Into The Thrill-Chapter 12.4

“Don’t... don’t do it inside, not inside... please, not inside!”

“I won’t. Hngh, I’m not gonna come inside, haa...”

Haewon shook his head, on the verge of tears. The rapid thrusts burying deeper and deeper inside him pushed him over the edge. It was like being shoved off a cliff, tumbling into a bottomless drop as his spine spasmed and he clung to Woojin.

His toes curled. His spread thighs ached from the strain. The stimulation was so overwhelming, it felt like his lower half was melting—disintegrating.

“Ah, aah—hyung, hyung... ah, ah!”

A mug nearby crashed to the floor, glass shattered, something spilled—but none of that registered anymore. The white-hot sensation crested and exploded, so intense it left him dazed.

“Aaah... ahn...!”

Haewon came hard, his body convulsing as his spine arched tight. At the same time, Woojin’s pace intensified.

The hypersensitive tremors of climax had Haewon crying out. Woojin’s hips jolted, locked deep, and a final burst of breath shuddered out of him like a waterfall.

“Haa... haa!”

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He came deep inside, slamming into him with everything he had. A hot flood hit Haewon’s insides like a whipcrack. Veins stood out on Woojin’s furrowed brow. He twitched violently, like pissing. Goosebumps broke out along his neck and arms.

Haewon panted against Woojin’s shoulder. Woojin slowly released his death grip on Haewon’s knees and glanced down between them.

The spasms that had once rippled with ecstasy across their bodies were now subsiding.

Woojin slowly withdrew. As the head of his cock slipped free, Haewon’s body flinched.

Slick semen dribbled lazily out of him, pooling between his thighs.

“...I told you not to do it inside,” Haewon rasped, his voice hoarse with tears. His eyes, bloodshot and watering, stared fixedly at the slow trail of cum.

“That’s what you get for being a brat.”

“...Get out.”

“Too late now.”

“Don’t. I said I won’t! I won’t!”

“Keep acting up. You’re the only one losing here.”

Ignoring him, Woojin scooped Haewon up in his arms and turned away.

∞ ∞ ∞

His throat was raw. Haewon swallowed and winced. He had screamed so much, sobbed so hard, his diaphragm still trembled. He hadn’t even been able to lift a finger. He passed out completely and only opened his eyes after the sun was high in the sky.

The bed was trashed again.

Not just the area around the kitchen table, where the coffee maker sat—the bed itself was a mess. The two pillows had been flung far off, the sheets half-torn off and trailing onto the floor, and the bedside lamp was now rolling around near his feet.

Most of the time, Woojin was the picture of restraint, as if desire didn’t exist for him. But when he lost control, he lost it completely. He’d wreck everything. He’d fuck Haewon so hard he couldn’t even move afterward—and today was one of those days.

Last night, when he was drunk, he’d been unusually gentle.

But Haewon had gotten used to Woojin’s roughness. Softness just wasn’t enough anymore—it didn’t quench the thirst. It had been a mistake to tease him.

Still sprawled on the bed, Haewon touched his swollen lips. They ached with a burning heat. He stared blankly as he gingerly traced their outline.

“...Weird.”

Muttering to himself, something suddenly passed through his mind.

He curled up, aching, into the warm sheets like a cat. The fabric felt like clouds against his cheek. His tousled hair slipped over his eyes.

...

It was always Haewon who initiated things. Woojin rarely did. The number of times Woojin came on to him was vastly outnumbered by the times Haewon chased after him.

Haewon was the one begging for sex. And it was Woojin who always managed to set the mood just right.

Woojin was attractive. He was someone Haewon loved. Wanting to be with him, wanting to be close, to be naked together—it was all natural. But when things got heated, Woojin never let himself look disheveled. He always kept a perfect image, like he was trying to lure Haewon into starving for more.

It was like he wanted Haewon to break down.

Haewon shook his head to push the thought away.

He groaned, dragging his exhausted body upright.

He didn’t dislike Woojin. He liked him. Hell, when they broke up, he’d begged to get back together. Woojin, of all people, knew that better than anyone. So it was absurd to think Woojin would deliberately bait him. He had no reason to.

After a shower, Haewon picked up the baguette sandwich Woojin had made before heading off to work.

“Perfect husband material.”

Great in bed, great cook, talented, handsome, refined, tall. Sure, he didn’t make loads of money as a civil servant, but he was the second son of a renowned medical family. There’d be inheritance. They wouldn’t be poor.

And just recently, he’d even shown up on TV—briefly—during a news segment.

He’d appeared for a mere 0.1 seconds among a group of prosecutors coming out of the Seoul Central District Prosecutors' Office, but Haewon noticed him instantly. That’s how striking he looked.

Haewon downloaded the clip, took a screenshot, and made it his laptop background. The pixels were blurry, but Woojin’s sharp profile stood out unmistakably.

With one hand in his pocket and his tie flying over his shoulder as he strode ahead, that expression—glaring off to the side—looked so damn good, Haewon had half a mind to print it and hang it on the wall.

When he asked who he was storming off to destroy with such a terrifying face, Woojin had given a disappointingly mundane answer: he and the other Special Investigation Division prosecutors, including the newly appointed deputy chief, were just heading to a lunch gathering at a galbitang restaurant.

When Haewon asked why a news camera was even filming that, Woojin replied flatly that even the prosecutors at the office didn’t understand it.

Haewon had thrown his arms around Woojin’s neck when he heard that. He was even adorable sometimes—what more could anyone say?

Even the little odd quirks were part of his charm. Like when he earnestly explained just how insulting the word kkondae was. Or when he treated the most trivial stories like life-or-death matters. Or how he was so picky with food he wouldn’t even touch instant stuff.

Just then, his phone rang.

Haewon picked it up from the table.

A few months back, Woojin had insisted on cleaning the officetel despite Haewon telling him not to, # Nоvеlight # saying it was already messy enough. He had thrown the windows wide open.

God knows why the phone was even on the windowsill, but as Woojin went to shake out the doormat, it fell.

It plummeted down onto the road. Smashed. A car, then another car, then a 1-ton truck ran over it. The phone was obliterated.

Haewon had exploded in rage. Accused Woojin of doing it on purpose because it had photos and recordings of his voice. But Woojin apologized, bought him the latest phone, re-recorded voice messages for him (following the exact script Haewon wrote), and let him take new photos and videos.

Only after that exhausting ordeal did Haewon admit it probably wasn’t intentional and forgave him.

The best part?

While fiddling with the new phone, it accidentally snapped a candid of Woojin resting a hand on Haewon’s shoulder, looking at him with that piercing stare.

Haewon loved that photo more than any other.

If the phone hadn’t shattered, he never would’ve gotten it. Honestly, he was glad it broke.

Haewon watched Woojin make that expression only rarely—an expression so fleeting, so unlike him, it almost seemed imaginary.

There was a kind of unreachable distance in Woojin’s eyes that couldn't be explained by reason or investigation.

Woojin himself might not have realized anything when he saw that photo. But Haewon did. He recognized that look—it was the unmistakable gaze of someone in love. Deep, undeniable, impossible-to-hide love.

When Haewon changed phones, all his saved contacts had been lost. He hadn’t gotten around to recovering them all yet. Aside from a few key numbers—his father and stepmother, whose calls he hated but had to save, and a few orchestra members he sometimes lied to when he didn’t want to go out—everything else was gone.

An unfamiliar number lit up his screen.

Haewon declined the call. He was reaching into the fridge for a juice pack when the ringtone sounded again. Same number. It wasn’t a misdial.

“Yes?”

—“Is this Moon Haewon’s phone?”

“This is he. Who’s calling?”

—“Ah, my name is Park Jong-hoon. I’m not sure if you know me.”

“Who? How did you get my number?”

—“I asked the concertmaster of HanKyung Symphony—he’s a junior from my university.”

“Your name again? Park what?”

—“Park Jong-hoon.”

Haewon felt irritation well up—not just at the concertmaster who’d given out his number without asking, but also at the stranger who thought it was okay to go around fishing for people’s contact information like this. Whatever the reason for the call, this method of reaching out was already off-putting.

“I don’t know who you are, and why are you asking around for my number?”

He challenged the man while sipping from his juice pack. As he walked, a dull ache sparked in his waist. He wiped his moist lips with the back of his hand.

Park Jong-hoon responded.

—“It’s okay if you don’t remember. I listened to the album you worked on with Director Kim Jaemin last year, and that’s why I’m calling.”

Even in the face of Haewon’s cold tone, Park didn’t sound discouraged. He got to the point without hesitation.

“So?”

—“We’re preparing a crossover project, and I wanted to see if you’d be interested in participating. I noticed you don’t have management.”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

That album session hadn’t been some big career move. It had been half curiosity, half fun. Haewon also didn’t like crossover genres.

He preferred classical. Classical was like a diamond—unchanging, unaffected by time or trend. Its flawless permanence held beauty even centuries later. Even Kim Jaemin’s work, lauded in the contemporary music scene, hadn’t moved Haewon much.

He crushed the now-empty juice pack and tossed it into the trash.

—“It’s not pop—it’s a project combining classical music and traditional Korean instruments. I thought your style would fit well, so I took the liberty of reaching out.”

“I’m not interested in that world. And I don’t like gongs.”

Still on the phone, Haewon slipped off his bathrobe. He wanted to end the call already. Naked, he stepped into the dressing room, then paused in front of the mirror.

He scrutinized his reflection. A dark bruise bloomed below his collarbone. Frowning, he brushed a finger over it. It still throbbed faintly—Woojin must’ve sucked that spot with serious intent.

—“How can you say you don’t like it without even listening?”

“You composed it, right? Park Jong-hoon?”

—“Yes, I did.”

His tone was confident.

Haewon turned his head to check his neck for more marks. As he twisted, examining himself in the mirror, his voice turned indifferent—he’d already lost interest in the composer.

“You think you’re better than Beethoven?”

Silence.

Haewon turned the other way, spotting a red mark on his left side, and winced.

“You write better music than Bach?”

Still no answer.

He stretched his neck slowly, fingers pressing into the base of his skull. A lazy groan slipped out. The dull ache Woojin had left in his body still radiated like a low-grade fever.

“You better than Brahms?”

—“Looks like I called the wrong person. Sorry.”

“Yeah, you did. I’m hanging up.”

The call ended.

Haewon set the phone down and went into the bathroom to finish undressing.

He’d called in a sick day to the orchestra—he was already too late anyway.

Wouldn’t it be nice if, just once, Woojin called in sick too? If they both just gave in and stayed home for a day?

But even though he’d gotten home late, Woojin dragged himself to work as always.

Haewon hadn’t planned to take a day off, but he wasn’t about to waste it lying in bed.

Last night, Woojin had deliberately marked him—biting and clawing to make sure Haewon couldn’t go anywhere.

Woojin liked having him cooped up at home. If Haewon was out, he’d nag him to hurry back. He wouldn’t go out with him, but he didn’t like Haewon being out either—not even for lessons or tennis.

As a result, Haewon’s life since meeting Woojin had become a wheel spinning between work and home.

Today, he left the officetel and hailed a cab.

There was an exhibition in town for a painter who worked out of New York—one of Haewon’s favorites.

Though he hadn’t brought any of the artist’s work to the officetel, he had convinced his father to buy one as an investment. It was at the family estate.

His father hadn’t been pleased when the value hadn’t increased. He’d grumbled about spending so much money. But Haewon still loved the piece.

This new exhibition had a VIP preview for past buyers before the public opening. Haewon was one of them.

He showed his invitation at the entrance and stepped into a nearly empty gallery. It was a weekday afternoon, and the place was quiet.

Pamphlet in hand, Haewon wandered slowly through the gallery. The newer works had less freshness than the early ones and lacked bold experimentation, but the artist’s lens on nature still pulsed with vivid life and energy.

Haewon stopped in front of one large canvas, especially drawn to it.

After a while, a woman—likely a curator—approached him.

“You seem to really like this one. This exhibition features works Damien Ryu created after staying in Europe for over a year. This particular painting, I hear, was done while he was making wine at a small vineyard in Italy.”

The wide-open composition and unending rows of vines bathed in sunlight conveyed a burst of warmth and greenery. Even with just simple lines, it captured the relentless energy of the sun.

“How much?”

He didn’t care about art theory or brushwork. If it moved him—if it pleased the eye or stirred something inside—that was enough. Haewon wanted to own pieces like that.

“This one is $120,000. But since you’ve purchased before, we’re offering you a 5% discount. And VIPs who buy another piece during the exhibit can get 10% off.”

The curator said it with an impossibly sweet smile.

At $120,000, that was around 150 million won. If the painting he’d already bought had gone up in value, he could’ve used that to persuade his father—framing it as a smart investment.

But five years later, that painting still hadn’t appreciated in value, and his father had told him he had no eye for art.

His father had zero interest in culture or the arts. As a businessman, he wouldn’t spend 150 million won on something he didn’t see as valuable.

On top of that, Haewon’s stepmother was obsessed with money—always watching both him and his father like a hawk. If he bought a painting that expensive, she’d just hound his father for something equally extravagant.