aki

“i’ll be fine,” you said into your phone, walking fast under the flickering orange glow of the streetlights.

your friend on the other end sounded worried.

you couldn’t blame her. it was past ten, and you didn’t share your last few classes. she’d gone home hours ago.

“don’t worry about me, yeah?”

you laughed softly.

were you brave? reckless?

or maybe just naïve.

your friend should have worried.

because you felt it before you saw it.

a chill that raced down your spine. the hairs on your neck standing up.

shadows shifting in ways they shouldn’t.

and then—something growled behind you.

you ran. instinct kicked in.

but it wasn’t enough.

you hit the alley wall hard, gasping, breath knocked out of you.

your bag slid from your shoulder, useless on the ground.

and the thing looming over you? not human.

all jagged teeth and rotting breath, eyes like burning coals, claws dragging against the bricks.

you were frozen. terrified.

but then—

he appeared.

a blur of black.

the stench of sulfur replaced by something cleaner—sharper.

dark hair, long and windswept. a coat trailing like smoke.

he moved like silence and struck like thunder.

and in seconds, the demon that had you pinned was nothing but dust.

you collapsed to the ground, gasping.

and he turned toward you.

tall. inhumanly beautiful. eyes unreadable under the shadows of the alley.

“you good?” he asked, voice deep and casual, like he hadn’t just killed something from hell in front of you.

you tried to nod, but your breath was still catching.

you clutched your arms around yourself.

“w-what the hell was that?”

“demon,” he said simply, crouching in front of you.

“you’ve been leaking a lot of energy lately. you must be stressed. easy target.”

“and you?” you asked, chest still heaving.

“you’re not… human.”

he smiled.

“not even close.”

his fingers brushed your chin—slow, warm, gentle despite what he was.

you shivered.

“you saved me,” you whispered.

he tilted his head.

“i did.”

you stared at him, heart pounding for a different reason now.

he was too close. too unreal.

your body, still shaken, responded anyway.

heat rising low in your belly. an ache. a pull.

he watched you quietly, gaze sliding down your neck to your lips, then lower.

his voice was velvet when he spoke again.

“i don’t save people for free.”

your breath caught.

“…what do you want?”

his eyes burned.

“a reward...”

he leaned closer.

“that clearly belongs to me.”

something shifted in the air—like a seal had broken, something old and binding slipping into place.

the wind outside hushed as the shadows surrounding the both of you thickened.

and his smile turned feral.

you didn’t even remember moving, but suddenly you were backed against the brick wall of the alley, his body just inches from yours—radiating heat and power. his hands didn’t touch you. not yet. he just watched.

the hunger in his eyes alone was enough to make your knees feel weak.

golden and sharp, like the sun caught in honey, you felt like he was devouring you without even laying a finger.

“you smell like you’ve wanted this all day,” he murmured, voice low and rough, vibrating at your core. “you’ve just been walking around with this tension in your body... waiting for someone to come take it from you.”

you bit your lip—because a part of you felt that he was right.

the stress, the tightness in your chest, the way your thighs had been pressed together on the train, and the dull ache that lived in your skin like a slow fire—he saw all of it. every hidden craving, every denied need.

he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “let me take it, sweetheart.”

your breath caught.

and when you nodded, his lips finally met yours—and ruined you.

he kissed you like sin itself. hot, claiming, slow and deep.

his tongue coaxed your mouth open, his hand cradled the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair as his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest.

your moan vibrated against his mouth.

his responding growl rumbled in his throat.

he backed you into the wall more firmly, his thigh sliding between yours—pressing into the heat you’d tried to ignore all day.

the pressure made you gasp, grinding into him instinctively.

“that’s it,” he whispered against your lips. “show me how greedy you are.”

his hands were hot as they roamed your body—over your hips, along your thighs, under your shirt, tracing the lines of you like he already knew where you were most sensitive.

every touch was deliberate. worshipful. wicked.

his lips traveled lower—down your jaw, over your neck, where he nipped softly, sucking just hard enough to leave heat in their wake.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured, kneeling now, mouth at your stomach. “is that fear, or excitement?”

you met his eyes—still glowing, still unreadable—and whispered, “both.”

his smile was slow, and strangely gentle.

“good.”

he laid you down on a conjured bed of shadows and silk, the world dimming around the two of you, like reality bent just to make space for this moment.

he undressed you with reverence, dragging his fingers down your bare skin as if he were committing it to memory.

and when he looked down at you—naked, flushed, open—he didn’t look hungry anymore.

he looked starved.

“do you feel it?” he whispered, lowering his body over yours, skin to skin, heat to heat. “that fire under your skin?”

you nodded, barely able to breathe.

“i’ll burn it out of you,” he promised, lips at your throat, his hand sliding between your thighs, “slowly.”

-

as a member of the new and up and coming idol group PULZE, and the main singer and leader, you were beat after a full day of back-to-back training.

vocals, formation drills, press walkthroughs, another performance check. your body was drenched in sweat, your shirt clung to your spine, and your legs were seconds away from giving out.

everything was soaked—your spare shirt was in your bag, which you’d left at the penthouse like a genius.

“anyone have a spare?” you asked your members, breathless.

they checked.

no luck.

everyone had already used up their extras—and you weren’t about to squeeze into one of their crop tops after a day like this. so you weighed your options, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way down the hall toward the only other studio still lit at that hour.

the saja boys' studio.

you knocked once. the door cracked open.

“oh.” mystery blinked. “hey.”

he was flushed, damp from training, a towel slung over his neck. his shirt was off, bare chest rising and falling gently with post-rehearsal adrenaline.

sweat beaded at his collarbones, and the lighting behind him made him look stupidly unreal.

you tried not to look.

keyword being tried.

“you guys still practicing?” you asked, leaning on the doorframe.

“just finished.” his gaze dropped to your shirt, and his brows furrowed slightly. “you okay?”

you glanced down at yourself—wet shirt, sports bra faintly visible underneath, thighs bare from your practice shorts.

“forgot my extra,” you muttered. “felt like I was gonna melt through the floor.”

he blinked. “wait here.”

he disappeared, then came back holding a plain black shirt from his bag. oversized. soft. smelled faintly like him and detergent.

you took it with a grateful smile. “lifesaver.”

you turned slightly away and peeled your sticky shirt off, too exhausted to care—slipping mystery’s over your head with a soft sigh.

it hung comfortably over your frame, big enough to swallow you whole. when you turned back to thank him—

his face was unreadable.

“...what?” you asked.

he didn’t answer at first. just looked at you.

his shirt on your body. your collarbone just visible in the wide neckline. the sleeves draping past your hands. the hem hitting you at mid-thigh.

he stepped in closer.

"don’t wear that outside."

you blinked. “what?”

his voice was lower now. firmer. "you heard me."

“mystery—”

he moved closer, gaze sharp, possessive in a way that made your breath catch. “you don’t get it. you look like… you’re mine. wearing that.”

your stomach flipped.

he wasn’t teasing. not even a little.

“i'm your best friend,” you managed, but it came out soft. weak.

his fingers brushed the hem of the shirt near your thigh.

"no one else gets to see you like this,” he murmured. “in my clothes. skin flushed. hair messy.”

“wearing me.”

your breath caught in your throat.

he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

-

you ended up wearing his shirt out of the studio anyway.

he didn’t stop you. not really.

he just stared the entire time you gathered your stuff, lips parted slightly, jaw tight, like he was debating whether or not to throw you over his shoulder and lock the door.

he didn’t say a word as you left, but his eyes never left you.

the fabric was soft. it smelled like him. the neckline dipped low every time you moved, the sleeves drooped over your fingers, and the hem covered just enough to be dangerous.

it didn’t hit you how dangerous until the elevator opened in the lobby.

and someone else was there.

“oh, hey,” said one of the backup dancers from your showcase team. nice guy. very male.

which made mystery very jealous.

he blinked at you, then let out a short, surprised laugh.

“damn. new concept? or just rocking the ‘boyfriend shirt’ look today?”

your heart stuttered. cheeks flushed.

“it’s not—” you started, but your voice caught as you turned… and saw mystery.

he’d followed you.

he stood at the far end of the lobby, arms crossed, watching.

his jaw clenched. his eyes were dark.

and when he saw the dancer looking exactly where he shouldn’t have been—at your bare legs, the way the hem of his shirt shifted when you moved—

something snapped.

mystery didn’t say anything.

he just crossed the lobby, fast and quiet, like a storm cloud with a singular target. the dancer backed off immediately with an awkward laugh and a muttered apology, disappearing into the hallway.

“mystery—”

you didn’t get to finish.

his hand slid around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest, fingers gripping the small of your back, firm and possessive and warm.

his voice was low. dangerous.

“do you like wearing my shirt?” he asked.

you nodded. slowly.

“good. because now you’re not allowed to take it off unless it’s in front of me.”

your breath caught. “you’re being ridiculous.”

you were friends. why would he say things like this all of a sudden?

he leaned down, nose brushing your jaw. “am i?”

you swallowed. “i-uh—”

his grip tightened, cutting you off.

“no one else gets to look at you like that,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“no one else gets to imagine what’s under it. no one else gets you in my clothes.”

your fingers curled into the fabric at his chest. “you’re serious.”

he kissed just below your ear, lips hot and slow.

“dead serious.”

you didn’t go back to the dorm right away.

mystery didn’t let you.

he didn’t take the shirt off of you either.

he just… held you.

walked you back to his studio. sat you in his lap. tucked your legs over his thighs. and watched you like you were something fragile and explosive all at once.

his shirt on your body.

your skin under his hands.

his name behind your smile.

and in that moment, his delicate touch made you forget that you were just friends.

especially with the quiet, yet commanding way he murmured against your skin.

“you’re mine.”

-

you were lounging on the couch, his head in your lap, both of you half-watching some random show on the screen. his eyes were closed, arms crossed behind his head, expression peaceful—relaxed in the way only romance could be when he trusted you enough to let his guard down.

and there they were. his horns. dark, smooth, curved slightly back. they always caught the light in a way that made them look polished, almost beautiful.

you’d always been curious.

so you reached up—half out of boredom, half out of instinct—and lightly ran your fingers along the base of one.

you expected a snarky comment, maybe a lazy eye-roll.

instead, romance shuddered.

his whole body tensed beneath you, muscles tightening like a string pulled taut. his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide.

“don’t,” he said sharply.

you froze. “shit—sorry. did that hurt?”

he swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “no. it didn’t hurt.”

“…then what—”

“they’re… sensitive,” he muttered, voice rough now, lower. “really fucking sensitive.”

you blinked. then blinked again.

a slow, wicked smile spread across your lips. “oh.”

romance glared up at you. “don’t you dare.”

but it was too late.

your fingers went back, gentler now—trailing along the ridges, circling near the base, watching the way his breath hitched and his hips shifted just slightly beneath you. his eyes fluttered closed again, but it wasn’t peaceful this time. it was restrained.

“fuck, baby—” he hissed, biting his lip. “you keep doing that and i’m gonna lose it.”

“lose what?” you teased, voice soft and innocent as you rubbed small circles just behind the base of his left horn.

he groaned—a deep, needy sound—and before you could blink, he was sitting up and grabbing your wrist.

"you really wanna do this right now?" his voice was low, dangerous. excited.

you stared up at him, eyes wide. “maybe.”

his lips crashed into yours before you could say another word, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that was anything but playful. he pressed you down onto the couch, his hands everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your chest—touching you like a man who was barely holding himself together.

“you don’t get it,” he growled into your neck.

“you touch my horns like that, it’s like stroking my cock. it drives me crazy.”

your body lit up at that, hips already grinding against his thigh as his words sank in.

he tugged your shirt off, hands fumbling slightly from urgency, then stripped himself fast, until his bare chest was pressed against yours and you could feel every inch of his arousal hot and hard between your thighs.

“gonna show you what you started,” he growled.

he slid down your body, spreading your legs with practiced ease, and licked a slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. you cried out, fingers gripping the couch cushions as his tongue circled your clit, then plunged inside you with maddening precision.

he didn’t stop—didn’t give you room to breathe—he just devoured you, like he needed to taste every inch to come back to himself.

you were already trembling when he pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and looking at you like he was ready to ruin you.

“turn around,” he said, voice almost hoarse. “hands on the backrest.”

you obeyed, breathless, presenting yourself to him, your ass in the air and your thighs slick. he lined himself up behind you, one hand gripping your waist while the other reached up—slow, deliberate—and guided your hand back to his horn.

“keep touching it,” he growled. “don’t stop.”

you wrapped your fingers around the base again, rubbing gently as he slammed into you from behind.

you both moaned—him from the dual stimulation, you from the sudden, perfect stretch. he fucked you hard, fast, relentless—his cock dragging along your walls with every punishing thrust, while you moaned his name into the cushions.

“just like that,” he groaned. “keep stroking—fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

you were close. the angle, the pace, the sounds—everything hit at once, and you came with a cry, legs shaking as your orgasm tore through you.

romance wasn’t far behind. with your fingers still stroking his horn, he cursed and buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a desperate moan, his body jerking as he held your hips tightly.

when you both finally collapsed, tangled and breathless, he pulled you into his lap, chest still heaving.

“never letting you touch my horns again,” he muttered.

you smirked, satisfied and flushed. “liar.”

he grinned despite himself. “you got me.”

-

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the blood moon had risen like a pulse in the sky—huge and glowing, casting an eerie crimson wash over the mountains. the air buzzed with a strange, sharp tension, like the world itself was holding its breath.

jinu had been quiet the whole day.

too quiet.

he stood now by the window, shirtless, his back tense, eyes glowing faintly as the light of the blood moon bathed his bare skin. you watched him from the bed, your heart thudding at how still he was—like a predator scenting something just out of reach.

“jinu?” your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

he turned slowly.

his gaze pinned you to the sheets.

gone was your sweet, playful jinu. the one who kissed you good morning and carried you when you were too tired to walk. the man in front of you now was something else. all saja were different during blood moons—more primal, more instinct-driven—but jinu had always resisted it.

until tonight.

“it’s getting harder to hold back,” he said, voice rough, like it scraped against his throat. “i can smell you. feel you. need you.”

you swallowed, body already responding to the low growl in his voice. “then don’t hold back.”

in an instant, he was on you.

his mouth crashed against yours, tongue demanding, claiming. his hands tore the sheets away, fingers already pulling at your clothes with an urgency that left your skin buzzing. he didn’t undress you gently—he didn’t have the patience for that right now.

you were bare before him in seconds, gasping as the cold air kissed your skin—right before he did.

jinu kissed down your throat, biting just hard enough to make your hips jerk beneath him. his hands pinned your wrists above your head as he growled into your skin, “you smell like everything i’ve ever wanted.”

you writhed under him, thighs parting instinctively, the heat between them pulsing like a heartbeat. he moved down your body, tongue flicking across a nipple before his mouth fully closed over it—sucking, teasing, driving you insane.

“please—” you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for.

“say it,” he growled.

“i want you. i want you inside me.”

he didn’t need more.

jinu knelt between your legs, gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he lowered himself and ran his tongue through your soaked folds. you moaned loudly, back arching off the mattress as he devoured you—no slow build, no gentle licks. he was starving, and you were the only thing that could satisfy the burn in his blood.

his tongue circled your clit again and again, then dipped deep inside you, tasting your arousal like it was the only thing keeping him sane. when your legs started shaking, he pulled away, breathing heavily, eyes glowing brighter than before.

“you’re ready,” he rasped. “i can’t wait any longer.”

he positioned himself above you, and then he thrust inside with one deep, brutal stroke.

you cried out, fingers clawing at his shoulders as your body struggled to stretch around the sheer size of him. he was big—always had been—but like this? during the blood moon? he felt impossibly thick, impossibly deep.

“so tight,” he groaned, teeth clenched as he pulled back and slammed into you again. “fuck, you’re made for me.”

you couldn’t speak.

you could barely breathe.

he moved fast and hard, hips slamming into yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room. each thrust knocked the air from your lungs, your body already spiraling toward release from the overstimulation, from the rough drag of his cock against your walls, from the way his fingers gripped your hips like he’d never let go.

“more—please—don’t stop—” you sobbed in pleasure.

“i can’t stop,” he growled, voice thick.

“not until i’ve filled you.” thrust.

“marked you.” thrust.

“claimed you again and again.”

his thumb found your clit and rubbed tight, fast circles that sent your mind into oblivion. you came hard around him, body clenching so tight he cursed, hips jerking erratically as he followed—spilling deep inside you with a low, feral groan.

but he didn’t stop.

his cock barely softened before he was thrusting again—dragging your limp legs over his shoulders this time, bending you in half so he could go deeper. sweat dripped from his skin onto yours, and his eyes never left your face.

“i need more,” he growled.

“don’t you dare pass out on me.”

you were dizzy, overwhelmed, but your body burned for him.

and the blood moon above burned hotter.

-

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