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Park Moondae couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t think straight; even lying still made his skin feel too tight. His body was moving toward a crisis and there was nowhere to hide.
When it finally hit—when the heat broke fully, violently—he didn’t even remember which morning it was.
“Today… hubae-nim?”
“…Sunbae-nim.”
He tried to answer but his head sank back down before he could properly raise it, a dull, hollow sound in a room that felt five degrees too warm. The back of his throat burned; his breaths dragged through him like he was inhaling steam. Everything pulsed, sharp and wrong and too alive. He lifted his hand, dropped it again. The weight of his own body overwhelmed him, his heartbeat too fast, skipping like it didn’t know how to land.
“Do you have any medicine?” he asked, voice dragging in the air, thin and cracked and humiliating.
Something curled behind his sternum and pried his ribs apart, the kind that made his nerves flare as if someone had lit a match inside his spine. He had known it was coming—had even tried pacing his body for it—but now that it was here it felt catastrophic.
Cheongryeo’s voice came back rougher than expected. “Medicine?”
“Yes,” Park Moondae breathed, letting the word wobble in motion. He wasn’t even pretending that much—his strength was leaking no matter what expression he wore. He saw the way Cheongryeo’s composure cracked, subtle but real, a small chip that almost gave Park Moondae satisfaction.
Almost.
“I—wait—stay there—just—wait,” Cheongryeo stammered, the panic so alien on him it made Park Moondae’s skin prickle with a dark, amused satisfaction.
The door clicked, a soft sound, and it should have soothed him—this was the moment he’d been waiting to wedge open—but the fever spiked again, twisting tight around his spine, and he clenched his teeth so hard he tasted blood. Heat pooled low, unbearable, his body begging for something he didn’t want to admit.
When Cheongryeo returned, arms packed with supplies, Park Moondae couldn’t stop the small flash of irritation. Of course the bastard had prepared. Of course he’d thought ahead while looking like he hadn’t. Bottles, packets, cold compresses. Neat, sterile; utterly useless.
Meticulous, compulsive bastard.
“It’s painkillers and antipyretics,” Cheongryeo said, offering him water, still trying to be gentle. “Take them.”
Park Moondae swallowed them dry, feeling the pills scrape down the inside of his throat, and then leaned back just enough, turning his head so the damp at his hairline caught the light. His hands shook where they clutched the blanket. The cuffs knocked faintly against one another—an ugly little sound that made his jaw tighten.
“By any chance… hospital?”
Cheongryeo’s reaction was so sharp it made Park Moondae bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from reacting.
“I—I thought it would be too noticeable,” he said, eyes darting to floor, to the hall, to anywhere but Park Moondae’s suffering. If it’s the two of us. I’m sorry. If you restart—um, your body—your body will be fine right away.”
The water hurt going down. The words hurt worse.
He let himself tilt sideways against the pillow, enough for the fever-glow to catch his skin; enough for his lashes to tremble; enough for Cheongryeo to see the sweat-damp curl of hair at his temples, the way his lips parted shallow and shaky.
His whole body felt too hot, like internal organs were simmering. He angled his face so Cheongryeo could see right into his eyes, wet at the corners, the heat making everything shimmer.
“…Sunbae-nim,” he whispered, barely there.
Cheongryeo went rigid.
“I don’t…” Park Moondae let his voice break, truly break, because the heat crawled under his skin like fire ants, because his stomach clenched with nausea and want, because he meant a bit of it, some of it, all of it. “I don’t want to restart. Please don’t make me go back. Don’t leave me like this.”
That landed—too fast, too hard. Panic flickered across Cheongryeo’s face so visibly Park Moondae nearly laughed, if laughing wouldn’t have hurt. He hated the humiliation of begging; he hated needing anyone, especially this man, but he needed something more than pride now.
“It hurts. My body—” his voice cracked and stayed cracked; it was true, it really hurt, it hurt everywhere, everything ached and burned, and he curled in on himself instinctively, “it hurts so much. Please, sunbae-nim. Just scent me. Just… a little. You’re the only alpha here.”
“That—” Cheongryeo’s voice broke. “You’re—Park Moondae, you’re an omega?”
Park Moondae let his head roll back, exposing his throat, not looking at him because he couldn’t control his expression anymore. His wrists trembled against the restraints. “Please.”
His scent broke open in the air, sweet with pain, sharp with distress, helpless in a way he despised, coating the small room until the walls felt closer than before. Cheongryeo inhaled sharply, his body jerking as if gutted.
He knelt before he realized he was moving. Park Moondae caught the shock in his eyes—shock and something like fear. The cup in Cheongryeo’s hand shivered. His free hand hovered uselessly above Park Moondae’s shoulder, too afraid to touch.
His gaze flicked to Park Moondae’s wrists—slight chafing marks; to his flushed cheeks; to his trembling chest; to the faint, humiliating way his thighs pressed together.
“Park Moondae…” he said quietly.
Park Moondae turned his face toward the pillow. The heat crawled over him like a slow tide, relentless and humiliating; every inch of skin felt thin, overly sensitive, begging for contact. He hated that he needed this to manipulate him. He hated how effective it was.
“…I like my team now,” he whispered, barely audible. “If you reset everything… it won’t match anymore. I won’t match.”
His wrists curled to his chest, cuffs clinking. “Please let me live. Please don’t make me start over. I… I don’t want to become an orphan again.”
That broke something.
“…I’m sorry,” Cheongryeo whispered.
Then:
“…What else do you want me to do?” he asked.
And that was all Park Moondae needed.
He leaned forward, buried his face in the hollow of Cheongryeo’s neck, inhaling sharply, hungrily, like a man denied water. The relief hit him immediately—shameful, overwhelming—his body loosening despite itself, trembling into the heat of an alpha’s presence.
“More,” he rasped. “Closer.”
Cheongryeo obeyed without thinking. He probably didn’t understand yet what he’d agreed to; he only understood that Park Moondae was trembling against his chest, breath dragging hot along his throat, fingers clutching at him like a drowning thing.
Park Moondae pressed in again, slower this time, almost gentle; his forehead rubbed the side of Cheongryeo’s neck, then paused, then nudged in deeper, dragging in scent with the kind of careful hunger that made Cheongryeo’s spine stiffen. The shift of his thighs sent a thin shock straight up Park Moondae’s body; he bit down on his lip and shuddered, and the sound he made was too raw to be mistaken for anything else.
“Sunbae,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges, “god—please—just stay like this, don’t go anywhere, don’t leave me here all alone.”
Park Moondae didn’t let him retreat. He curled closer, arms sliding around his waist, palms flattening against the small of his back, pulling until there wasn’t even a sliver of air between them. His hips shifted again, just barely, and that was when both of them felt it—the slip of wetness—
He froze.
Cheongryeo’s inhale stalled halfway; he tried to speak, but the breath got caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a broken choke instead.
“Park Moondae—wait—something’s—”
“Shut up,” Park Moondae rasped, mortified and furious and aching, clinging tighter. “Just—this is your fault—I can’t help it.” He couldn’t think. How long had it been, stuck in this body with all those kids around him and unable to do anything?
His breath hitched. “Take responsibility, you bastard.”
Cheongryeo swallowed, again. He hadn’t expected this. The bastard probably thought he’d thrown Park Moondae into an inconvenient inconvenience, not an omega in full heat pressed against the first available alpha. The consequence of his own idiocy.
“I’m not—” Cheongryeo tried again, voice hoarse. “I don’t know how to—”
“You don’t have to know,” Park Moondae whispered, soft and wrecked, leaning up to brush his mouth along the curve of Cheongryeo’s neck; it wasn’t a kiss, not really, just breath and heat and something shaky and hungry. “I can tell you exactly what to do.”
His fingers slid up the back of Cheongryeo’s shirt, seeking skin, nails barely grazing. Cheongryeo shivered so visibly that Park Moondae’s own breath stuttered. He tilted his head and let his teeth scrape lightly over the line beneath his ear, a warning before the bite. Cheongryeo froze, too stunned to pull away, and Park Moondae sank in, hard. A vindictive little act, nothing symbolic—just petty satisfaction at leaving something the man would have to conceal later.
Cheongryeo let out a sound he probably didn’t mean to make.
“…Park Moondae,” he whispered, horrified at himself.
“It’s nothing,” Park Moondae murmured against the mark, breath hot. “I just wanted to.”
His hips pressed in again, and this time there was no pretending it wasn’t deliberate. The friction sent a tremor through him; the wet heat had spread further, slick against the back of Cheongryeo’s shirt, and Park Moondae nearly folded with the relief and shame mixing in his chest.
“Sunbae,” he said, voice cracking straight down the middle, “I need you to help me. More. Please.”
Cheongryeo’s hands tightened at his waist; not possessive, just scared, like he thought he might drop Park Moondae if he loosened his grip. “Help you how?” he asked, barely audible.
Park Moondae swallowed, tried to steady his voice, failed.
“Just your hand,” he whispered. “Just—I can’t— I can’t even touch myself properly like this, it makes everything worse, it—fuck—sunbae, I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to restart just because I couldn’t handle a fucking heat.”
The confession shook both of them.
Cheongryeo didn’t move.
Park Moondae tightened his hold, pressing their foreheads together, breaths mixing in short, uneven bursts; the words slipped out of him before he could shape them, unbelievable, humiliating, but he couldn’t afford to care anymore. “You don’t have to fuck me. I’m not asking for that. Just—your fingers. Just once. I’ll manage after that. I just—just help me this one time.”
His voice cracked, thin, pleading: “Please, sunbae-nim, I’m begging you.”
Cheongryeo nodded, head jerking as if pulled forward by strings, pupils blown wide.
Relief hit Park Moondae so fast his knees weakened; he sagged into Cheongryeo’s chest, exhaling in a shaky spill, lips brushing the curve of a tendon at his throat.
“Good,” Park Moondae breathed. “Thank you. Just—just put your hand on my back.”
Cheongryeo did, hesitant fingers sliding down the trembling line of his spine, over the damp fabric, lower, lower—
“Under,” Park Moondae whispered, voice faint. “Inside. Please.”
And Cheongryeo did. Slowly. Hesitant fingers ghosting down the trembling line of Park Moondae’s spine, tracking the heat soaked into the fabric; lower, lower, over the small of his back where the sweat darkened and clung.
“Under,” Park Moondae whispered, throat raw. “Inside. Please.”
A beat of silence—Cheongryeo’s breath hitching—then his hand slipped beneath the waistband.
His fingertips brushed slick heat through the soaked cotton and Park Moondae’s body lurched violently, knees giving way; he folded against Cheongryeo’s shoulder with a choked, broken little cry he hadn’t meant to make, shaking hard enough that his teeth clicked.
“This—this is enough,” Park Moondae gasped, clutching tight, fingers digging into Cheongryeo’s shirt like he needed something to anchor him. “Just—just keep going—just your fingers—please, sunbae—don’t stop—just do it—please—”
Cheongryeo didn’t seem to breathe as he eased his hand deeper, the fabric clinging to Park Moondae’s skin, hot and obscene; he dragged his fingertips slowly, searching, learning by instinct and tremors because he clearly had no idea what he was doing. The cotton stuck wetly as he pressed in, the heat coiling under his hand like it could burn him through skin alone.
“Fuck,” Park Moondae whispered, head dropping, voice dissolving. “God—your hand—your fingers are just so—just—keep going—right there—”
And because he said it like that, because he sounded like something fragile and desperate and already half undone, Cheongryeo followed the shaky instructions without complaint, moving his fingers again, shallow pressure through the wet fabric, rubbing small, hesitant circles that made Park Moondae’s breath break every few seconds.
His forehead was pressed to the crook of Cheongryeo’s neck now, lips dragging over skin in messy, unconscious movements; every exhale was a shiver, a sound, something helpless pushed out of him despite every shred of pride clawing at the walls.
“Sunbae,” he whispered, and whatever intention he’d had to manipulate dissolved into actual need, because his hips jerked forward without permission, grinding slick into Cheongryeo’s hand, humiliating and impossible to stop. “Please—please—just a little harder—don’t stop, don’t go away—”
Cheongryeo made a noise, small, strangled, like he was swallowing his own shock.
“I—I’m trying,” he stammered, and his fingers pressed in again, the fabric slipping under the movement, wetter than it should have been, wetter than anything Park Moondae was prepared to acknowledge.
Park Moondae let out a thin keen at the feeling of it—his own heat, his own slick, the humiliating reminder of exactly what his body was doing—and buried his face harder into Cheongryeo’s neck, biting down again before he even realized.
Cheongryeo flinched, but not enough to pull away.
“Sorry,” Park Moondae murmured, though he didn’t loosen his teeth, didn’t stop tasting the salt of skin or the faint cologne clinging to his throat. “It—it helps.” Please don’t stop.
And Cheongryeo didn’t; if anything, he moved faster, like the bite had knocked something obedient loose inside him.
His fingertips pressed insistently now, rubbing with growing certainty, guided by each twitch and gasp; and Park Moondae was shaking harder, thighs unsteady, hips rocking in tiny, helpless motions because the pressure was so much, not enough, too much, everything at once.
“Sunbae,” he sobbed, breath hitching high, “I’m close—I’m so close—”
His fingers tightened around Cheongryeo’s collar, nails scraping skin through the thin shirt as he pressed down harder on his back, dragging him closer, holding on like he might fall apart if there was even an inch of space between them.
“I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it—keep going—just like that—”
Cheongryeo, breath unsteady, face pale and red in uneven flickers, whispered, “Park Moondae—wait—slow down, you’re burning much—”
But Park Moondae shook his head frantically, body arching into the touch, voice cracking open:
“Please—please, sunbae-nim, I need it, just—don’t make me wait—I’m almost there—”
His whole body arched once, sharp and trembling—and then he broke.
A strangled cry tore out of him as his hips jerked forward, slick pulsing against Cheongryeo’s hand, orgasm shuddering through him in violent, shaking waves; he clung hard enough that his nails left crescents in skin, breath tearing out in half-sobs as he rode the pressure, body trying to curl in on itself even as he clung to the warmth pressed against him.
His vision went white at the edges; his breath caught; everything hurt and released at the same time.
He sagged, boneless, trembling uncontrollably.
Cheongryeo froze under him, hand still trapped under Park Moondae’s waistband, fingers still slick and trembling.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Park Moondae exhaled—long, shaky, ruined—and pressed his forehead to Cheongryeo’s jaw, inhaling his scent like it was the only air left in the room.
“…I feel less sick now,” he whispered, almost dazed, cheek rubbing lightly against warm skin; a soft, instinctive nuzzle. “Thank you… sunbae.”
He curled closer, clinging without urgency now, softened and limp and strangely peaceful.
And Cheongryeo, who had been awkward the whole time, slowly—carefully—wrapped an arm around him in return.