefully across the rug, his eyes lazily watching the room from beneath heavy lids.

The conversation had long since drifted from work. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the low hum of the playlist Jiyong had put on, full of songs with bass lines that thrummed right through your spine. Or maybe it was just the safety of friendship, that unique invincibility that only blossoms when everyone is a little tipsy and the night is soft and forgiving.

"Okay but seriously," Mina giggled, "how do people actually do downward dog in the shower without pulling a hamstring?"

"It's all about angles," Jiyong replied, surprisingly earnestly. "And non-slip mats. Very underrated."

"Eye contact during a blowjob," you said, swirling your wine, "romantic or deeply unsettling?"

"Romantic if you're into soul-searching," Mina shot back. "Unsettling if your mascara is running."

"God, yes," groaned Mina's boyfriend. "Like a raccoon in heat."

Jiyong laughed so hard he almost spilled his wine. "Okay, okay. What about rhythm versus spontaneity? Like, should good sex be well-paced or completely chaotic?"

"Both," Mina said without hesitation. "Structured chaos. Like jazz."

You nearly dropped your glass laughing. "Jazz sex. Got it."

The conversation devolved from there into an enthusiastic ranking of sex positions as if they were basketball league draft picks. Mina picked cowgirl first. Jiyong countered with spooning, citing emotional depth. Someone shouted "doggy for the win!" and the room exploded.

The air was thick with too-loud laughs, flushed cheeks, and mock-scandalized gasps. You took another sip of wine and let your head fall back against the couch, grinning into the ceiling, warmed by the comfort of being able to talk about anything and everything without shame.

"It is the tenth circle of hell," you announced suddenly, without thinking, "when you find the love of your life, but the sex is intensely meh."

For a split second, the room inhaled.

Then: an explosion of noise.

Jiyong howled. Mina nearly choked on her drink. Someone slapped a cushion. You flushed, your grin widening in half-mortified glee, but you didn’t take it back. Why should you? It was true. It was brutally, painfully true.

But not everyone was laughing.

Across the room, Choi Seung-hyun hadn’t moved. His glass was suspended mid-air, that lazy, unreadable smirk twitching just slightly at the corner of his mouth. His eyes met yours across the flickering candlelight and didn’t waver.

"Tenth circle of hell?" he murmured later, when the others had retreated into giggles and side conversations.

You blinked. "Yeah. You know. Like, Dante didn't write it, but he should've."

"Hm," he said, taking a slow sip of his wine, his gaze still pinned to you. "Sounds like you need a new definition of hell."

He didn’t smile.

And in that moment, with the air between you humming like a struck match, you realized: Seung-hyun wasn't laughing because he was planning something far more wicked than words.

Later, the silence of your apartment was a different kind of intoxicating. No music, no laughter, just the low thrum of your heartbeat in your ears as you unlocked the door and stepped inside, Seung-hyun close behind you. The wine still burned pleasantly in your bloodstream, but it was his gaze that set your skin alight.

You turned to say something—you didn't know what, maybe a quip, maybe something about the ridiculousness of the night—but the words caught in your throat. He was too close. Not touching you, but there, in that magnetic field just before contact.

He took one step.

Then another.

And you stepped back until your spine met the cool plaster of your hallway wall.

He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

One hand braced beside your head, the other curling gently around your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"You talk a lot," he murmured, his voice low, deep, almost lazy. 

Then he kissed you—not soft, not tentative. Demanding. Full of promise and something darker.

He kissed you like a secret. Like a challenge. Like he meant to undo every smug, resigned thing you'd ever said about lackluster love.

Your fingers found his shirt, clutching the fabric as his body pressed into yours, pinning you to the wall in a way that made it impossible to think, to breathe, to be anywhere but here. Heat coiled in your belly, sharp and sudden. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tilting your chin higher like he owned you, like he was just getting started.

His lips left yours only to trail a slow, maddening path along your jaw to your throat. His breath was warm. His words were colder.

"Tell me something," he said between kisses, each syllable brushing against your skin like velvet. "Am I not the love of your life..."

A pause, his hand skimming beneath the hem of your shirt, dragging his knuckles up your bare side until you shivered.

"Or is the sex... actually meh?"

You choked on a breath, a half-laugh slipping from you before it turned into a low moan as he pressed his hips harder into yours.

"Seung-hyun..."

He looked up, his eyes gleaming with something too amused, too feral. "Answer me."

"You—"

He silenced you with another kiss, slower this time, more possessive. His tongue teased at the edge of yours, retreating, advancing, until you were chasing it, drunk on the taste of him, the feel of him, the weight of anticipation thrumming in every nerve.

"Because," he murmured against your lips, "if you think this is 'meh'... you haven't even stepped into hell yet."

His hand was under your thigh now, pulling it up, guiding your leg around his waist. Then the other. You let him. You wanted to. You wanted him to prove it. All of it. That love didn’t have to mean boredom. That sex didn’t have to fade into familiarity. That hell could be heat and teeth and fingers digging into your hips like you were the only thing he wanted to destroy tonight.

You moaned his name, half a prayer, half a challenge of your own.

And when he finally lifted you, carrying you toward your bedroom like a man with a mission, you realized: hell wasn’t cold.

Your back met the edge of the bed as Seung-hyun approached, the air shifting with him, as if the room obeyed the rhythm of his breathing.

You reached for him, aching. But he caught your wrist mid-motion, not unkindly, and brought your hand to his lips, kissing the pulse point softly.

"You're so impatient," he murmured, smile barely there. "But I like that. It means you'll break beautifully."

Heat rushed under your skin.

He didn’t rush. He undressed you in slow gradients, each inch of skin revealed like a secret, like he was memorizing you with reverence and something darker. His gaze never left yours, anchoring you even when you trembled.

When his hands finally slid over bare skin, the contact was maddeningly gentle. He didn’t grope or grab; he caressed, explored, stroked until your nerves were alight and every breath felt heavy with need.

Lips to neck. Teeth to shoulder. His breath at your ear.

“You look like you’re already there,” he said lowly, brushing his fingers just above where you wanted him. “But you’re not. Not even close.”

He coaxed you down onto the bed, taking his time. His mouth trailed heat from your collarbone to your stomach, every inch a study in restraint. You moved beneath him, desperate, greedy, but he kept you still with a hand splayed against your hip.

When he finally touched you where it mattered, it was slow. 

Seung-hyun’s hand was between your thighs, spreading you open with firm, practiced confidence. He looked down at you, half-lidded eyes glowing with amusement and hunger.

“You’re soaked,” he said, almost admiringly. “And I haven’t even given you anything real yet.”

His thumb brushed over your clit in slow, deliberate circles. You jerked in response, a moan breaking out of you before you could stop it.

“Already that sensitive?” he murmured. “We’ve barely started.”

He slid one finger inside you, curling them expertly as his thumb never stopped circling your clit. The pressure was maddening. Perfect. You gasped, arching up into him.

“Yes—please—”

“Shh,” he cooed, kissing your throat. “Not yet, Jagi. You’re not even close to falling apart the way I want.”

He added another finger, his movements steady, building a rhythm that had your hips moving on their own. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

Your orgasm rose, fierce and unrelenting, teetering on the brink.

Then he pulled out.

You cried out, the sudden emptiness a brutal contrast to the heat he'd stirred inside you.

“Don’t pout,” he whispered against your skin. “You’ll come. Just not now. Maybe not tonight.”

He climbed between your thighs, licking you with deliberate, devastating strokes. His tongue was wicked, his mouth merciless. He sucked your clit into his mouth, gently, then harder, just enough to make you sob his name.

“Seung-hyun, please—I need to—”

He lifted his head, lips glistening. “You think begging gets you what you want? No, Jagiya. Begging gets me what I want.”

He stood, unzipping his pants. His cock was hard, flushed, and dripping. He stroked it slowly, watching your eyes follow the movement.

“You want it?” he asked, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He pushed in an inch, then pulled out.

You whined.

He did it again. And again. Never fully giving you what you needed.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That ache? That empty, desperate stretch in your belly? That’s mine..”

Then he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “And I’m not taking it away yet.”

He thrust again, this time deeper, slow and purposeful. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Please, please let me—”

He silenced you with a kiss, devouring your mouth as he rolled his hips once more, dragging the head of his cock along your slick walls.

“Not yet,” he growled.

He picked up a rhythm—controlled, relentless. He brought you back to the edge, made you feel the tremor start in your legs, the tightening in your core. You were right there.

And again, he stopped.

Your body shook with the effort of holding back what he denied.

“Please, I can’t—”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, towering over you. The other hand traced down your stomach slowly.

“You can. And you will. You’ll take everything I give you—and nothing more.”

He leaned down, kissed you hard, then pressed the flat of his palm against your clit and held it there. The pressure was maddening, unbearable.

Your thighs trembled, your breath came in gasps.

“Beg prettier,” he said, his voice low and merciless.

“Seung-hyun—please, let me come, I need it—I need you—”

He released your wrists, lifted himself off the bed, and stood at the edge, watching you fall apart with hunger in his eyes.

“Not tonight,” he said.

He pulled his shirt back on, his pants already zipped, his cock still hard as he adjusted himself with maddening calm.

Minutes passed—or hours; He drove you toward the edge over and over, only to pull you back with maddening control. He made you feel each moment stretch into torment, each near-release a cruel reminder that you weren't in charge.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"You’re going to lie awake tonight and feel this every time you close your eyes. That pressure in your belly. That empty ache."

His hand pressed flat against your stomach, just above your heat. “It’ll burn here. Low. Heavy. And you’ll remember I put it there.”

Your body bucked, needing more, anything—

Hell burned.

The heat of his mouth had mapped every inch of your skin, you lay breathless, trembling, your body alive with the echoes of everything he'd done and everything he hadn't yet.

Seung-hyun leaned over you, his breath still shallow, but his smirk very much intact. He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder, slow and deliberate.

Then he stood, stretching as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren’t still weak, your chest still rising in uneven waves.

You blinked up at him, stunned and aching, your body still begging for release that hadn’t come.

At the doorway, he paused, glancing back at you with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You wanted a new definition of hell?" he said, voice low and smooth as sin. "Try this: your entire body is on fire, every nerve raw, your pulse a thunderstorm in your veins... and you don’t get to come."

He grinned, cruel and beautiful. "That, Jagiya, is the tenth circle."

[peachesclose]

Smoke Over Seoul ◎ Kwon Ji-yong

◎ Summary: The reader follows her lover, Ji-yong, to Seoul after a whirlwind romance in Paris, only to discover she was never the only one.

◎ Warnings: angst, "GYRO - DROP" chorus

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

You still remember the first time you saw him—lit in gold by the fading Parisian sun, standing on the steps of Palais de Tokyo. His head turned just so, lips slightly parted in a private smile, dressed in an impossibly tailored Chanel suit that made him look more artwork than man. The air around him shimmered with attention, cameras clicking like insects in summer. But he had eyes only for you.

You hadn’t planned to meet anyone, let alone Ji-yong, the muse of a generation. You were in Paris for work—freelance writing, fashion week coverage, trying to break through. You met at a gallery party, tucked away in the 7th arrondissement. You laughed at the same things, shared a table at dinner when a reservation fell through. He asked you to go bowling the next night—of all things—and you went, still wearing your kitten heels and slightly tipsy off rosé.

The bowling alley was underground, dimly lit with purple neon and '80s pop playing through old speakers. He showed up wearing a beanie low over his brows and an oversized hoodie, trying to go unnoticed but failing miserably. You rented matching clown-colored shoes, and he challenged you to a bet: if you won, he'd write a song about you. If he won, you'd have to teach him to cook something Western.

He threw gutterballs and called it "avant-garde technique." You laughed so hard, your ribs ached. He insisted he was letting you win, even as he tripped over his own shoelaces trying to do a trick shot.

When the game was done and he’d lost spectacularly, he looked over at you, playful but sincere.

"So," he said, tapping a note into his phone. "Title: Gyro-Drop."

That night, outside the alley, the spring chill wrapped around the two of you. He leaned close as you pulled your coat tighter.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispered.

And then he kissed you—tentative at first, like asking a question with his lips. When you kissed him back, it deepened, became something slow and aching. His hand rested against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if to memorize the feel of you.

You made out under a flickering streetlamp, the city fading around you.

It was the first warm day in weeks. You packed sandwiches from a deli near your apartment, and he brought a bottle of wine and an old fleece blanket. You sat by the river as boats drifted by, the water glinting under the late afternoon sun.

He laid his head in your lap and looked up at you.

"If we met in another life," he said, "do you think we'd still find each other?"

You blinked down at him. "Maybe we already did."

He closed his eyes, his lashes dark fans on his cheeks. "That's beautiful," he whispered.

Later, when the wine made everything soft, he kissed you again, long and slow. Your hands in his hair, his arms pulling you into him. You tasted laughter, sunshine, and something deeper—hope, maybe.

The relationship grew in stolen hours and timezone glitches. Messages at midnight. Video calls that stretched until morning. He’d send you voice notes of unfinished lyrics, random thoughts while driving, sleepy hellos from backstage green rooms.

You would tell him about your day—the coffee shop with the rude barista, the dog that tried to follow you home, the article you were proud of. He always listened. Or at least, he used to.

At first, he seemed grateful for the escape you offered. With you, he wasn't an icon. He was Ji. Just Ji.

But as the months passed, something changed. Messages came slower. His words more guarded. He'd disappear for a day, sometimes two, and when he came back, he always said it was "hectic schedule," "bad signal," "too tired to talk."

You ignored the red flags. You remembered the way he looked at you in Paris, the way he laughed at your jokes. You told yourself he was just busy.

Then came the moment that snapped it all.

You broke your lease, sold off books and furniture, condensed your life into two suitcases. He had sounded excited on the phone.

"Finally, we can just be," he had said. "No more screens between us."

Seoul in spring was a dream—streets blooming with cherry blossoms, couples holding hands by the Han River, the smell of roasted chestnuts in the air. Ji-yong picked you up at the airport in disguise, but his eyes still gave him away.

The first week was bliss. Late-night walks, secret dinners, his hand curled around yours in the back of cabs. He sang to you once, half-dressed and barefoot in his kitchen.

"I never wrote that song," he murmured. "The one from the bowling alley. But the melody's still in my head."

You smiled. "Then finish it. I'm right here now."

But his eyes didn't meet yours.

It was at a rooftop café in Itaewon where your world cracked. You were supposed to meet him for brunch. You arrived early, your heart full and foolish, holding your breath when you saw the back of his head at the far end of the terrace.

You walked toward your table—only to stop in your tracks.

He was already there.

With her.

She was elegant, composed, with the kind of beauty that doesn’t beg for attention. Her hand rested easily over his, like it belonged there. She leaned in, said something that made him laugh—a familiar, carefree laugh that used to be yours. It rang in your ears like betrayal.

You froze. She saw you first.

Her gaze swept over you, calm and assessing. Then she turned back to him and murmured something. Ji-yong turned.

His smile died.

For a moment, time collapsed. You saw every kiss, every call, every promise—and all the lies behind them.

You turned and walked away, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. Behind you, chairs scraped. But he didn’t follow.

Not right away.

He came to your apartment that night. Rain soaking his clothes, his hoodie clinging to him like second skin. He looked ruined. You let him in.

He tried to speak, but you held up a hand.

You needed this to be yours.

"You should have told me. You should have told me I wasn’t the only one.

All those nights in Paris, all those promises—I wasn’t asking for a perfect love, Ji. Just an honest one. I crossed oceans for you. I built a future in my head and planted it in this city’s soil like it could grow into something real.

But I was just a chapter, wasn’t I? A secret scribbled in the margins of your life while someone else got the cover story.

Do you know what that feels like?

Do you know what it’s like to walk into a room and realize you were the knife, not the hand?

I loved you. And you made me a lie.

You made us a lie."

He dropped to his knees, shaking. "I didn’t know how to end it. I didn’t know what to do. I thought… I thought I could fix it all. But it was you. It was always you."

You stepped back. "No. If it had been, we wouldn’t be standing in the ruins."

And then, gently, finally, you closed the door behind him.

You still live in Seoul. Small apartment, quiet street. You’ve started writing again. Real things. Sharp things. Stories that bleed a little.

Sometimes, you hear his songs. You recognize a phrase you once said, a note from a voice memo you sent. Once, at a coffee shop, the radio played a track from his new album.

It was called "GYRO-DROP."

Your breath caught.

But it wasn’t what you imagined. It wasn't tender. It wasn't about love. It was raw, almost violent in its eroticism—a pounding beat, lyrics full of teasing double meanings. The chorus? "Ride me like a carousel. Spin me like a Ferris wheel. The way you fuck me, baby, it ain't fai."

Your mouth tasted bitter. The title he once whispered in the dark, tied to a moment you thought sacred, was now just another notch in his sensual mythos. A mistress song.

And yet… your name wasn’t in it. Not directly. But the world knew who had inspired it. And in that exposure, you felt yourself unravel all over again.

Somewhere across the city, Ji-yong lay awake.

He never listened to that track. Not anymore. He couldn't.

It wasn't the song he meant to write.

He remembered you in Paris—the way your laughter rang through narrow alleys, the wine on your breath, the warmth of your hand curled in his. He had meant to write a ballad. Something soft. Something true.

But by the time he tried, you were already gone.

The label wanted a hit. He gave them a fantasy.

But in the quiet moments—in the space between shows, between lights, between lies—he played the real melody in his mind. The one he never finished.

And he wondered if you would’ve stayed, if he’d written that song instead.

But when the wind rushes through the city at night, brushing past lantern-lit alleyways and quiet riversides, you let yourself think of him.

Not with longing.

With truth.

Because he was real.

And so were you.

Like smoke over Seoul—there, then gone, but never forgotten.

[peachesclose]

Us ◎ Kwon Ji-yong

◎ Summary: A whirlwind year of secret mornings, stolen kisses, and shared dreams with Ji-yong turns into a quiet rebellion against time—where love dares to skip the middle and rush headfirst into forever.

◎ Warnings: only cuteness

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

You never expected to fall in love with a man who lives between time zones and headlines.

But here you are, heart racing, knees curled beneath you on a velvet hotel couch in Paris, watching Ji-yong pace the length of the suite like he’s about to walk on stage. Not for a show. For you.

Your phone buzzes, forgotten on the table next to a room service tray and two half-drunk glasses of expensive red. Ji-yong doesn’t notice it. His eyes are pinned to you like you’re gravity.

“We’ve only been doing this for a year,” he says suddenly, almost to himself. “One year.”

You nod slowly. “I’m aware.”

“But I’m starting to…” He hesitates—Ji-yong doesn’t do that often. Onstage, he’s swagger and smoke. Offstage, with you, he’s peeling back layers like a dare. “I want stupid things.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like?”

“Like a house with a white fence I’ll probably hate. Like... two IKEA beds we shove together because we’re too tired to care. Like walking into a room and knowing you’ll be there.”

You don’t laugh, even though part of you wants to. Because it’s so unhim. Or maybe it’s the truest version of him. The version the world doesn’t get to see—the one who wears oversized hoodies and reads books he never finishes, who kisses you like he’s starving and whispers “Stay” like it’s sacred.

He exhales, rubbing his hands over his face. “God, this sounds lame.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s the best kind of lame.”

Ji-yong walks over, drops to the floor in front of you, kneels between your knees like he's about to propose, even though you both know this isn’t that moment. Not yet.

His hands wrap around yours. “What if we skipped all the in-between shit?” he says, eyes burning into yours. “The waiting. The career timing. The everyone-says-we-shouldn’t.”

You blink. “You want to fast-forward?”

“No.” His grip tightens, voice low. “I want us to write the rest. I want to kiss you in front of your friends. I want to ignore the headlines. I want to wear a ring that doesn’t match my outfit. I want to build something real before we’re ready. I want the scary parts. All of it. Now.”

You don’t speak for a second. The air between you vibrates with unsaid things. Like how you’ve already imagined your names next to each other on mail. How you secretly look for him in dreams. How you caught yourself wishing on 11:11s again, like a child.

You lean forward, forehead pressed to his, and whisper, “Dare.”

He laughs softly. “That’s not how this works.”

“Then make it work. Dare me.”

He tilts his head, grin fading. “I dare you to tell me you’ll be there at the end.”

You close the space between you. “Only if you promise to go second.”

He kisses you then—hungry, reckless, like the start of a war and the end of one. And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize: you’re not scared.

You’re ready.

And as your bodies press together in the dim golden light of a city that doesn't care who you are, you know this isn’t skipping ahead.

The next day, you wake up to paws on your chest and a tail flicking your nose.

Zoa—Ji-yong’s oldest cat—is doing her usual morning inspection, tiny face too close to yours, breath smelling faintly of the salmon treats Ji insists on feeding her before bed. Ji-yong is behind you, one arm slung low across your waist, bare chest pressed to your back, the weight of him warm and unshifting in sleep. You’re caught between two worlds—the persistent pawing of a spoiled feline and the slow rhythm of his breathing against your skin.

“Zoa,” you whisper, squinting one eye open. “This is harassment.”

The cat meows, entirely unbothered, and you shift a little, accidentally nudging Ji in the ribs. He grunts in protest and pulls you tighter.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your hair.

“It’s not me you need to convince.”

He cracks one eye open. “She likes you more than me now, you know.”

“She’s just obsessed with my warmth.”

He smirks, sleep-drunk and beautiful. “Same.”

Later, in the kitchen, he’s shirtless in gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, hair a wild mess that makes you ache a little. He’s making your coffee exactly how you like it, not because you asked, but because he remembers. He always remembers—how you hate the taste of burnt espresso, how you prefer almond milk even though you claim not to be picky, how you hold your mug with both hands like it’s a sacred ritual.

“You know what I was thinking about last night?” he says suddenly.

You raise an eyebrow as you steal a piece of toast from his plate. “Besides that very creative thing you did with your hands?”

He grins, leaning over to kiss your jaw, quick and mischievous. “Besides that.”

“What then?”

He turns serious for a moment, toast forgotten. “That time we got caught making out in the dressing room at your friend’s wedding.”

Your laugh echoes through the small kitchen. “You mean your friend’s wedding?”

“I didn’t see any friends after I saw you in that dress.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossible about you,” he says simply.

Later that morning, you’re both sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by laundry neither of you intends to fold. Ji-yong’s laying on his back, shirt half-tugged up, Zoa now using his chest as a throne. You trace your finger down the tattoo behind his ear—the one only people this close to him ever get to see.

“What are we doing?” you ask, almost whispering.

He glances at you. “Right now?”

“No. Us. This.” You sit up slightly, the question catching in your throat. “What if it’s too much? Too fast?”

He props himself up on one elbow, eyes soft but sure. “Then let it be too fast. Let it be too much. I’d rather love you in chaos than wait for permission.”

And just like that, you kiss him—slow at first, just the brush of lips, then deeper, messier, until you’re straddling him, laundry forgotten, cats fleeing the scene. His hands find your waist like they’re meant to live there. Your name leaves his mouth like a secret. He’s looking at you like you’re gravity again—and this time, you let yourself fall.

Later that week, you're at a market together, disguised in masks and oversized hoodies. Ji-yong’s pushing a cart with entirely too much fruit and exactly one box of sugary cereal you said you “weren’t going to buy this time.”

“You’re such a liar,” he teases.

“Excuse me, you bought it.”

“For us.”

“Mmm. Sure.”

He leans down, whispering in your ear, “Don’t make me kiss you in aisle five.”

You smirk under your mask. “You won’t.”

He does.

Quick and hidden, behind a shelf of ramen and instant coffee, and your heart flips like it’s the first time all over again.

That night, you fall asleep tangled in his hoodie, both cats draped over your legs, Ji-yong beside you, hand on your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Before your eyes close, he whispers, half-asleep, “I know everyone thinks we’re rushing this.”

You hum. “Let them.”

“I don’t care if we’re young or if it’s crazy,” he says. “Let’s skip to the part where forever starts.”

You smile into his chest. “We already did.”

[peachesclose]

i’m not crying, you are 🥺

⊹Letters⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader

⊹ Warnings: themes of heartbreak, mental health struggles, emotional trauma, substance use, and a bittersweet, tear-jerking conclusion

⊹ Summary: emotional journey of reader and Seung-Hyun, whose once passionate relationship collapses under the weight of fame, a personal scandal, and Seung-Hyun’s mental health struggles

⊹ Author's note: that's one hell of a rollercoaster. buckle up🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You were just another face in the classroom. A girl with average lines and average features, wearing a uniform that smelled like starch and borrowed ambition. The kind of role people forget even existed. You weren’t even credited.

But he saw you.

It started small—barely a nod when you passed each other in the hallway between takes. Then, a full glance. Then, lunch.

“Mind if I sit?”

The first time, his voice was a surprise—smooth and deeper than you remembered from interviews, disarming when paired with that lazy, crooked smile.

You blinked, almost said “Why?”, but your nod came faster. The table was too narrow. His knee touched yours under it.

He asked your name. Then he used it every time he saw you, like it meant something.

“Y/N, you ever get tired of sitting in that second row?” “It’s where they put me.” “You don’t look like you belong there.”

Your hands had tightened on your chopsticks.

The days blurred. His schedule was heavier—always running to rehearse, to change wardrobe, to be seen. But he kept returning, sitting beside you, even when he barely had ten minutes to eat.

On wrap day, you waited. For a goodbye. A text. Anything.

But no one called you. No one thanked you.

You watched the trailer on your cracked iPhone in a sublet with mold in the corners. You weren’t in a single frame.

They were right. You were nothing.

But you knew—he never thought that.

And you left, moved overseas. Booking small, later bigger roles in commercials or TV shows. Trying to leave everything behind, until you couldn’t. You missed Korea too much and your manager brought to much shit over your head. 

“Y/N, thing about the opportunities. Think about the spot light. They mightn’t have recognised you then, but now you are stronger.” He used to say.

And now, you are back.

The air is too cold in the studio. Typical. You hug your arms as the stylist pinches fabric at your waist, muttering something about natural curves and compression gear.

You spot him before he spots you.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, laughing with a PA who looks like she’s about to melt. His hair is darker now. Sharper jawline. Broader shoulders. Same presence, like a thunderstorm caught in a designer hoodie.

Your throat tightens.

You turn away before he catches your stare, but it’s too late.

“This is Y/N,” the director says cheerily. “You two will play the couple. I expect real chemistry, real heat.”

“We’ve met,” he answers without missing a beat.

Your pulse stutters. You don’t look at him.

You just nod. “I’m not sure. Nice to meet you.”

His expression flickers. Just for a second. Then it smooths into something unreadable.

That day, you don’t speak beyond what’s written in the shot list. You smile when the camera’s on, rest your hand on his chest like it’s scripted—because it is.

But under your palm, his heart is beating fast.

Between takes, you're in the wardrobe, trying to fix a stubborn zipper, when you feel him behind you.

You freeze. The air changes. You see his reflection in the mirror, the way his jaw is clenched. The way his eyes are fixed on you like you’re an answer to a question he didn’t know he still had.

“So that’s it?” he asks. “We’re strangers now?”

You don’t turn around. “We were never anything else.”

The zipper jerks. You hiss. He’s there in an instant, his hand catching yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this. Not here.”

He leans in close, his breath warm on your neck. “You really forgot everything?”

You lift your eyes to meet his in the mirror. “No. I just buried it better than you did.”

He doesn’t back away. Not even when the door creaks open and someone calls for him on set.

“You owe me,” he says, voice low. “One night. One real conversation. You disappeared.”

“So did you.”

But even as he leaves, your skin remembers every inch of him.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

He sent the address in a text you didn’t respond to. But you showed up. You always do when it’s him.

The restaurant is quiet, lit by soft lamps and filled with low jazz. Not his usual scene, you think. Maybe that’s the point.

He stands when you walk in. His smile is cautious, but real.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

You sit across from him. The space between you feels like an open wound.

Dinner is slow. You talk about the industry. About mutual directors. How much has changed. How much hasn’t.

Then it happens.

“I looked for you,” he says, cutting through grilled mackerel like it’s nothing. “After the film. No social media. No credits. You disappeared.”

You sip your wine. “People like me don’t leave footprints.”

“People like you?” he leans forward. “You mean the ones who steal every scene they’re in without saying a word?”

You bite your lip.

He doesn’t stop there.

“They erased you from the movie. But I didn’t forget. I still have a photo from set. The one where you're laughing at something I said. You looked so—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks.

He falls silent.

You don’t finish your food.

But you stay until closing.

The night smells like rain and gasoline. You both linger on the sidewalk like teenagers with nothing left to say but everything left to feel.

Your rides haven’t come yet.

He steps closer.

“I asked everyone about you. The makeup team. Extras. Nobody knew where you went.”

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“Why?”

You pause. Wind pushes your hair across your cheek, and you let it. It’s easier than facing him.

“Because I was tired of being treated like an accessory. A body. A set piece.”

“That’s not what you were to me.”

His voice is thick now, rough around the edges.

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought I’d see you again. I didn’t know it’d take five goddamn years.”

You turn. The streetlight pools behind him, casting his face in gold.

“You were the only person on that set who made me feel seen,” you whisper. “And it terrified me.”

He steps closer.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, almost breathless. “Don’t look at me like a stranger.”

You let him pull you in—just a fraction. Just enough that the heat of him fills your lungs again.

“Then don’t leave me like one.”

It started in halves. One dinner turned into two. A late night phone call that became a habit. Then a weekend where you never really left his place, your toothbrush leaning next to his, too domestic, too easy.

You both tried to be careful. Tried not to let it look like something real—because the spotlight hated real things.

But he’d kiss your forehead while you scrolled scripts in bed. You’d run your fingers through his hair while he mumbled lyrics into his phone’s recorder. You began building a language that didn’t need words.

Then, you moved in.

Not officially, not with boxes or contracts. Just little things. A coffee mug, your favorite lotion, a robe slung over his chair. Then more. Until home was wherever he was.

Sweet mornings became rituals. He made coffee exactly how you liked it, even when he had to leave before sunrise. You’d find sticky notes on the fridge with hearts and scribbled lyrics. On days off, you curled into his chest on the couch, laughing at old variety shows and stealing kisses between yawns.

When he came home late—sometimes at dawn, sometimes hours after you’d fallen asleep—he’d always stop in the doorway and just watch you. You’d wake to his hand brushing your hair back, soft kisses to your temple, the press of his forehead to yours like a silent promise: still here.

The rumors always came fast.

A new actress seen with him at a showcase. A kiss on screen that lingered too long. And for you—it was worse. The way they talked about your "chemistry" with other co-stars. The way tabloids pitted you against idols with perfect skin and public smiles.

“You looked good with him,” he said once, too quiet, one night after your drama premiere. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, half in shadow, the unopened soju bottle between you like a line neither of you wanted to cross.

You had laughed, short and brittle. "That's your takeaway from my first lead role?"

He pushed off the counter. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low.

“Don’t what?” you asked, not quite ready for the answer.

“Pretend like it doesn’t affect us.”

You met his eyes, and they were sharper than you'd seen in weeks. Not stage-hardened or camera-smooth. Just real. Hurt.

“I hate it too,” you whispered. “But it’s part of it.”

“Then let’s change it. Or fight for it. Or something. Because pretending it doesn’t matter—it’s tearing pieces off of us.”

And that night, in the small silence after his words, you kissed him like he was oxygen and you had been drowning. Not to fix it. But to feel him. To remind him.

Still, the cracks appeared.

They always do.

In silence at breakfast, when he’d read articles about your co-stars without looking up. In the way you smiled a little too wide at red carpets, because it was easier than explaining the ache in your ribs. In how sometimes, you both fell asleep with backs turned, not because you were angry—but because saying the right thing was too hard, and saying the wrong thing might break the fragile quiet.

But love stayed.

In forgiveness. In shared earbuds on long-haul flights when words failed you both. In comfort when the cameras turned off and your hands found each other like instinct. In how he waited three hours outside your shoot in the rain, hood up, shivering, just because your text said: "rough day." In how you showed up at his studio past midnight with kimchi stew and a sweatshirt that still smelled like him, because you knew he hadn't eaten, and he hated being alone when the lyrics wouldn’t come.

It was messy. And beautiful. And real.

And one night, when you caught him watching you in the mirror as you took off your makeup, red carpet glitter still clinging to your collarbone, you finally broke the silence.

“You’re it for me,” you said. Soft. Scared. Fierce. “Even when I hate everything else—when I hate the fans, and the makeup, and the lies, and the constant pretending—I never hate you. Not once.

I think about that night in the stairwell at the Commitment set, when we sat on the metal steps and you gave me half your sandwich because the staff forgot extras need to eat too. You asked me why I always wore those threadbare gloves with holes in the thumbs, and I told you they were my brother’s. You didn’t laugh. You just touched the frayed edge like it meant something. No one else ever noticed.

I think about the way you’d text me lyrics at 3 a.m., not asking for help, just… wanting to share them with me. You said I was your filter. That I made things sound like they were worth hearing.

I think about that morning after your showcase when you came home and collapsed on the floor instead of the bed, and I laid down next to you because neither of us had the energy to speak, but we needed the closeness like breath.

You know me. You know I hate peaches but I eat them when you cut them up. You know I pretend not to cry at dramas, but I do, and you always hand me tissues without saying a word. You know I lose sleep over every audition, and you never tell me I’m overreacting. You just sit beside me until the storm quiets.

And I know you. I know that you bite your lips when you’re nervous but pretend you don’t. That you hum to old Big Bang tracks when you think no one’s listening. That you always sleep facing the door when I’m not home, like you’re waiting for me.

I love how you love. Fierce. Whole. Scared but unwavering. You see the parts of me I try to bury and never look away. I love the way you say my name like it’s a vow. The way you kiss the spot behind my ear like it’s instinct. The way you never ask me to shrink myself to fit the shadows of your world.

I love you.

I love you in every tense. Past, when I didn’t believe I mattered. Present, now, when I see you and it feels like light. And future—yes, future—whatever we become, however this ends or grows, you are in it.

You’re it for me. You’ve always been.”

He crossed the room with purpose, slow but sure, as if each step burned through the layers of fear and silence you'd both worn like armor. The tension hung thick between you, electric, ready to break. When he reached you, he paused—not for breath, but for clarity—as if seeing you under this soft light, bare-faced and brave, carved something deep inside him.

His hands lifted with reverence, not haste. They trembled as they cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he was afraid you'd disappear. Your breath caught. His eyes locked on yours, not demanding, just present—heavy with everything he hadn’t said.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or wild. It was deliberate. A vow. A plea. A memory. A promise.

You felt it in every cell—that this wasn’t just lips on lips. It was his way of saying, I see you. I still choose you. Again and again.

And when you kissed him back, it wasn’t surrender. It was recognition.

You were home.

You didn’t sleep that night. You just held each other in the dark, hearts speaking a language louder than fame.

He’s sitting on the couch, guitar in his lap, no shirt, just sweatpants and bare skin. Light spills through the balcony like it’s been painted just for this moment—gold against the curve of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach, the familiar freckle near his left shoulder you’ve kissed a hundred times.

He’s humming softly, plucking at strings with no real melody. Just the sound of him, raw and unguarded. You’re watching from the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized hoodies that smells like cedarwood and his shampoo. Your feet are bare. Cereal box in hand. The spoon forgotten somewhere nearby.

He looks up. Sees you. Really sees you.

“You’re staring,” he says with that boyish smile, the one that made you fall in love.

“You’re beautiful,” you reply, soft but certain. It’s not a compliment. It’s a truth.

He grins wider, strums a lazy chord, one that echoes through the sunlit apartment like a sigh. “Marry me.”

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s so him. “That’s not how you ask.”

He sets the guitar down. Stands. Walks toward you with that slow, deliberate grace that still unravels you, all long limbs and quiet gravity.

“It’s how I feel,” he says again, voice lower now, fuller. He stops in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face with a reverence that almost hurts.

You blink. And for a second, the room tilts.

“You don’t believe in marriage,” you murmur. “You said it was a cage. That it ruined love.”

He nods, then leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “It is. For most people. But with you... it feels like flying. Like maybe love could finally be something I build instead of something I run from.”

Your hands find his chest, warm and steady. “Say it again,” you whisper.

“Marry me.”

Not a command. Not even a question. A prayer.

Tears sting your eyes. You bury your face in his neck, inhale the comfort of skin and sweat and music and safety.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And for the first time—not in your career, or on red carpets, or under studio lights—but here, in the golden silence of a shared life, you don’t feel like nothing.

You feel like his everything.

And he feels like yours.

The apartment felt like a tomb. The silence that had settled over the space was suffocating, a cold, haunting presence that refused to be ignored. The smell of his cologne lingered faintly in the air, but it was no longer comforting. It was a reminder. A cruel one.

You had always thought that if you lost him, you’d somehow feel the break coming. You’d know when it was happening, feel it in your bones. But you didn’t. It just… happened. Gradually at first. He pulled away with the excuse of his military service, then with the scandal that broke everything he had worked for. And then came the cold silence—days without calls, without texts, without the sound of his voice.

The first night he left was the hardest. You couldn’t bring yourself to say goodbye, so you didn’t. You just held him that last time, memorizing the way his warmth felt against you, the rhythm of his breath, the way he pressed a kiss to your forehead like it was an unspoken promise.

But that promise slipped away with the first headline. The first accusation. You saw the words written in bold, his name smeared across gossip magazines like a stain, and your heart shattered a little with every passing minute. They painted him as a monster, a man who had everything and lost it all, and with him, they tried to take you too. They questioned your love, your loyalty, your very right to exist beside him. And as much as you tried to ignore it, tried to shut it out, the whispers and rumors were louder than your own heartbeat.

When his mom called, her voice tight with worry, you felt a flicker of hope. She said he wanted to see you, that he had asked for you specifically. And for a brief moment, you thought that maybe he was going to come back to you. That maybe this was all a mistake, and he’d still remember what you meant to him.

But when you arrived at the hospital, his cold silence crushed that hope like a house of cards. His mom escorted you in, but her eyes were already red from crying. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You could feel it—the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, thick and unbearable.

The hospital room was a sterile, unforgiving space. The air smelled of antiseptic, and the pale white walls reflected nothing but the exhaustion on his face. Seung Hyun was sitting by the window, looking out, his back hunched as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders.

For a moment, you stood frozen, trying to process the man before you. The man who had once been the light of your life, now a stranger in the room. His eyes were distant, as though he was trying to disappear into the cold glass. He didn’t turn when you walked in. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence.

But you weren’t going to give up on him. Not this easily.

You took a tentative step forward, your heart racing in your chest as you approached him. “Seung Hyun…” Your voice broke in the middle of his name, your throat tight with the effort to hold back the flood of emotion that threatened to consume you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. It was like he couldn’t hear you. Or didn’t want to.

You took another step. This time, you reached out, your hand brushing his shoulder. He flinched. The first real response you’d gotten from him since he’d left. And yet, it was as if it hurt him more to be touched than to be alone.

“Why are you doing this?” You whispered, voice trembling. “Why are you pushing me away?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes still fixed on the window. The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, feel the cold panic rising in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice so quiet you could barely hear it over the hum of the hospital machinery. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” you said, desperation rising. “I’m not angry. I’m just… scared. I don’t understand. Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me in?”

His voice cracked. “You don’t get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this… this love. I’ve ruined everything. And I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

You felt the sting of those words like a physical blow. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Your voice was shaking now, your chest tight with the force of the emotions you could no longer keep inside. “You’re everything to me. You’ve always been everything to me. How can you say you don’t deserve me when you’ve never once made me feel anything but loved?”

He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever. His gaze was raw, filled with so much pain it made your heart ache.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his voice strained. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. To feel like you’re nothing. And I don’t want you to watch me destroy myself. I don’t want to drag you into this mess.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The tears were welling in your eyes now, blurring your vision. “But I’m already here. I’ve been here. I never left you.”

And that was when he finally broke.

Seung Hyun stood up so suddenly, you barely had time to react. He moved away from you, walking toward the far corner of the room, his fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not the man you fell in love with. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I don’t care who you think you are,” you shouted, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care about the mistakes or the scandals or the lies. I care about you. I care about us. And I still love you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and aching, as if they had taken everything you had to say. He stood there, his back to you, shoulders shaking with the weight of his own grief.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t bear to see him like this, so broken, so lost. And yet, he wasn’t coming back to you. Not now. Not ever.

You stood there in the silence, your body shaking with sobs you couldn’t contain anymore. “I can’t do this,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t lose you.”

But you had already lost him.

And it was the hardest thing you’d ever had to face.

Later, when his mom took you home, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The two of you didn’t speak, didn’t share words. The only thing that passed between you was a shared understanding of the heartbreak that weighed you both down.

The apartment was empty. His presence still lingered in the corners of the room, in the smell of his cologne, in the warmth of his favorite sweater you had folded and left in the closet. But it was empty, like you were empty. The place where you had built your life, where you had imagined a future, was gone.

You didn’t have the strength to stay in that place anymore. The thought of walking past the walls that had once held the laughter, the quiet moments, the love you had, made you sick. So you packed your bags, slowly, one item at a time, as if each piece you took was one more part of you that was being ripped away.

Your heart broke with every step. Every time your hands touched something that once belonged to him, you felt that fracture deepen.

When you walked out the door for the last time, it wasn’t just the door to the apartment that closed. It was the door to your future, the one you had believed in. The one where you and Seung Hyun were together.

But it was over. He was gone.

You couldn’t fix him. You couldn’t save him.

And it hurt more than you could ever have imagined.

The pain didn’t come in waves. It came in an endless, suffocating tide. And as you walked down the hallway, past the door that had once been home, you knew that you were leaving a piece of your soul behind.

But you had to. You had no choice.

And when you stepped out into the night, you didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you knew you might never leave.

It’s been weeks since you last saw him, since you visited him at the hospital, since he pushed you away—like he was doing what he thought was best for both of you. But you didn’t understand it then, and you don’t understand it now. All you know is that the silence between you feels like a never-ending void.

You tried calling, sending texts, leaving voicemails. But there was nothing—no response, not a single word. Nothing. Just silence. And you knew. You knew that silence was more than just the absence of sound. It was the space he’d created between you two, an invisible wall that seemed impossible to climb.

You found a new place. A small, quiet apartment, much smaller than what you shared with him, but it’s yours. And as much as it feels like a fresh start, it doesn’t feel like home. Not yet.

You didn’t know where he was—what he was doing—but you couldn’t stay where he had once been. You couldn’t pretend that the apartment was still the place where you were a part of his world. And even though you were miles away from that life, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the promise he’d made, the love he said he’d never let go of.

And still, nothing. No sign of him. Not a message, not a call.

Letter #1

May 10, 2018

Seung-Hyun,

I don’t know where to even begin. How do I write to you when it feels like you’re a ghost? How do I tell you everything that’s happened when I don’t even know where to start?

The truth is, I left. I left our apartment. It didn’t feel like our home anymore, not after everything that happened. After the hospital, after you pushed me away. I couldn’t stand being there. It hurt too much to see your things—the things that reminded me of what we were—and to know you weren’t coming back.

I found a new place. It’s small, quieter. I thought that maybe if I started over somewhere else, it would help. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like a home without you. It’s just a place. A lonely place.

You told me to leave, Seung-Hyun. You told me you couldn’t do this anymore. And I wanted to understand, I really did. But I can’t. I still don’t get why you walked away like that. You were hurting, I get that now. I know you were going through something I couldn’t fix. But you never let me in, not even when I begged you to.

And now, I don’t know where you are, or if you’re even okay. I hear nothing. No word from you. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. And it hurts, more than I could ever put into words.

I just want to know that you’re okay. That you’re still out there. I want to believe that you’ll come back, that you’ll remember what we had. But maybe I’m just fooling myself. I don’t know anymore.

I’ll always be here, Seung-Hyun. Even if you don’t want me to be.

Y/N

Letter #6

March 20, 2019

Seung-Hyun,

It’s been a few years since I moved into this new apartment. The silence is deafening. I thought it would be easier, I thought maybe being away from the place we shared would give me some kind of peace. But it hasn’t. It’s just made everything worse.

I keep going over the last time I saw you. The look in your eyes when I walked into the hospital room, how distant you were. It felt like you were already gone, even before you said those words—"I can’t do this anymore." You wouldn’t look at me. You wouldn’t let me be there with you. And I think that’s what’s killing me the most. You shut me out when I needed to be there for you the most.

And now, I’ve shut myself out too. I can’t stay in that apartment. I couldn’t breathe there without you. It felt like the memories were choking me, pulling me back to a time when things were simple, when we were just happy.

I don’t know where you are. I don’t know what you’re doing. But I can’t help but feel like you’ve disappeared from my life for good. That what we had, what I believed in, doesn’t matter to you anymore.

I’m scared, Seung-Hyun. I’m scared that I’ll never hear from you again, that I’ll never get the answers I need. That I’ll never understand why you left, why you pushed me away when I wanted nothing more than to help you.

I’m trying. I’m really trying to move on, to let go of the hope that we’ll ever find our way back to each other. But I don’t think I can. Not yet.

I just want you to be okay. Please, take care of yourself. Please don’t shut the world out completely.

Y/N

Letter #13

June 1, 2020

Seung-Hyun,

You won’t believe, but I’m still waiting for you to call me, for you to send me a message, anything. But I know you won’t. You haven’t. I know this silence is intentional. I know you’re trying to push me away, to push everything away.

But I can’t do it. I can’t let go of you, not yet. I still see you in everything—when I walk into the coffee shop we used to visit, when I hear our song on the radio, when I think about the way you’d smile at me just before we kissed.

I don’t want to believe that everything we shared was a lie. I don’t want to believe that it was just a fleeting moment in time. But I can’t keep pretending that I don’t miss you. That I don’t still love you. I do. I always will.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why you pushed me away. I don’t know what I did wrong. But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not. I’m broken, Seung-Hyun. I’m empty without you.

I just want you to come back. I want to see your face again, to hear your voice. I want us to figure this out, even if it takes time.

I don’t want to move on, Seung-Hyun. Not if it means giving up on us.

Please, come back.

Y/N

You don’t know if he’ll ever read these letters. You don’t know if he’ll even ever know that you still care. But as long as you keep writing, as long as you keep sending them to the old apartment, there’s a tiny, fragile part of you that believes he’ll come back. 

Letter #27

August 10, 2023

Seung-Hyun,

I’m writing this letter, and it’s different than the others. I’m not writing this out of sadness, or desperation, or out of longing to hear from you. This is my last letter to you.

I’ve learned so much these past years, and I want you to know that, even though we’re no longer a part of each other’s lives, I’ve healed. Or, at least, I’m in the process of it. It hasn’t been easy—hell, there were times I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get through the pain of losing you. But here I am, sitting with a sense of peace I never thought I’d have. It feels surreal, but it feels real.

I’ve been seeing a therapist, and I’ve learned more about myself than I ever thought I would. I didn’t know how much of me I was holding onto, waiting for you to come back, waiting for things to be the way they were. I didn’t know that I had been keeping myself in a state of limbo, not truly moving on because I was so afraid of saying goodbye. But my therapist told me that I’ve finally reached a place where I can say goodbye—and I’m ready.

I’ve made peace with everything, Seung-Hyun. I understand now that sometimes people just need to walk different paths, no matter how much it hurts. I needed to walk mine. And you needed to walk yours. And while that truth doesn’t erase the love I had for you, it does help me let go of the weight I’ve been carrying around.

You were my everything for so long, and for a while, I couldn’t imagine my life without you. But now, I can. I’m creating a new life, one that’s all my own. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. I’ve started picking up pieces of myself that I’d forgotten, pieces that got lost in the person I was with you. And I’m discovering who I am again, outside of the love we shared.

I’ve started a new job too, one that challenges me in ways I never thought I’d be capable of. And I’m starting to find joy in the little things again—the quiet mornings, the late-night walks, the sound of my own laughter.

But the truth is, there’s still a small part of me that will always remember you. Always love you. You were a huge part of my life, and that won’t ever change. You taught me so much about love and about who I am, even if we didn’t end the way we thought we would. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

I guess this is my way of saying goodbye—not just to you, but to everything we were. I’m not angry anymore, Seung-Hyun. I’m not sad. I’m just… letting go. I’m setting myself free, and I want you to do the same. I hope that, wherever you are, you’re finding peace, too. I hope you’re healing. I hope you’re becoming the person you were meant to be, just like I’m learning to become the person I’m meant to be.

Take care of yourself, Seung-Hyun. I’ll always wish you well, even if we never speak again. And though I will carry our memories with me, I’ll carry them in a way that’s lighter now—because I know that it’s okay to move on.

Goodbye.

Y/N

As you write the final words, a sense of quiet settles in your chest. You fold the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope one last time, and as you seal it, you finally realize—you’re not looking for anything in return. You’re no longer waiting for him to read it, no longer clinging to the hope that he might come back.

You’ve let go. You’ve said goodbye, not just in the words you’ve written, but in your heart.

Seung-Hyun pushed open the door of the old apartment, the one he hadn’t set foot in since everything came crashing down. The space was different from what he remembered —dusty, untouched, silent. The air felt thick with the weight of years, of memories that had settled into the corners like cobwebs. He hadn’t wanted to come back. He had convinced himself that returning here, to this place, would be a kind of self-inflicted punishment. But now that he was standing in the doorway, he realized it wasn’t the apartment that held him captive.

It was the memories of you.

He didn’t know what he expected, walking into the apartment where so much had unfolded, where your love had bloomed and then withered. Maybe he had hoped for some kind of relief, some clarity to wash over him, like the turning of a page. But instead, he was met with the same heavy silence, the same haunting stillness that had followed him in every other room of his life. The space was too quiet, too empty, and yet it was filled with everything he had tried to forget.

The walls, once adorned with pictures of your time together—birthday dinners, lazy Sundays, random selfies and pictures from film sets—now felt bare. The frames were gone, the once-colorful walls now washed with the dull gray of neglect. Everything you had left behind felt like a lifetime ago, a distant, unreachable place. His fingers brushed against the old coffee table, worn from use, but it felt like he was touching a ghost.

He moved slowly through the apartment, the echoes of his footsteps louder than they should have been. His gaze fell on the small kitchen, where you’d once spent hours cooking together, laughing over spilled ingredients and burned toast. The thought of how you had once danced around this kitchen, your laughter bright, your spirit so alive—it hurt in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

The apartment was no longer yours. You had moved on. He had pushed you away, and you had left. You had to. It wasn’t just the scandal that broke them. It wasn’t just the fame or the distance or the expectations. It was his inability to face the truth. His fear. His brokenness.

He was still broken.

But something had shifted in him during the past months, something had changed. Maybe it was the therapy, maybe it was the time away from everything, or maybe it was the sheer weight of everything that had happened. But the man who had walked away from you was different now. Not fixed, not healed—but better. He knew that now.

As he wandered through the apartment, he noticed a stack of mail that had been left unopened on the counter. He hadn’t expected anything, but something caught his eye. Small, yellow envelopes with a familiar handwriting on them. Your handwriting.

His heart stopped.

There were several others. All addressed to him. Some had already yellowed with age, others still crisp and fresh. He hesitated, staring at them as if they were fragile, as if touching them would make them disappear. He had thought that if he kept avoiding you, if he kept pretending like he didn’t care, it would all go away. But it hadn’t gone away. It had only made the guilt worse.

He picked up the first letter and read the words that felt like a punch to the gut.

"I don’t know where to even begin. How do I write to you when it feels like you’re a ghost? How do I tell you everything that’s happened when I don’t even know where to start?"

His chest tightened. He put the letter down, his eyes blurry. That one simple sentence—"I still think about you every day"—was enough to crack him wide open.

The tears came quickly after that, and before he knew it, he was crying. Not for the man he used to be, but for the man he had become in your absence. He had shut you out, pushed you away, and in the process, had torn apart the only good thing he had ever had in his life.

He read every letter. All twenty-seven of them. Each one a painful reminder of what he had lost. Of what he had taken for granted. Of how much you had loved him, how much you had fought for him, even when he hadn’t deserved it. You had poured your heart out, over and over, each letter a piece of yourself you had given to him.

And now, he was finally hearing you.

When he had finished reading the last letter, he was a mess. His emotions were all tangled—regret, guilt, sorrow, but also something else. Something he hadn’t felt in years: peace.

You were moving on. You had healed. You had said goodbye, even if it had taken you time to get there.

And he?

He was still here, still holding onto the past, still holding onto the love he had never allowed himself to fully feel. He wasn’t sure what to do with all of it, but one thing was certain: he had to tell you. He had to let you know how much he had changed, how much he had grown, how much he had learned.

He had to say goodbye, too.

That’s when he grabbed the pen and began to write.

March 5, 2025

Y/N,

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came back. It’s been seven years since everything changed. Seven years of silence that felt like a lifetime, each day growing heavier than the last. But when I walked through the door of our old apartment today, I wasn’t expecting this.

I wasn’t expecting to find the mailbox full of your letters.

Twenty-seven letters. 

I sat down right there in the hallway, with the stack of envelopes in my hands. At first, I didn’t know what to feel. I almost didn’t want to open them. I thought, "What could they possibly say that could make me feel any less guilty?" But I couldn’t leave them unread. Not when you’d written every word with such care. With such honesty. With your heart laid bare.

I started reading.

It took me hours. The wine bottle beside me slowly emptied, and with each letter, I found myself feeling a little more. Regret. Sadness. Anger—at myself. But most of all, a sense of loss. Not just for what we were, but for the person I used to be. The person who thought he had everything figured out.

I didn’t have anything figured out.

I didn’t have you.

I don’t even know how to begin. How do you explain years of silence? How do you apologize for the hurt you caused without sounding like you’re trying to justify it? How do you say that you were broken, too, but never even tried to fix yourself until it was too late?

I didn’t deserve your letters. I didn’t deserve your patience. Your love. The fact that you spent all these years waiting for me to come back, while I was lost in a place where I couldn’t even recognize myself anymore.

I know it’s not enough to say "I'm sorry," but I need you to hear it. Because for the first time in years, I can actually say it and mean it. I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry for how I treated you. For pushing you away when all you ever wanted was to be there for me. I’m sorry for not being the person you needed. I’m sorry for taking you for granted when you deserved so much more.

I know it’s hard to believe, but I am a better person now. I’ve taken the time to work on myself, to heal in ways I never thought I could. And that’s why I’m able to write this to you now—not out of guilt, but because I truly want you to know that I’m in a better place. Mentally, emotionally… everything. I’m not the man who left you behind. And I know that doesn’t change what happened, but it’s the truth.

When I look back at everything—the good times, the bad times, the love we shared—it’s clear to me now that I was never the person you needed me to be. You deserved someone who was whole. Someone who was ready. But instead, I was broken, and I broke us both in the process.

I’m sorry for that.

And now, as much as I wish I could ask for your forgiveness, I know I don’t have the right. But I hope, one day, when you look back on our time together, you’ll remember the good parts. The love. The laughter. The moments when we both felt like we were more than just two people in the same space. I hope you remember those times with warmth, and not just the hurt.

I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect a response. I don’t even expect you to forgive me. All I want is for you to know that I have always, and will always, care about you. I wish you nothing but happiness. And peace. You deserve everything good in this world, Y/N.

Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. But if they don’t, I want you to know that I’ll always carry the love we shared with me. I’ll never forget it. You’ll always have a place in my heart, even if we never speak again.

Goodbye. But this time, it’s different.

Take care of yourself. I hope you’re as happy as you deserve to be.

Seung-Hyun

This was his goodbye. The letter he had never thought he’d write, but knew he needed to.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[peachesclose]

Meet me backstage ◎ Kwon Ji-Yong

◎ Summary: A long-simmering attraction between you and Kwon Jiyong ignites backstage after a performance, unfolding into a slow-burning, emotionally charged encounter where desire meets deep, unspoken connection.

◎ Warnings: suggestive content, i guess?

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

The bass is still humming through the walls when you step off stage, skin hot beneath sequins and silk. Seoul’s summer air clings to you, sticky and electric, and your mind is still halfway in the last chorus. The crowd’s roar lingers in your bones. But it’s not just adrenaline that’s keeping you charged.

You didn’t expect him tonight.

Kwon Jiyong. GD. The name everyone else whispers like gospel in the industry — but to you, it’s more than legacy. It’s late-night studio sessions and glances too long to ignore. It’s the text he sent you two hours ago: “I’m watching tonight.”

You’d hoped he meant it.

And then, you saw him.

Leaning against the VIP balcony like he owned the air around him, black shirt open just enough to show a glimpse of ink at his collarbone, a drink untouched in his hand — watching you. Not your group. You. Eyes low and deliberate, lips parted like he was singing along, even though you could barely focus on your lines once you caught him there.

Now, backstage is buzzing — but none of it touches you. You’re alone in the dim corridor by your dressing room, breath caught in your throat when the door opens without a knock.

He’s here.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you say, voice lower than you meant.

He doesn’t smile — not fully. Just closes the door behind him and leans against it, eyes running over you in that way that makes it hard to breathe. “You looked good up there,” he says, voice soft and slow, velvet with heat. “You knew I was watching, didn’t you?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

He steps closer, the scent of him filling the room like the first hit of a track you didn’t realize was on repeat in your head. Sandalwood. Smoke. Something sharp and expensive.

“You were singing my verse,�� he murmurs.

“You wrote it.”

He smiles this time. “You still remember every word.”

The space between you evaporates in an instant. His fingers lift the hem of your stage outfit — not suggestively, not yet. Just a brush, feather-light, like he’s checking if you’re real. You don’t move away. You don’t want to.

“Why don’t you meet me backstage?” he whispers, quoting his own lyric — and suddenly, everything tilts.

You back into the wall, your breath catching when his hand slides up your arm. Not rushing. Never rushing. Jiyong doesn’t do anything without control, without purpose. His eyes lock with yours, asking without words.

You nod.

He kisses you like he sings — measured, poetic, dangerous in its precision. Lips brushing over yours once, twice, slow enough to make you chase the third. He lets you. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling slightly, anchoring you to him, while the other traces down your waist like he’s finding lyrics in the curves of your body.

Your heart’s beating out of time.

He mouths against your jaw, “You drive me crazy in that black outfit.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does — but not in the way you expected. No frantic need. Just closeness. Palms against your sides. A low exhale against your neck. His breath travels from your ear down the curve of your throat, lingering there, just where your heartbeat flutters the most. He kisses you there — slow, slow, slow — his signature tattooed behind your eyelids with every pulse.

It’s not just lust.

It’s something heavier. Older.

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been circling each other for years now, both too careful to touch what you couldn’t undo. Or maybe it’s the silence after the spotlight — when all that’s left is two people backstage, stripped of illusion, chasing something real.

You run your hand through his hair, fingers tugging gently at the nape as you pull him closer. “You gonna sing me that line again?”

“Which one?”

“‘Oh, you so good on your knees…’”

His eyes darken, a smirk flickering like static at the corner of his mouth. “You’re dangerous.”

“You started it.”

He sinks to his knees without breaking eye contact. His hands on your thighs are steady, reverent. But before anything else can happen, he pauses — presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and deliberate. Then the other. Not moving higher.

You’re trembling before he’s even touched you.

He whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you drop to your knees too, facing him in the quiet pulse of the backstage haze. Your forehead touches his, both of you breathing the same air, wanting the same release.

But what you say is, “This… isn’t just tonight, is it?”

His answer comes in a whisper, pressed to your mouth.

“No. This is the start.”

The room isn’t made for moments like this. It’s too cold, too white — a temporary space built for quick changes and exit routes. But the second his hands find your waist, the space warps around him.

Jiyong’s presence is commanding without trying. He doesn’t touch you like a man who’s guessing. He touches you like a man who’s been imagining this for months. Like he’s traced every inch of your body with his mind a thousand times before tonight — and now, he’s finally allowed to confirm the fantasy.

His hands slide under your jacket, knuckles brushing your bare skin. You shiver — not from cold, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze as he watches your reaction, as if memorizing the exact sound you make when he drags his fingers along your ribs.

“You always perform like that?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or just when you know I’m watching?”

Your reply catches in your throat. He’s too close, too overwhelming, and his breath is warm against your skin, flooding your nerves with heat.

“I didn’t expect you,” you whisper.

“No?” He’s grinning now — wicked, confident. His fingers slide the zipper of your outfit down one slow inch at a time. “Then why were you looking up at me like you wanted me to walk down and pull you off stage?”

You swallow, the movement betraying you. He hears it. Feels it.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, thumb brushing just beneath your chest now, grazing the edge of your bra like a threat.

“No.”

It comes out hoarse. Honest.

His lips finally meet yours again, this time without hesitation. It’s not a kiss meant for cameras. It’s deep, deliberate — the kind of kiss that takes. His mouth moves with rhythm, tongue teasing yours, breath mixing until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. You grip the collar of his black shirt, feeling the silk stretch in your fists.

“Been thinking about this since Jeju,” he murmurs into your mouth. “You remember that after-party?”

You do. You remember the way he stood too close behind you in the hallway, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he passed, saying nothing. The way his hand brushed your back — not enough to be obvious, but enough to stay with you. The way you felt all night after.

“I thought you didn’t like sharing,” you murmur now, teeth catching his bottom lip.

“I don’t.” His voice dips. “That’s why I waited.”

He pulls your jacket off completely, letting it fall to the floor. The air hits your skin and you hiss through your teeth — not from cold, but from how exposed you feel under his eyes. He’s staring like he’s starving.

“You’re prettier up close,” he says. “But I already knew that.”

Then he’s on you again — hands on your hips, mouth at your neck. His lips move slowly, deliberately, down your throat to your collarbone. He doesn’t rush. He savors. Every kiss a message, every exhale a promise. You gasp when his teeth catch lightly on your skin — not enough to mark, just enough to claim. One hand slides behind your back, pulling you flush against him.

You can feel him. All of him. Hard, unyielding, and pressed right against your hips. The pressure makes your knees threaten to give, but he holds you steady.

“You good?” he murmurs, nose brushing yours.

You nod, breathless. “Better than good.”

He lets out a soft laugh — low, satisfied — and turns you slowly, backing you toward the vanity mirror. Your body hits it gently, and the cold glass is a shock against your spine. The contrast only makes the heat between your bodies more intense.

You stare at yourselves in the mirror — his dark eyes over your shoulder, your parted lips, your body pressed to his. His hands snake around your stomach, dragging up slowly, flattening against your ribs.

“Look,” he whispers in your ear.

You do.

“Look how you react to me. This is what I wanted.”

Your eyes lock in the reflection, and it’s almost too much — too intimate. But you don’t look away.

His lips skim your shoulder, then lower, lower. When his hands finally touch the hem of your skirt, you suck in a breath. You don’t stop him. Your head tilts back onto his shoulder, letting him explore.

Then, without warning, he lifts you.

You gasp, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip is strong, practiced — like carrying you is second nature. He sits you on the makeup table, knocking over a few compacts and brushes that clatter to the ground. Neither of you care.

He leans in, forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“We don’t have to go further,” he says, and it’s real — not a line. His eyes are serious, even while his body is still pressed tight against yours.

You place your hands on his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

“I want to,” you whisper. “But not fast. Not like I’m another stop on your tour.”

That stops him. Something flickers in his eyes — guilt? Respect?

He leans forward, kisses your temple, your cheek, your lips — all soft now, all careful.

“Then I’ll go slow,” he says. “So slow you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

You close your eyes and let yourself fall.

Not into lust. Not into recklessness.

Into him.

[peachesclose]

Versace on the floor ◎ Kwon Ji-yong

◎ Summary: A passionate and tender night unfolds between you and Ji-Yong, where slow-burning desire, deep emotional connection, and mutual vulnerability lead to an unforgettable, intimate experience beneath the chandelier’s glow.

◎ Warnings: none

◎ Author’s note: i saw that post after writing it, but shoutout to @gdinthehouseee for the idea! check out her fics, they are amazing! literally, they are masterpieces!

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The city lights of Seoul shimmered beneath the expansive night sky, casting a golden hue over the bustling streets. From the penthouse suite atop a luxury hotel, the world below seemed distant, almost unreal. The room was adorned with opulent decor: velvet drapes, a grand chandelier, and a plush sofa that beckoned relaxation.

You stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the metropolis. The soft hum of jazz played in the background, setting a mellow tone. The door behind you clicked open, and the familiar scent of Ji-Yong’s cologne wafted in, a blend of sandalwood and citrus that always made your heart race.

He approached silently, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Beautiful night,” he murmured, his voice a gentle caress against your ear.

You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. “It is,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He led you to the center of the room, where the chandelier’s light danced across the polished floor. Taking your hand, he pulled you close, swaying gently to the rhythm of the music. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of you in this intimate moment.

As the song transitioned to a slower melody, Ji-Yong’s hands traced the contours of your back, his touch igniting a trail of warmth. “Let’s not rush tonight,” he said, his lips brushing against your temple. “I want to savor every second with you.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in anticipation.

He stepped back slightly, his eyes scanning your figure, admiration evident in his gaze. “That dress,” he began, his fingers lightly grazing the fabric, “is stunning. But I think it would look even better on the floor.”

A blush crept up your cheeks as he slowly unzipped the back of your dress, the fabric slipping off your shoulders and pooling at your feet. He leaned in, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone, his hands exploring the newly revealed skin.

Guiding you to the plush sofa, he laid you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice filled with reverence.

The night unfolded in a symphony of whispered promises, tender touches, and shared laughter. Every moment was a testament to the deep bond you shared, a connection that transcended words.

As dawn approached, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. Ji-Yong pulled you close, wrapping you in his embrace. “Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You nestled against him, your heart full. “Always,” you replied, knowing that this night was just the beginning of many more to come.

The music shifted—low, slow, honey-smooth. The kind of song that lingered in the air and wrapped around your spine like silk. Ji-Yong’s hand didn’t leave yours, even as he led you from the glass balcony back into the heart of the suite. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, absent-minded but intimate, like a silent promise.

“Come here,” he said, voice low, tugging you toward him as you both stopped in front of the velvet sofa.

You didn’t need to speak. The energy between you had shifted—no longer playful, no longer just comfort. It was thick now, humming, electric. Your eyes locked, and for a beat too long, neither of you moved. Then he reached up, gently cupping your face with both hands, his fingertips grazing your jaw, his touch feather-light.

“You drive me crazy,” he said, almost to himself.

And then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not demanding. Slow. Intentional. Like he had all the time in the world to memorize you.

Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, feeling the firm lines beneath his shirt, and curled behind his neck to anchor yourself to the moment. Ji-Yong deepened the kiss just slightly, tilting his head to capture more of you, his lips soft and searching. His mouth tasted like champagne and midnight—warm, addictive.

The kiss built slowly, layer upon layer, the way fire builds from a spark. His hand moved to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. Every point of contact was heat—your stomach to his, your thighs brushing, your breath tangled in his as he leaned you slightly back over the sofa’s edge.

He pulled away just long enough to look at you, his eyes dark with emotion, voice rough with restraint. “Tell me to slow down, and I will.”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth returned to yours, more urgent now. His lips moved like he was trying to learn every inch of you—your responses, your breath, the subtle way your fingers trembled slightly at his waist. You felt his tongue tease yours, coaxing, tasting, deepening until the kiss stole the air from your lungs.

He groaned softly into your mouth, one hand slipping under the thin strap of your dress, letting it fall down your shoulder with deliberate care. His lips followed the trail—down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your shoulder. Your head tilted back against the sofa, giving him access to every inch he wanted.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered against your skin. “Like something I dreamed and pulled into life.”

His words melted into your skin, heating your core as he traced kisses along your collarbone. Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, growing bolder now, sliding over the hard lines of his chest as fabric fell away.

He leaned back for a heartbeat, eyes roaming you—your flushed cheeks, parted lips, the slow rise and fall of your chest. Then he bent to kiss you again, this time deeper, slower, like worship. The kind of kiss that made time dissolve.

The kind of kiss that asked questions and answered all of them at once.

And somewhere between the sighs and the gentle fall of clothes to the floor, there was that song still playing softly in the background. The one with the promise you both felt in your bones.

Let’s just kiss ‘til we’re naked, baby…

The room faded, the world outside vanished, and all that remained was the heat between you and Ji-Yong—and the shimmering weight of your Versace on the floor.