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"You need to learn the value of money, Jay. I've admired your passion, but this is the final straw."
"But, Dad—"
"I ignored the artisanal honey phase. I said nothing about the wall of guitars. But spending a month's rent on a piece of fabric because it has a driver's signature on it? That's not passion, that's pathology. You're cut off."
Jongseong's perfectly sculpted jaw dropped. "It's not just fabric! It's a Williams jacket. You know how much this year's car means to me! How am I supposed to live? You know I have… sensitivities."
"Exactly. You'll only understand the value of a dollar once you earn it yourself. This is final, Jongseong."
The click of his father's office door closing echoed through the marble hallway of their family home like a death knell. Jay stood frozen, designer shopping bags scattered around his feet like fallen soldiers. The Williams jacket—pristine, beautiful, and impossibly expensive—mocked him from its tissue paper nest.
His sensitivities weren't affectation. They were biological fact. Cheap synthetic fabrics made his skin break out in angry welts. Polyester blends left him feeling claustrophobic and itchy. Even "perfectly good" cashmere could trigger reactions if the fiber wasn't ethically sourced and properly treated. It wasn't vanity; it was survival.
But his father had never understood the difference between preference and necessity.
"If you pout any harder, you'll create a black hole."
Jay was draped dramatically over Jungwon's worn leather sofa, one arm flung over his eyes in the universal pose of the tragically wronged. His crop top had ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin above his low-slung jeans, but for once, the display wasn't calculated. It was genuine despair.
"What am I going to do, Won-ah?" Jay lamented. "Do you have any idea what a good leather jacket costs? Or tickets to Singapore? The practice session alone is a fortune!"
"Normal people don't buy tickets to the practice session," Jungwon said flatly, not looking up from his economics textbook. "They watch the race on TV. And 'a good leather jacket' doesn't have to be Rick Owens."
Jay gasped, clutching his chest as if physically wounded. "You know how cheap leather feels against my skin! It's like being hugged by a sad, sweaty man. I can't. I'm delicate, Won-ah."
"You're the most high-maintenance creature on this planet," Jungwon sighed, finally closing his book. "Just ask Sunghoon for a job at the cafe."
Jay's face went through a series of expressions—horror, consideration, resignation. "…Fine."
The word came out like he was agreeing to his own execution.
Jay didn't have a problem. He had a refined palate for life. It was a simple fact, proven by science—or at least, by the full-body rash he'd gotten from that "perfectly good" cashmere blend his mother had insisted was identical to his usual brands. He was born into luxury for a reason. His body, his mind, his entire being was calibrated for the finer things.
So, no, he wasn't a brat. He was discerning.
He could, however, admit that his obsessive passions—beekeeping, luthiery, collecting vintage band tees from obscure post-hardcore groups, and now Formula 1—might arrive with the subtlety of a hurricane. Each new fixation consumed him completely until the next one came along. It wasn't fickleness; it was intensity. He felt everything at maximum volume.
The problem was that maximum volume required premium equipment.
"Jay. That's the fourth time you've given someone oat milk when they asked for almond."
Sunghoon was a flurry of controlled motion behind the espresso machine, pulling shots and steaming milk while Jay floundered at the register. The simple act of translating 'large latte' into a series of buttons seemed to short-circuit his brain. The interface was aggressive in its beige practicality, like it had been designed by someone who actively hated beauty.
"I'm trying! It's all just… beige liquid," Jongseong whined, turning with a pout that glistened under the cafe's harsh fluorescent lights. He planted his hands on his hips, a movement that accentuated the impossible narrowness of his waist against the dramatic flare of his hips. His wide, pleading eyes, framed by a soft fringe that he'd styled to look artfully disheveled, seemed to hold their own light.
The customer at the counter—a tired-looking businessman in a rumpled suit—was staring. Not with irritation, but with the dazed expression of someone who had just witnessed something unexpectedly beautiful in their mundane day.
Sunghoon's stern facade cracked like ice in spring. He swallowed hard, his ears turning pink. "Okay. One. Last. Chance."
"You're the best!" Jay did a little victorious shimmy, the movement making his cropped sweater ride up to reveal a strip of toned stomach. The hem of his impossibly short black skirt swayed with the motion, drawing every eye in the cafe.
"Right…" Sunghoon muttered, turning back to the steam wand. His hands shook slightly as he worked, and the milk came out more foam than anything else.
The businessman left a twenty-dollar tip.
Two hours later, Jay had managed to give the wrong order to every single customer, knocked over a display of artisanal pastries, and somehow programmed the register to only accept orders in Korean when half their customers only spoke English. But the tip jar was overflowing, and three customers had left their phone numbers on napkins.
"So," Sunoo said later that evening, sprawled across Jake's apartment floor with the others. "You just remade every drink he touched? You're whipped."
"Don't pretend you wouldn't have caved, Sun-ah," Sunghoon retorted, his ears still pink. "Jake's just as bad at the restaurant."
"Hey!" Jake's protest was feeble. He'd lasted exactly one shift as a server before getting fired for staring too long at Jay flitting between customers.
"The point is," Jungwon interjected, ever the voice of reason, "we need a real solution. We need to find something Jay is naturally gifted at."
"He's not good at anything that doesn't involve spending money or looking devastating," Sunoo pointed out with characteristic bluntness. "Unless you think 'looking devastating' is a marketable skill."
A heavy, contemplative silence fell over the group. Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at Jay, who was perched on Jake's windowsill, silhouetted against the city lights. Even in repose, even in the middle of an existential crisis, he was a vision. The soft light caught the sharp angles of his face, the elegant line of his neck, the way his oversized sweater slipped off one shoulder.
"Oh," Jake said, his eyes widening in realization.
"Yeah…" Jungwon sighed in resignation. "We need to have an intervention."
"An escort?! You want me to be a common prostitute? The degradation!"
Jay had shot up from the couch like he'd been electrified, his hand pressed dramatically to his throat. The gesture would have been more effective if he wasn't wearing a mesh top that left little to the imagination and leather pants so tight they looked painted on.
"Technically, you'd be a companion. A sugar baby. Don't be so dramatic," Jungwon said, his voice carrying the exhausted patience of someone who had been elected group mom against his will.
"But you're monetizing my face! My… my figure!" Jongseong protested, his glossy lips forming a perfect, offended 'o'. He shifted, a fluid, petulant motion that was all graceful limbs and sharp angles, like a disgruntled cat who had just been told he was going to the vet.
"Well, if the thigh-high boot fits…" Sunoo shrugged, earning himself a scandalized gasp.
"How vile!"
"Just think," Riki cut in, ever the pragmatic one despite being the youngest. "You'd get paid just to go to nice dinners. Look pretty. Be charming. No more oat milk dilemmas."
Jay paused mid-flounce, his head tilting as he considered this. "Well… that does sound preferable to manual labor…" He tapped a manicured finger against his chin, the gesture unconsciously seductive. "But what if he's a bore, Riki? You know I can't pretend to care about hedge funds for more than five minutes. I need intellectual stimulation. And what if he hates rock music? What if he thinks Deftones is a dental procedure?"
"The horror," Riki deadpanned.
"Don't mock me! These are legitimate concerns!"
"We'll vet everyone," Sunghoon assured him, his protective instincts kicking in. "There are exclusive, discreet sites for this kind of arrangement. We find you someone worthy. I'll make sure of it."
Jay's expression shifted from petulant to intrigued, his dark eyes lighting up with possibility. "Sugar daddy?" The words rolled off his tongue like he was tasting expensive wine.
"Yes. We'll handle the background checks," Sunghoon continued. "Credit reports, social media deep dives, the works."
"Well, he simply has to be handsome," Jay said, beginning to pace. When he got excited about something, his entire body became animated, hands gesturing expressively.
"Naturally."
"And interesting. A patron of the arts, maybe, or an engineer. Oh!" His eyes went wide with sudden possibility. "What if he works in Formula 1? What if he knows the drivers personally? What if—"
"We'll… see what we can find," Jake interrupted gently.
"And he should be… well-endowed." Jay's voice dropped to a stage whisper, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
"YES, okay, we get the picture," Sunoo interrupted, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Bottom extraordinaire strikes again. Can we please just build the profile before you start planning the wedding?"
The profile creation became a group project that consumed the better part of a weekend. Jay, it turned out, was a natural at selling a fantasy he didn't even know he possessed. The photo shoot took place in Jake's apartment, which had the best natural light, and turned into something approaching professional fashion photography.
The main picture was a masterpiece of calculated innocence and provocation. Jay was curled on Jake's vintage velvet chaise lounge, bathed in the golden hour light streaming through tall windows. He wore a black mesh top that did little to conceal the sleek lines of his torso and the tantalizing hint of pink beneath. The neckline plunged dangerously, drawing the eye down the elegant column of his throat to the gentle dip of his collarbones and the narrow taper of his waist. A simple black leather choker adorned his throat. His expression was soft, eyes lidded and slightly unfocused, like he'd just woken up from the most beautiful dream. A whisper of a smile played at the corners of his glossy lips. It was effortlessly seductive, completely unaware of its own devastating power.
The other photos escalated the theme with artistic precision. One featured him in what could only be described as a micro-skirt, leaning over to adjust a vintage Marshall amplifier. The position offered a breathtaking view of his toned thighs and the perfect curve of his ass, while his hair fell in soft waves around his face. Another saw him with a pair of fuzzy black cat ears perched in his hair, peeking over his shoulder at the camera with a look of playful challenge, a single guitar pick held between his teeth like a rose. In every shot, his hourglass figure was a silent testament to his natural gifts.
The bio took three drafts and a minor argument about whether mentioning Oasis was "too niche."
@Cherry_Blossom 🌸 Discerning aesthete with a taste for the finer things. 🎸 My loves: vintage guitars, the roar of an F1 engine, and honey so sweet it tastes like sunshine. 🖤 Seeking a sophisticated patron of the arts (and of pretty boys in skirts) for mutually beneficial companionship. Must have impeccable taste in music (if you don't know who Oasis is, don't bother) and a passion for velocity. 💫 Let's discuss the aerodynamic philosophy of the RB18 over a bottle of something expensive. I'll wear my shortest skirt.
"The 'velocity' line is a bit much," Riki said, blushing as he reviewed the final draft. "And the skirt thing? It's… direct."
"It's honest!" Jay insisted, applying a fresh coat of clear gloss to his lips. "I need him to know what he's getting. I'm a package deal. Me, my rock tees, and my need for a new Red Bull cap."
"It's genius," Jake countered, his business major mind already calculating potential returns. "The truly wealthy ones on sites like this aren't looking for subtlety. They're looking for a specific, curated fantasy. This says 'I'm a bratty, high-maintenance rockstar kitten who will drain your bank account but look perfect doing it.' It's a niche, but a lucrative one."
Sunoo stared at the profile, then at Jay, who was now air-drumming to a song playing in his head, completely oblivious to the scandalous image he'd just co-created. "It's terrifying how well this works for you. You have no idea what you just unleashed on the world, do you?"
"None whatsoever," Sunghoon confirmed, sighing as he clicked 'Publish'. "Let's just hope we attract a billionaire with a thing for chaotic rock enthusiasts and not an actual serial killer."
The profile went live at exactly 11:47 PM on a Tuesday. The first notification pinged at 11:48. Then another. And another. By midnight, Jay's inbox was flooded with messages ranging from the desperately thirsty to the surprisingly articulate. It seemed the world was full of wealthy men eager to meet a catboy who could explain downforce while wearing thigh-highs.
The hunt for Jay's sugar daddy had officially begun.
The inbox was a digital deluge. Messages poured in from Seoul to Monaco, from tech moguls to oil executives, each one desperately trying to catch the attention of the beautiful boy who had captured the internet's imagination overnight. But they all blurred into a monotonous stream of generic flattery and thinly veiled propositions.
"hey beautiful" "how much for a night" "you're so hot baby" "daddy wants to spoil you"
Jay scrolled through them with increasing boredom, his chin propped in his hand as he lay sprawled across Jungwon's bed. "They're all the same," he complained, not looking up from the phone. "Where's the intellectual stimulation? Where's the passion for the finer things? These people wouldn't know aerodynamic efficiency if it hit them in the face."
"Maybe your standards are too high," Jungwon suggested gently, though he was secretly relieved that Jay was being selective. Some of the messages were genuinely concerning.
"My standards are exactly where they should be," Jay retorted with a sniff. "I'm not some common—"
The notification sound cut him off. But this time, it wasn't the usual ding. It was different. Softer. More elegant.
Jay's thumb hovered over the screen as he read the username: @LH1. The profile was stark in its minimalism—a single, shadowed photograph of masculine hands positioned over piano keys, a heavy silver ring catching the light on one finger. No other pictures. No shirtless mirror selfies or displays of wealth. But the verification badge was platinum-level, indicating serious financial credentials.
The message was unlike anything else in his inbox.
@LH1: The RB18's aerodynamic philosophy was indeed a masterful compromise between high-speed stability and mechanical grip in low-speed corners, but its real genius lay in the weight distribution and the innovative floor design that maximized ground effect. The skirt, however, is a far more intriguing piece of engineering. I'd very much like to hear your thoughts on both.
Jungwon, reading over Jay's shoulder, blinked in confusion. "What does that even mean?"
But Jay had gone perfectly still. His bratty pout had vanished, replaced by a rare, focused curiosity that Jungwon had only seen when Jay discovered a new obsession. "It means," Jay said slowly, his voice filled with wonder, "he actually knows what he's talking about."
Jay's fingers flew over the keyboard as he typed his response, deleting and retyping several times before settling on something that sounded appropriately intrigued but not desperate.
Cherry_Blossom: Most people think F1 is just about going fast in circles. The RB18's floor was revolutionary - the way it managed airflow under the car while maintaining stability in dirty air was pure artistry. As for skirts... well, the shorter the better for optimal... aerodynamics. When can we discuss this properly?
The response came within minutes, as if Veloce had been waiting by his phone.
@LH1: Tomorrow evening. There's a listening bar in Apgujeong that serves whiskey older than both of us and has an exceptional vinyl collection. The acoustics are perfect for proper conversation. Are you free at eight?
Jay stared at the message, his heart doing something strange and fluttery in his chest. This wasn't just another transaction. This felt like the beginning of something dangerous and thrilling.
Cherry_Blossom: I'll be there. How will I recognize you?
@LH1: You won't need to. I'll find you.
The listening bar was everything Veloce had promised and more. Tucked away in a basement beneath an unassuming coffee shop, it was a temple to audio perfection. The walls were lined with thousands of vinyl records, the lighting was warm and intimate, and the sound system was the kind of thing audiophiles had wet dreams about. The clientele was small but sophisticated—the kind of people who understood the difference between hearing music and listening to it.
Jay arrived exactly on time, which was unusual for him. He'd spent two hours getting ready, changing outfits three times before settling on something that walked the line between provocative and elegant. The final choice was a fitted black band tee that hugged his torso like a second skin, paired with a pleated mini skirt that swished around his thighs with each step. Knee-high boots with just enough heel to make his legs look endless completed the look. His hair was styled in soft waves, and he'd applied just enough makeup to make his features pop in the dim lighting.
He was nervous, which was also unusual. Jay was accustomed to being the most interesting person in any room, but something about LH1's messages suggested he was about to meet his match.
"Jongseong-ssi."
The voice came from behind him, and Jay's breath caught in his throat. It was exactly what he'd imagined when reading those messages—smooth as aged whiskey, deep as midnight, with an undertone that seemed to vibrate through his bones. It was a voice made for singing soulful R&B ballads, for whispering secrets in darkened rooms, for commanding attention without ever raising in volume.
Jay turned slowly, and his carefully constructed composure nearly crumbled.
Heeseung was more handsome than seemed fair or legal. He had the kind of face that belonged in Renaissance paintings—sharp cheekbones, a perfectly sculpted jawline, and eyes so dark they seemed to hold secrets. His hair was styled simply, but every strand seemed to be in its appointed place. He wore a simple black sweater that probably cost more than most people's rent, but it was the way he wore it that took Jay's breath away. There was an inherent elegance to his posture, a quiet confidence that spoke of someone completely comfortable in his own skin.
But it was his eyes that truly undid Jay. They were intelligent, intense, and currently focused on him with the kind of attention that made him feel both completely seen and utterly transparent.
"You're late," Heeseung said, but there was no reproach in his voice. It was a simple statement of fact, delivered with the faintest hint of amusement.
"Fashionably late," Jay retorted, trying to regain his footing by falling back on his usual bratty persona. He was accustomed to setting the tempo of interactions, to being the chaotic, beautiful storm that others had to weather.
A faint smile touched the corners of Heeseung's lips, transforming his face from merely handsome to devastating. "Of course." He gestured toward a low leather booth in the corner, the kind of intimate seating that suggested this conversation would be both private and intense. "Shall we?"
As they walked to the table, Jay became aware of the attention they were drawing. Heeseung moved through the room like he owned it, but not in an arrogant way. It was more like the space itself was rearranging to accommodate his presence. Conversations quieted as they passed, and Jay caught several patrons staring with undisguised curiosity.
The booth was even more intimate than it had appeared from a distance. The leather was soft and worn, and the acoustics created a pocket of privacy in the bustling room. A glass of amber liquid was already waiting at Jay's seat.
"A 25-year-old Macallan," Heeseung explained as he settled across from him. "I find it has a… sensual finish. I hope you don't prefer something saccharine."
Jay lifted the glass, inhaling the complex aroma. It was smoky and rich, nothing like the sweet cocktails he usually favored. "I have refined tastes," he said, lifting his chin with characteristic defiance.
"I know," Heeseung replied, his dark eyes never leaving Jay's face. "That's exactly why I chose it."
The first sip burned all the way down, but in a good way. It tasted like oak and time and something indefinably masculine. Jay tried not to make a face, but Heeseung's knowing smile suggested he hadn't been entirely successful.
"You pretend at being a mere brat," Heeseung continued, his voice dropping to an even more intimate register, "but the references to luthiery and aerodynamic philosophy give you away. You're not just someone who spends money carelessly. You're a scholar of sensation, Jongseong-ssi. You're obsessed with how things feel—the vibration of a guitar string under your fingertips, the grip of a tire on tarmac, the texture of fabric against your skin."
He leaned forward slightly, closing some of the distance between them, and Jay caught a hint of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. "It's a far more interesting obsession than simply having a spending problem."
Jay felt heat creep up his neck. He had never been read so effortlessly, so completely. It was simultaneously unnerving and exhilarating to be seen with such clarity by someone he'd just met.
"I—I just know what I like," he managed, uncharacteristically defensive.
"I like that about you," Heeseung said, his gaze dropping to Jay's mouth for just a heartbeat before returning to his eyes. "I have a passion for… intensity as well. But of a slower, more deliberate kind. The gradual build of a D'Angelo song. The patient aging of a fine whiskey. The careful unraveling of a brat."
Jay's breath hitched. He felt transparent, like all his layers of affectation and bratty defense mechanisms were being gently, inexorably peeled back. Heeseung wasn't trying to dominate the conversation; he simply was the conversation. And he was looking at Jay as if he were the only interesting thing in the entire world.
"You sing?" Jay asked, scrambling for some kind of foothold in this increasingly unsteady interaction.
"Sometimes," Heeseung said, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "But I prefer to appreciate the artistry in others. Tell me about the first concert that ever truly moved you. The real one. Not the one you think sounds impressive."
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Jay didn't give a rehearsed answer. The words tumbled out—a story about a tiny, sweaty club and an unknown post-hardcore band he'd discovered at sixteen. He talked about the way the bass had vibrated in his chest cavity, how the raw emotion in the vocalist's voice had made him cry, how he'd left that venue feeling like he'd been baptized in sound.
Heeseung listened with complete attention, his intense gaze never wavering, never judging. When Jay finally finished, slightly breathless from the unexpected vulnerability, the silence that followed felt charged with possibility.
"Passion is the most attractive quality a person can possess," Heeseung said finally, his voice a low murmur that blended with the sultry R&B track playing overhead. "But raw passion without direction is just noise. It needs a vessel. A discipline." He gestured vaguely toward Jay. "You have the passion—more than anyone I've ever met. You collect experiences like rare artifacts. But you've never learned to sit with the quiet, aching heart of any single thing long enough to truly understand it."
The words hit like a physical blow. Jay thought of the five guitars leaning against his bedroom wall, all beautiful, only two of which he could play beyond basic chord progressions. He thought of his obsession with Formula 1—the way he could recite technical specifications but grew impatient during the strategic, slower-paced middle portions of races.
"I'm not criticizing," Heeseung continued, leaning back in the booth. "It's what makes you fascinating. You are a creature of immediate, sensory gratification. You want to taste the honey, hear the roar, feel the silk against your skin." His gaze dropped to the low neckline of Jay's shirt, where a sliver of collarbone was visible. The look was so palpably physical it felt like a touch. "I prefer a different kind of gratification. The kind that builds slowly. The kind that deepens."
"What does that even mean?" Jay asked, his voice smaller than he intended.
Heeseung leaned forward again, closing the intimate distance between them until Jay could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "It means I would rather spend a month teaching you the precise finger pressure needed to play a single, perfect note on one of your guitars than watch you buy a tenth one. The gratification of finally producing that sound, after weeks of failure and frustration and tiny improvements… it's a different kind of ecstasy. Deeper. More lasting."
Jay's mouth felt dry. The image Heeseung painted was so antithetical to his entire being—the patience, the repetition, the focus on subtle, incremental progress. It sounded like torture. And yet, the way Heeseung described it, with that voice like velvet and smoke, it also sounded irresistibly seductive.
"I'm not very patient," Jay whispered.
"I know." A slow, predatory smile finally spread across Heeseung's face, transforming him from marble statue to something alive and dangerously magnetic. "That's exactly what would make it so rewarding. For both of us. To be the one who teaches you patience. To be the vessel for all that beautiful, chaotic passion."
He was no longer talking about music. The subtext hung in the air between them like electricity before a storm. Heeseung was offering something far beyond a simple sugar daddy arrangement. He was proposing a guided descent into a world of sensual discipline, of controlled intensity, of pleasure delayed and thereby amplified.
"My friends… they vet everyone," Jay said weakly, a last-ditch effort to regain some semblance of control over the situation.
"Of course they do." Heeseung's smile didn't falter. "You'll find my credentials are impeccable. I am very wealthy, very discreet, and I have… specific tastes when it comes to beauty. I appreciate it in its most vibrant, untamed forms. But I also appreciate the art of cultivation."
He reached across the table, and with a touch so light it barely registered, he straightened the collar of Jay's shirt. His fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of Jay's throat, and the contact sent a shockwave through his entire nervous system.
"I think we could cultivate something quite extraordinary together, don't you?"
Jay felt like he was drowning in honey—sweet, thick, inescapable. Every weapon in his considerable arsenal felt useless against this man's profound, unsettling calm. Heeseung wasn't trying to match Jay's chaotic energy; he was absorbing it, transforming it into something entirely different.
"I… I need to think about it," Jay managed, pushing himself up from the booth on unsteady legs.
"Naturally." Heeseung remained seated, watching him with those dark, knowing eyes. "Take all the time you need. I find that anticipation makes the final surrender infinitely sweeter."
The word surrender echoed in Jay's head as he practically fled the bar, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt off-kilter, completely seen, and terrifyingly intrigued. Heeseung wasn't just another sugar daddy. He was a challenge wrapped in silk and shadows, looking at Jay and seeing not just a pretty brat to spoil, but a raw, unfinished symphony he wanted to conduct.
And for the first time in his life, the thought of being someone's project didn't feel like an insult. It felt like a promise.
Jay didn't tell his friends the full truth about the meeting. When they gathered at Jungwon's apartment the next evening, eager for details, he mumbled something about Heeseung being "weird and intense" and "probably a control freak." He conveniently omitted the part about his heart doing acrobatics every time he remembered that voice, or how the memory of Heeseung's barely-there touch had followed him home like a ghost.
For three days, he was an absolute mess. He snapped at Sunghoon for allegedly frothing the milk wrong at the cafe. He complained that Jungwon's sofa was "lumpy and aesthetically offensive." He nearly caused an international incident by attempting to return a custom-made Formula 1 jacket because the shade of blue was "not quite right"—despite it being exactly what he'd ordered.
His friends watched his agitated pacing with the wary attention of people observing a caged tiger.
"He got under your skin, didn't he?" Jungwon observed calmly during one of Jay's tirades about the inadequacy of instant coffee.
"Don't be ridiculous," Jay sniffed, flipping his hair with unnecessary drama. "He was just… unusual. I need someone more fun. Someone who appreciates my natural vibrancy."
The word vibrancy sounded hollow even to his own ears. It was a word Heeseung had used, right before dissecting it with surgical precision.
On the fourth day, a sleek black package arrived at Jungwon's apartment, addressed to Jay in elegant handwriting. There was no return address, but something about the weight and quality of the paper made Jay's pulse quicken with recognition.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper so fine it felt like silk, were two items.
The first was a vinyl record. Not just any record—an original pressing of a rare, early EP from one of the obscure post-hardcore bands Jay had rambled about at the bar. It was the kind of thing that couldn't be bought with money alone; it required knowledge, connections, and the kind of patience Jay had never possessed.
The second item was a heavy card, the paper so thick and luxurious it felt substantial in his hands. The message was typed in a minimalist font that somehow managed to be both elegant and slightly intimidating.
Jongseong-ssi,
Passion without focus is merely noise. Focus without passion is silence. I believe we can create something far more interesting.
I am proposing a trial arrangement. One month. Your expenses for whatever you deem necessary will be covered without question. In return, you will grant me your time and, more importantly, your honesty. No pretense. No performing for my benefit. I want to see the man who understands why this EP—with its imperfect production and raw emotion—is more compelling than any polished, soulless album.
There will be structure to our arrangement. Consider these guidelines rather than rules, designed to provide the vessel we discussed:
1. You will learn to play one song, in its entirety, on one of your guitars. I will provide appropriate instruction. 2. You will accompany me to events of my choosing, dressed in attire I select for you. 3. You will be punctual.
This is not a simple transaction, Jongseong-ssi. It is a collaboration. Think of it as your most challenging—and hopefully most rewarding—new obsession.
— H.
P.S. The record should be played at precisely 45 RPM for optimal experience. I trust you have appropriate equipment.
Jay's fingers trembled as he traced the raised lettering. This wasn't just a proposition; it was a thesis statement on his entire existence, coupled with a roadmap for its complete renovation. Heeseung had seen through every layer of his carefully constructed persona and was now offering to rebuild him from the ground up.
"What is it?" Sunoo asked, peering over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw the vinyl. "Holy shit, is that—"
"It's him," Jay whispered, his bratty facade completely absent, replaced by something approaching awe.
"The sugar daddy?" Jake picked up the card, his brow furrowing as he read. "'A vessel'? 'No pretense'? This sounds… intense. Like, cult-leader intense."
"It sounds like he's trying to fix you," Riki added with typical teenage bluntness.
But Jungwon, ever the perceptive leader, studied Jay's face and saw not alarm, but fascination. A deep, captivated fascination that went beyond simple attraction. "He's not trying to fix you. He's trying to curate you. And you… you like it."
Jay didn't deny it. The idea was both terrifying and irresistibly appealing. To have someone so powerful, so perceptive, take the chaotic threads of his interests and weave them into something deliberate and beautiful. To be truly seen and then shaped by hands that understood the material they were working with.
That evening, Jay's phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
Unknown: The first lesson begins tomorrow evening. My apartment. 8 PM sharp. Wear something you can move in.
Jay stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. This was the precipice. Once he replied, there would be no pretending this was still a simple arrangement.
Jay: Okay.
The response was immediate.
Heeseung-hyung: Good.
That single word, delivered in Heeseung's imagined honey-silk voice, sent a shiver down Jay's spine. The game was no longer theoretical. The rules were set, the stakes established. The patient, intense, devastatingly attractive man had made his first move, and Jay—the bratty, chaotic force of nature—had just agreed to be molded.
The real obsession was about to begin.
Heeseung's apartment was a study in controlled elegance. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the Han River, while the interior was decorated with the kind of understated luxury that whispered rather than shouted. Everything had its place, from the carefully curated art on the walls to the vintage audio equipment that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Jay arrived exactly on time—a minor miracle that didn't go unnoticed.
"Punctual," Heeseung observed, opening the door. He was dressed simply in dark jeans and a white button-down, but somehow managed to look like he'd stepped out of a magazine. "I'm impressed."
"I can follow directions when properly motivated," Jay replied, trying to inject some of his usual sass into the words. But his voice came out breathier than intended, and he found himself oddly nervous under Heeseung's appraising gaze.
The guitar instructor was already waiting in the living room—a severe-looking woman with the posture of a classical musician and hands that looked like they could coax magic from steel strings. She introduced herself as Professor Kim and immediately got to work, positioning Jay's fingers on the fretboard with impersonal efficiency.
"Your technique is sloppy," she announced within the first five minutes. "You're rushing. Music requires patience."
Jay had chosen his outfit carefully for maximum impact: a cropped mesh top that revealed tantalizing glimpses of skin, paired with low-slung leather pants that showcased the dramatic curve of his hips. But Heeseung was utterly immune to his charms, focused solely on the mechanical aspects of finger placement and chord progression.
From his corner armchair, he observed in silence. He didn't compliment Jay's appearance; he didn't even seem to notice the deliberate provocation of his outfit. His presence was a constant, low-frequency hum in the room—watchful but not intrusive. When Jay attempted to catch his eye with a deliberately sensual stretch that revealed a strip of toned stomach, Heeseung's gaze remained fixed on his finger positioning on the guitar neck.
It was maddening. Jay thrived on reaction—positive or negative—but Heeseung was giving him nothing. The only acknowledgment of his theatrical sighs and calculated poses was an occasional slight narrowing of those dark eyes, as if he were noting the attempts and cataloging them as symptoms of impatience rather than objects of desire.
After an hour of fumbling through basic chord progressions, Professor Kim packed up her materials with brisk efficiency. "Practice daily," she instructed. "I'll be back next week to assess your progress."
As the door closed behind her, Jay slumped against the wall, frustrated and slightly humiliated. "Well, that was awful."
"Your frustration is natural," Heeseung said, approaching with a simple black cashmere sweater in his hands. "The gap between taste and ability is always widest at the beginning." He held out the sweater. "You'll catch cold in that mesh."
The gesture was so practical, so paternal, that it was more infuriating than a leer would have been. Jay snatched the sweater, his fingers brushing against Heeseung's in the process. A jolt of electricity passed between them—sharp, undeniable, and over almost before it began. Heeseung's hand lingered for just a moment, his gaze finally holding a flicker of something hotter, but it was gone so quickly Jay wondered if he'd imagined it.
"Next time," Heeseung said, his voice back to its silk-smooth calm, "we attend a gallery opening. I'll have appropriate attire delivered to your apartment tomorrow."
The "appropriate attire" arrived the following afternoon in a garment bag that felt heavier than it looked. Inside was a masterpiece of subtle provocation—a deep burgundy suit tailored with surgical precision. The jacket was cut impossibly close to Jay's torso, emphasizing the narrow taper of his waist, while the trousers were slim and elongated his already impressive legs.
But the real scandal was the shirt: sheer black silk with a plunging neckline that gathered in a soft ruffle at the throat, revealing the sharp architecture of his collarbones and the smooth expanse of his chest beneath.
"This is 'appropriate'?" Jay muttered to his reflection, turning to examine the way the fabric caught the light. It was more covered than his usual club attire, yet somehow felt infinitely more debauched. It was elegant corruption, sophistication with a razor's edge.
The gallery opening was everything Jay had expected and nothing he was prepared for. The space was white-walled and minimalist, filled with the kind of people who spoke in hushed, reverent tones about "texture" and "negative space." Heeseung moved through the crowd like a diplomat, introducing Jay as his "protégé"—a word that made Jay's skin prickle with unnamed implications.
Throughout the evening, Heeseung's hand remained a constant, possessive presence on the small of Jay's back. The touch was light but unmistakable, a brand that announced ownership to anyone paying attention. He guided Jay through the exhibits, his commentary on the art low and insightful, treating Jay like an equal participant in the cultural experience rather than arm candy.
For his part, Jay played his role with sullen grace, acutely aware of the attention they were drawing. He leaned in close to examine pieces, knowing the shirt's neckline would gape provocatively. He sipped champagne with deliberate sensuality, his fingers lingering on the stem of the flute. Every movement was calculated to drive Heeseung to distraction.
But Heeseung remained the picture of composed appreciation, discussing the artwork with other patrons while keeping Jay close with that possessive touch. If he noticed the way conversations stopped when they passed, or how other men's gazes lingered hungrily on Jay's form, he gave no sign.
In the car ride home, the silence was thick with unspoken tension. Jay slouched against the window, buzzing with restless energy from the champagne and unspent seductive effort.
"You were restless tonight," Heeseung remarked, his profile etched by passing streetlights.
"It was boring," Jay said, the brat returning in full force. "All those people talking pretentiously about splatters of paint on canvas. It's meaningless."
"It's a language you haven't learned to speak yet," Heeseung replied, his voice carrying that infuriating note of patient instruction. "Like the guitar. Your performance this evening, however, was… compelling. If somewhat obvious."
Jay's breath caught. "What performance?"
A slow, knowing smile curved Heeseung's lips in the darkness. "The little sighs when you thought I wasn't listening. The way you touched your throat when that collector was monopolizing our conversation. You were screaming for attention without saying a word."
He reached over and, with a single finger, traced the ruffle of Jay's shirt just above his breastbone. The touch was feather-light yet it burned through the silk like a brand. Jay's breath hitched audibly, his lips parting as heat spread from that single point of contact. Heeseung's finger lingered, tracing the edge of the fabric where it met skin, his touch so deliberately gentle it felt like torture.
"I see you, Jongseong-ssi," he murmured, his voice dropping to that honey-silk register that made Jay's pulse stutter. "Every transparent, beautiful attempt to make me lose control. The way you arch your back when you think I'm not watching. The little sounds you make when you're frustrated." His finger pressed slightly firmer, just over Jay's racing heart. "The way you're trembling right now, trying so hard to maintain that bratty facade when all you really want is for me to pin you against this seat and show you exactly who's in control here."
Jay's eyes fluttered closed, a soft whimper escaping before he could stop it. His entire body was taut as a bowstring, every nerve ending focused on that single point where Heeseung was touching him. The space between them crackled with electric tension, the air thick with unspoken promises.
"But not yet," Heeseung whispered, his breath ghosting over Jay's ear as he leaned closer. "I see you, and I am… patient. Which means you'll wait until I decide you've earned what you're so desperately asking for."
The car pulled up to Jungwon's apartment building. Heeseung's hand withdrew slowly, deliberately, leaving Jay cold and aching in its absence. He didn't move to get out, didn't suggest that Jay stay the night. Instead, he fixed him with those dark, knowing eyes that seemed to see straight through to Jay's soul.
"Practice the first four bars of the song Professor Kim assigned," he said, his voice back to its composed calm as if he hadn't just reduced Jay to a trembling mess with a single touch. "I'll be listening next time. And Jongseong?" He waited until Jay met his gaze. "Wear something that covers more skin. I find myself... distracted by your displays."
The words were both dismissal and promise, leaving Jay unsure whether he'd been complimented or chastised.
Jay fled the car on unsteady legs, his skin humming with frustrated energy and unfulfilled desire. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Heeseung's finger against his chest, could still hear the dark promise in his voice. He felt like he was losing a game where the rules kept changing, where every move he made was anticipated and countered with maddening calm.
But as he watched the sleek car disappear into the night, he realized he'd never been more excited to lose. His body ached with want, with the need to be seen and claimed and utterly possessed by the man who had just dismissed him with such devastating composure.
The following weeks fell into a pattern that was both routine and electric. Jay threw everything he had at Heeseung's composure, each attempt more brazen than the last.
For the second guitar lesson, Jay arrived in a leather harness worn over bare skin, the straps creating geometric patterns across his pale torso. He positioned himself carefully on the piano bench, arching his back as he reached for different frets, knowing exactly how the leather framed his body. Heeseung's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained steady as he corrected Jay's finger positioning.
The third lesson saw Jay in a kilt with deliberately no undergarments, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he practiced, the fabric shifting with every movement. When he stretched to reach a high note, the kilt rode up, and Jay caught the sharp intake of Heeseung's breath. But when their eyes met, Heeseung simply said, "Your timing is improving," and turned back to his notes.
By the fourth lesson, Jay had escalated to a sheer bodysuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, the fabric so transparent it was purely theoretical. He bent over to adjust his amp, knowing the view he was providing, then glanced back to find Heeseung gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles had gone white. But Heeseung's voice remained maddeningly level: "Try that passage again, but slower this time."
But it wasn't Jay's calculated displays that seemed to affect Heeseung most. It was the unguarded moments—when Jay forgot to perform.
Like the time Jay got frustrated with a particularly difficult chord progression and bit his lower lip in concentration, his brow furrowed in genuine effort. Heeseung went completely still, his dark eyes fixed on Jay's mouth with laser focus until Jay looked up with innocent confusion. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Heeseung said, his voice rougher than usual. "Keep playing."
Or the evening when Jay absently licked chocolate from his fingers after dessert, completely absorbed in explaining the aerodynamic differences between the 2022 and 2023 Red Bull cars. He was gesticulating wildly, passionate about the technical details, when he noticed Heeseung had gone silent. Jay paused mid-sentence, tilting his head with that unconscious grace that made Heeseung's breath catch.
"You stopped listening," Jay accused with a pout.
"I'm listening," Heeseung said quietly. "To everything."
The gallery openings became exercises in restraint. Jay would lean in close to examine artwork, knowing his breath would ghost over Heeseung's ear as he whispered observations. He would brush against Heeseung's body as they moved through crowds, each contact seemingly accidental but perfectly calculated. But then Jay would get genuinely excited about a piece—eyes lighting up as he discovered some technical detail in the brushwork—and Heeseung would find himself transfixed by that authentic enthusiasm, the way Jay's whole body came alive when something captured his interest.
At private concerts, Jay perfected the art of the meaningful glance, the deliberate touch, the way he could make drinking champagne look like a sensual act. But it was when the music moved him—when he closed his eyes and swayed slightly to a particularly beautiful passage—that Heeseung's composure showed its first real cracks. Jay's unconscious sensuality, the way he responded to beauty without artifice, was far more devastating than any calculated seduction.
The tension between them became a living thing, a taut wire that thrummed with accumulated charge. Jay pushed harder, testing the boundaries of Heeseung's legendary patience. He started leaving things at Heeseung's apartment—a shirt draped over a chair, a book of poetry on the coffee table, his favorite lip gloss "forgotten" on the bathroom counter. Each item was a territorial marker, a reminder of his presence in Heeseung's space.
He began texting Heeseung at odd hours—photos of sunsets with captions like "reminded me of your eyes," or late-night voice messages when he couldn't sleep, his voice soft and vulnerable in the darkness. "I've been thinking about what you said about patience. I don't think I understand it yet. Will you teach me?"
Heeseung responded to each provocation with maddening composure, treating Jay's escalating attempts as amusing quirks rather than the calculated assault on his self-control they were meant to be. But Jay was learning to read the subtle signs—the slight tightening around Heeseung's eyes when Jay stretched just so, the way his fingers would pause on the piano keys when Jay made those soft sounds of frustration, the careful distance Heeseung maintained when Jay was being particularly tactile.
The real breakthrough came during an intimate dinner at Heeseung's apartment. Jay had chosen his outfit carefully—a silk slip dress that clung to every curve, the neckline plunging dangerously low. He ate slowly, deliberately, making every bite a performance. He licked his lips after each sip of wine, let his fingers linger on the stem of his glass, leaned forward just enough to give Heeseung a perfect view down his dress.
But then dessert arrived—a complex chocolate creation—and Jay forgot all about seduction in his genuine delight. His eyes went wide with childlike wonder as he tasted it, letting out an unconscious little moan of pleasure that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with authentic appreciation.
"Oh my god," he breathed, completely unguarded. "This is incredible. How is it possible for something to taste this good?"
When he looked up, there was chocolate on his lower lip, and his expression was pure, unfiltered joy. Heeseung was staring at him with an intensity that made Jay's breath catch, something dangerous flickering in those dark eyes.
"You have..." Heeseung started, then stopped, his voice rough.
"What?" Jay asked, touching his face self-consciously.
Instead of answering, Heeseung reached across the table and brushed his thumb across Jay's lip, collecting the chocolate. The touch was gentle but electric, and Jay's lips parted automatically under the pressure. For a moment, they stayed frozen like that—Heeseung's thumb still pressed to Jay's lip, both of them breathing hard.
Then Heeseung pulled back, his composure sliding back into place like armor. "You should be more careful," he said, but his voice betrayed him with its rough edges.
Jay stared at him, his heart hammering. That moment of almost—the first time Heeseung had initiated physical contact outside of their formal arrangement—felt like a victory and a frustration in equal measure.
After that, the tension became almost unbearable. It was as if that near-moment had reminded them both of what was at stake. Jay would arrive at lessons in increasingly scandalous outfits, would find excuses to touch Heeseung's hands while they worked on finger positions, would stretch and pose and perform with increasing desperation.
But Heeseung had apparently decided on a strategy of benevolent indifference, treating each provocation with the same calm appreciation he might give to a particularly beautiful but untouchable work of art. The more Jay pushed, the more controlled Heeseung became, until Jay felt like he was throwing himself against a wall of silk-wrapped steel.
The breaking point finally came on a rainy Thursday evening. He arrived soaked from the rain, having deliberately walked the last several blocks despite the weather. His white ribbed tank top was now completely transparent, clinging to every dip and curve of his torso like a second skin. His black leather pants were dark with water, molded to his hips and thighs like they'd been painted on. Water dripped from his hair, tracing paths down his neck and disappearing beneath the wet fabric.
He looked like a drowned angel, ethereal and devastating, and he knew it.
When Heeseung opened the door, his carefully maintained composure finally, visibly cracked. His dark eyes went wide, his jaw tightened, and for a moment he simply stared. The silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility.
"I'm here for my lesson," Jay said, his voice dripping with false innocence. He walked past Heeseung into the apartment, leaving a trail of water droplets on the polished hardwood floor. The wet fabric of his top stretched taut across his back, revealing every ridge of muscle, every elegant line.
But then the cold hit him properly, and Jay's calculated seduction faltered. His body began to shake—not the delicate, performative trembling he might have employed for effect, but genuine shivers that wracked his slight frame. His lips, which he'd carefully glossed for maximum impact, were now tinged blue at the edges. The vulnerability was completely unintentional, and it was devastating.
"Jesus, Jongseong," Heeseung breathed, his voice stripped of its usual control. "You're freezing."
Jay tried to maintain his seductive pose, one hip cocked as he reached for the guitar, but another violent shiver betrayed him. "I'm f-fine," he managed, but his teeth were chattering now. The performance was crumbling, revealing something genuine and fragile underneath.
That's when Heeseung's legendary patience finally snapped.
"No, you're not." The words were rough, almost angry, but the anger seemed directed at himself rather than Jay. In two quick strides, Heeseung was beside him, his hands hovering just over Jay's shoulders as if he wanted to touch but was still fighting the impulse. "You walked through a storm just to—what? To prove a point? To get a reaction?"
Jay looked up at him, water droplets clinging to his lashes, his dark eyes wide and startled by the sudden intensity in Heeseung's voice. He opened his mouth to deliver another sultry line, another calculated provocation, but what came out instead was small and honest: "I just wanted you to see me."
The words hung in the air between them, far more naked than Jay's transparent shirt. They weren't part of his seduction playbook; they were the truth, raw and unguarded, slipping out in a moment of genuine vulnerability.
Something in Heeseung's expression shifted. The careful control he'd maintained for weeks began to crumble like a dam under too much pressure. "See you?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Jongseong, I see everything. Every calculated pose, every strategic outfit, every transparent attempt to make me lose my mind." His hands finally made contact, cupping Jay's face with trembling fingers. "But this—you shivering and honest and trying so hard to be brave—this is what's killing me."
Jay's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't how he'd planned it. He was supposed to be in control, the tempter, the one driving Heeseung to distraction with his beauty and boldness. But here he was, vulnerable and cold and real, and somehow that was what had finally broken through.
"I don't understand," Jay whispered.
"Your performances are beautiful," Heeseung said, his thumbs tracing Jay's cheekbones. "But your authenticity is devastating. When you bite your lip because you're actually concentrating, not because you want me to look at your mouth. When you get excited about something and your whole face lights up. When you show me who you really are beneath all the armor—that's when I lose my goddamn mind."
Jay felt tears prick at his eyes, mixing with the rainwater on his cheeks. All this time, he'd been wrong about what Heeseung wanted. It wasn't the perfect performance, the flawless seduction. It was him—messy, genuine, human him.
He picked up the guitar with hands that trembled from more than cold now. The wet strings were impossible to manage, and his stiff fingers fumbled the melody he'd been practicing for weeks. The sound that emerged was broken, discordant—a perfect metaphor for how exposed he felt in that moment.
A shadow fell across him. Heeseung was standing directly behind him, so close Jay could feel the heat radiating from his body like a furnace. The contrast between his own chilled skin and Heeseung's warmth was overwhelming.
"Stop." The command was rough, stripped of its usual silk, carrying weeks of repressed desire and careful restraint finally giving way.
Jay's hands stilled on the strings, his whole body going tense with anticipation. The apartment was silent except for their breathing and the rain drumming against the windows like an echo of Jay's racing heart.
Heeseung's hands came down on Jay's shoulders—not the gentle, instructive touches Jay had grown accustomed to, but firm and possessive, fingers digging into the wet fabric of his shirt. The touch burned through the cold like a brand.
"Do you have any idea," Heeseung said, his voice low and dangerous, "what you've been doing to me? Week after week, parading yourself in front of me with your impossible clothes and your shameless poses?" His grip tightened, just short of painful. "Testing me, pushing me, trying to make me break?"
Jay turned in his grasp, the guitar sliding forgotten to the floor. Heeseung's face was inches from his, and the carefully composed mask was completely gone. What remained was raw hunger, weeks of denied desire finally given permission to surface. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made Jay feel transparent, completely seen.
"I was trying to—" Jay started, but Heeseung cut him off.
"You were trying to seduce me," Heeseung finished, his voice a growl. "With your leather and your silk and your pretty, pouty mouth. And it worked, Jongseong. It worked so well I've spent every night for the past month taking cold showers and trying to forget the way you look at me." His thumb traced Jay's lower lip, and Jay's breath hitched audibly. "But you want to know what really destroyed me? It wasn't the performance. It was every moment you forgot to perform. Every time you let me see the real you—passionate, vulnerable, beautiful beyond anything you could ever manufacture."
Jay was trembling again, but not from cold. The intensity in Heeseung's voice, the raw honesty, the way he was looking at Jay like he was something precious and dangerous—it was overwhelming.
"The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating," Heeseung continued, his other hand sliding up to tangle in Jay's damp hair. "The way you lit up when you talked about that band. The way you looked at that chocolate dessert like it was a miracle. Those moments when you forgot to be a temptress and just... were. That's what's been killing me."
"Heeseung-hyung," Jay whispered, his voice breaking on the name. All his armor was gone, all his calculated seduction reduced to this—two people, honest and wanting and finally, finally ready to stop pretending.
"I told you I was patient," Heeseung murmured, his forehead pressing against Jay's. "I told you I could wait. But watching you shiver and lie to me about being fine, seeing you so desperate to be seen that you'd walk through a storm..." His control was unraveling in real time, words becoming rougher, more desperate. "I can't. I can't be patient anymore. I can't pretend this is just an arrangement. I can't keep watching you perform when all I want is to worship the person underneath."
The last threads of restraint snapped like overtaxed cables. When Heeseung kissed him, it wasn't the controlled, measured thing Jay had imagined. It was desperate, consuming, weeks of careful restraint exploding into overwhelming need. Jay melted into it, his cold body seeking the heat of Heeseung's like a flower turning toward the sun.
This was surrender, complete and mutual. Not the careful, choreographed seduction Jay had planned, but something raw and honest and absolutely devastating in its intensity.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was conquest, pure and simple—weeks of repressed desire boiling over in a kiss that tasted of desperation and dark promises. Jay's knees buckled, but Heeseung's arms came around him, holding him upright, holding him captive. The kiss was everything Jay had imagined it would be—drowning in silk and honey—but now the silk was tightening around him, pulling him under into depths he hadn't anticipated.
When Heeseung finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard. The controlled mask was completely gone, replaced by stark, open need.
"Do you want me to stop?" The question was asked against Jay's throat, where his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. Despite everything—the hunger in his voice, the possessive grip—there was still a thread of restraint, a final chance to step back from the precipice.
Jay looked at him—really looked. At the perfectly sculpted features now soft with want, at the dark eyes that held promises of pleasure and possession, at the mouth that had just claimed his so thoroughly. This was the real man beneath the controlled facade, raw and passionate and overwhelming.
Slowly, deliberately, Jay shook his head. "No."
The word was a key turning in a lock.
Heeseung's control didn't just slip—it shattered completely. In one fluid motion, he swept Jay into his arms, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. Jay let out a startled sound, his arms instinctively winding around Heeseung's neck as he was carried down the hallway to a bedroom dominated by a massive bed.
Heeseung laid him down on the dark sheets with surprising gentleness, then followed him down, caging him with his body. He braced himself on his elbows, looking down at Jay who was spread beneath him, his wet clothes dark against the pale linen.
"No more games, Jongseong," Heeseung said, his voice low and final. "No more performing. Just you. And me."
This kiss was different—slower, deeper, a thorough exploration rather than a conquest. Heeseung's hands pushed up the soaked tank top with deliberate slowness, his palms skimming over chilled skin, warming everywhere he touched. Jay arched beneath him, a soft gasp escaping as calloused fingers traced the sharp lines of his hip bones, the sensitive dip of his waist.
When the garment was finally discarded, Heeseung pulled back to look at what he'd unveiled. In the dim light, Jay was ethereal—pale skin flushed pink from the cold and arousal, chest rising and falling rapidly, dark eyes wide and pupils blown with desire.
"So beautiful," he breathed, and the words weren't calculated flattery. They were reverent truth, spoken like a prayer. "Even more beautiful without the armor. Look at you, Jongseong. Look how you respond to me."
His mouth followed his hands, mapping Jay's body with a connoisseur's attention to detail. Every touch was deliberate, every kiss a brand of ownership. The hollow of Jay's throat, where his pulse fluttered like a caged bird. The sharp jut of his collarbones, so delicate they seemed to demand worship. The sensitive skin of his inner wrists, where Heeseung pressed his lips and felt Jay's entire body shudder in response.
He found places Jay had never known were sensitive—the curve where his neck met his shoulder, the soft skin behind his ear, the tender spot just below his navel that made him cry out and arch desperately. Heeseung drew out sounds Jay didn't know he could make, breathy whimpers and broken pleas that seemed to encourage him to take his time, to savor every reaction.
The patient, methodical approach he'd promised was applied here too—building sensation layer by layer, never rushing, always watching Jay's face to catalogue every expression of pleasure. He whispered praise and possession against fevered skin, his voice that dark honey that made Jay's blood sing.
"That's it, little one. Let me hear how much you need this. How much you need me."
Jay was lost in it, drowning in sensation and the overwhelming feeling of being completely seen, completely claimed. His usual need to control, to perform, to maintain some facade had been stripped away along with his clothes. There was only Heeseung's hands and mouth, only the building heat between them, only the promise of surrender that had been hanging over them for weeks.
When Heeseung finally moved to claim him completely, Jay was beyond coherent thought, reduced to nothing but sensation and need and the certainty that he would never be the same. The careful cultivation had led to this moment of complete unraveling, and Jay gave himself over to it willingly, utterly, completely.
Later, as they lay tangled in sheets that smelled like sandalwood and sex, Jay listened to the steady rhythm of Heeseung's heartbeat beneath his cheek. His body felt boneless, wrung out in the most exquisite way, every nerve ending still humming with residual pleasure. Fingers carded gently through his hair, and he felt more peaceful than he could ever remember being.
The aftermath was almost as overwhelming as what had come before. Jay had always been someone who needed constant stimulation, constant movement, but here in Heeseung's arms, he found himself content to simply exist in the warmth and safety of their shared breathing. His usual restless energy had been thoroughly, completely sated.
"You're quiet," Heeseung murmured, his voice roughened from exertion and the things he'd whispered during their joining. "No bratty commentary? No complaints about the thread count of the sheets?"
Jay smiled against his skin, pressing a soft kiss to the warm chest beneath his cheek. "The sheets are perfect. You're perfect." The admission came out softer than he'd intended, vulnerable in a way that would have terrified him hours ago. "I didn't know it could be like that. So... intense. So consuming."
Heeseung's arms tightened around him, protective and possessive. "You've never let anyone take control before."
It wasn't a question. Somehow, Heeseung had understood exactly what had happened between them—the complete surrender Jay had never thought himself capable of, the way he'd given himself over entirely to Heeseung's careful, devastating touch.
"I've never wanted to," Jay whispered. "Never trusted anyone enough. But you... you see me. Really see me. And you still want this. Want me."
"The new Red Bull cap," Heeseung said into the quiet, his voice rough with satisfaction and approaching sleep. "It's being delivered tomorrow."
Jay had forgotten all about it. The obsession that had started this entire chain of events felt trivial now, a lifetime ago. He tilted his head to look up at Heeseung, who was gazing down at him with soft eyes and mussed hair.
"Thank you," Jay whispered, but he wasn't talking about the cap.
Heeseung understood. He pressed a kiss to Jay's forehead. "Sleep, little one."
For the first time, Jay didn't feel the need to push back, to test boundaries, to perform. He simply closed his eyes and let himself be held. The careful progression had led them here, to a place where the tension hadn't broken but transformed into something solid and real.
The Red Bull cap, when it arrived, was anticlimactic. Pristine and expensive, it joined the growing collection on Jay's shelf without ceremony. The object of his former obsession felt like a relic from someone else's life. The real obsession now had dark eyes and honey-silk voice and lived in an elegant apartment overlooking the river.
Their relationship shifted into something neither had quite expected. The formal "arrangement" with its rules and lessons became obsolete overnight. Jay simply began spending most nights at Heeseung's apartment, not because he was required to, but because it felt like home in a way his childhood bedroom never had.
The provocative outfits evolved too. Not disappearing, but changing purpose. Instead of weapons designed to break Heeseung's control, they became a shared language of desire and appreciation. Jay would emerge from the bedroom in something scandalous, and Heeseung would look at him with warm approval rather than careful restraint.
"Beautiful," he would say, and mean it without reservation.
The guitar, once a prop in their elaborate dance, became something more meaningful. Jay found himself actually practicing—not to prove a point, but because he wanted to understand the music the way Heeseung did. His technique improved slowly but steadily, and sometimes in the evenings, Heeseung would listen with his eyes closed, not critically but with simple presence and appreciation.
One evening, as Jay fumbled through a particularly difficult passage, Heeseung moved from his chair to sit behind him on the piano bench, his chest against Jay's back, his hands covering Jay's on the fretboard.
"Feel the vibration," he murmured against Jay's ear. "Don't fight the strings. Let them sing."
Under Heeseung's guidance, the melody finally emerged clear and true. Jay leaned back against him, overwhelmed by the simple perfection of the moment.
"You're a good teacher," he said softly.
"You're a good student when you're not trying to seduce me," Heeseung replied, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.
"Who says I'm not still trying to seduce you?"
Heeseung's laugh was rich and warm. "Every moment of every day, little one. And it works every time."
Jay's friends noticed the change immediately. The manic energy that had always buzzed around him like static electricity had settled into something calmer, more focused. He still dressed provocatively, still had passionate opinions about everything from honey varieties to aerodynamic efficiency, but there was a groundedness to him now that hadn't existed before.
"You're different," Sunoo observed during one of their regular coffee dates. "Less… chaotic."
"I'm not chaotic," Jay protested, but there was no real heat in it. "I'm dynamic."
"You used to change obsessions every month. Now you've been fixated on the same man for three months. That's practically stability for you."
Jay stirred his latte thoughtfully. It was true—Heeseung had become his longest-running fixation. But it felt different from his previous obsessions. Those had always burned bright and fast, consuming him until the novelty wore off. This felt deeper, more sustainable. Like the difference between a bonfire and a well-tended hearth.
"He sees me," Jay said finally. "Not the performance, not the pretty packaging. He sees all the messy, intense parts and he doesn't want to change them. He just wants to… give them direction."
Sunoo studied his face. "You love him."
It wasn't a question, and Jay didn't try to deny it. The realization had crept up on him gradually, like dawn breaking. One day he'd woken up in Heeseung's arms and understood that this wasn't just attraction or even affection. It was the real thing, deep and abiding and terrifying in its permanence.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I do."
The true measure of their evolved relationship came a month later, when Heeseung had to host a formal dinner for international investors. Stuffy, important people who could make or break deals worth millions. The old Jay would have either refused to attend or shown up in something deliberately scandalous to sabotage the evening.
The new Jay simply asked, "What should I wear?"
The suit Heeseung selected was conservative by Jay's standards but impeccably cut. Deep midnight blue, it respected his figure without screaming for attention. Jay wore it without complaint, even adding minimal jewelry and understated makeup.
At the dinner, he was a revelation. He listened more than he spoke, asked intelligent questions when the conversation turned to topics he understood, and managed to charm a particularly difficult client by discovering their shared interest in vintage motorcycles. When Heeseung spoke, Jay's attention remained focused on him with obvious pride and affection.
After the last guest left, Heeseung found Jay on the balcony, looking out over the city lights.
"You were perfect tonight," Heeseung said, joining him at the railing.
"It was boring," Jay admitted with a small smile. "But you weren't."
Heeseung turned to study his profile. "You've changed. We've both changed."
"Is that bad?"
"It's everything." Heeseung pulled him close, burying his face in Jay's hair. "You humble me every day. The way you've grown, the way you've let me see the real you… I never expected this."
Jay understood what he meant. This had started as a transaction, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Somewhere along the way, it had become something neither of them had bargained for. Something real and profound and lasting.
"I love you," Jay said quietly, the words finally finding their way out.
Heeseung went very still. Then, slowly, he turned Jay in his arms to face him.
"Say it again."
"I love you," Jay repeated, stronger this time. "Not the arrangement, not the lifestyle, not even just the sex. You. The way you listen to my rambling about Formula 1 like it's poetry. The way you make me want to be better without making me feel like I'm not enough as I am. The way you saw through all my games to the person underneath."
Heeseung's kiss was soft, reverent. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I've been in love with you since that first night at the bar," he confessed. "You walked in with all your armor and attitude, but I could see the loneliness underneath. The hunger for someone who would really see you. I wanted to be that person."
"You are," Jay whispered. "You are that person."
Months later, they returned to the listening bar where it all began. The same smooth R&B played overhead, but the atmosphere between them was completely different. They sat in the same booth, but now Jay was curled against Heeseung's side, completely relaxed.
"I have something for you," Heeseung said suddenly.
"Another rare vinyl?" Jay teased.
"Better." Heeseung stood and walked to the small stage where a piano sat waiting. He spoke quietly to the bartender, who nodded with a smile.
Jay watched in fascination as Heeseung settled at the piano bench, his fingers hovering over the keys. Then he began to play—a simple, soulful melody that seemed to fill every corner of the intimate space.
When he began to sing, Jay's breath caught in his throat.
His voice was everything Jay had imagined and more—smooth as aged whiskey, rich as dark chocolate, but filled now with a raw emotional depth that was meant for him alone. It was a classic R&B ballad about finding unexpected love, about chaos settling into harmony, about storms becoming gentle rain.
Heeseung's eyes never left Jay's as he sang, and every word felt like a love letter, a promise, a benediction. Other patrons stopped their conversations to listen, but Jay only had eyes for the man at the piano who was laying his heart bare in four-part harmony.
When the song ended, the bar erupted in applause, but Heeseung ignored it all. He walked back to their table, his gaze fixed on Jay, who had tears streaming down his face.
Jay didn't trust his voice, so he simply stood and took Heeseung's face in his hands, kissing him with everything he had. It was a kiss that tasted of coming home, of finding your person, of forever.
"Let's go home," Jay whispered against his lips.
As they walked out into the Seoul night, hand in hand, Jay marveled at the journey that had brought them here. He'd started this looking for someone to fund his whims and impulses. Instead, he'd found someone who wanted to fund his growth, his dreams, his very soul.
The bratty sugar baby experiment had evolved into something neither of them had seen coming—a love story. Deep, complicated, transformative love that had changed them both in ways they were still discovering.
Jay squeezed Heeseung's hand as they walked toward their shared future, toward a home that smelled like sandalwood and sounded like music, toward a love that was patient and intense and absolutely perfect in its imperfection.
The search was over. He had found his obsession, his muse, his match. And this time, it was forever.
Epilogue - Two Years Later
Jay stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie with steady fingers. The reflection looking back at him was familiar yet transformed—still beautiful, still dramatic, but grounded now in a way that made the beauty more striking rather than less.
"You're going to be late for your own gallery opening," Heeseung said from the doorway, but his voice held only fond amusement.
The gallery opening. Jay's first solo exhibition of photography—a series called "Velocity and Grace" that captured the intersection of his various passions. Formula 1 cars in motion, musicians mid-performance, the play of light on guitar strings. It had started as a hobby, something to do with his restless energy when he wasn't practicing guitar or helping Heeseung with business dinners.
Now it was a career. His photographs were selling, getting attention from serious collectors. He had found his vessel at last—not music, not fashion, but the art of capturing perfect moments in imperfect motion.
"I'm ready," he said, turning away from the mirror.
Heeseung's smile was soft with pride. "Yes, you are."
The opening was a success beyond Jay's wildest dreams. Critics praised his unique perspective, his ability to find beauty in motion, in chaos transformed into art. His friends were there, beaming with pride as they watched him move confidently through the crowd, no longer the lost boy searching for his next obsession but an artist who had found his calling.
But it was Heeseung's presence that meant the most. Standing slightly behind him, a steady anchor, watching Jay bloom into the person he'd always had the potential to be. When Jay gave his speech thanking everyone who had supported his journey, his eyes found Heeseung in the crowd, and the look that passed between them held everything they'd built together.
Later that night, as they lay in their shared bed, Jay traced patterns on Heeseung's chest with one finger.
"Did you ever think it would turn out like this?" he asked. "When you first saw my profile, when we met at the bar—did you know?"
Heeseung was quiet for a long moment, his fingers carding through Jay's hair. "I knew you were special," he said finally. "I could see the passion, the hunger for something real. I hoped I could be part of helping you find it. But this?" He gestured around their room, filled now with Jay's photographs and their shared life. "This exceeded even my wildest expectations."
Jay smiled against his skin. The boy who had once collected obsessions like trophies had found something worth holding onto. The man who had built walls of performance and provocation had learned to be vulnerable, to be real, to be loved exactly as he was.
"I love you," Jay murmured, the words no longer a revelation but a constant, steady truth.
"I love you too," Heeseung replied, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "My beautiful, chaotic, perfect disaster of a muse."
"Your disaster," Jay corrected with a sleepy smile. "Forever and always."
And in the quiet of their shared room, surrounded by the evidence of a love that had transformed them both, they slept. The search was over. The obsession had become devotion. The arrangement had become forever.
Jongseong had found his home.