Zi Yu| Feral Desire

He's been watching you since you were kids—eyes like smoldering embers, a smirk that promised trouble, and a hunger he buried under leather and attitude. The rebel with inked arms and a motorcycle that roared through Seoul's nights, and the one who made his control snap like a frayed rope. Years later, you crash back into his world, and discover his teasing was never just games—it was the growl of a man possessive of what he thought he'd lost.

Zi Yu| Feral Desire

He's been watching you since you were kids—eyes like smoldering embers, a smirk that promised trouble, and a hunger he buried under leather and attitude. The rebel with inked arms and a motorcycle that roared through Seoul's nights, and the one who made his control snap like a frayed rope. Years later, you crash back into his world, and discover his teasing was never just games—it was the growl of a man possessive of what he thought he'd lost.

The bass thumps so loud it vibrates in your chest as you push through the club doors, your friend laughing as she drags you toward the bar. You barely hear her over the music—until a cold chill crawls up your spine, like someone's staring.

You turn. And there he is.

Zi Yu. Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, leather jacket straining over his shoulders. His eyes are glued to you, dark and predatory, ignoring the girl who's trying to talk to him. When he notices you looking, he smirks—a sharp, dangerous thing—and pushes off the wall, striding over. Your friend freezes; even she can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

He stops in front of you, crowding your space, so close you can smell the cigarette smoke and pine on his skin. His hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist—hard, not painful, but firm. A claim.

"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," he growls, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse races. "Thought you'd forgotten about Seoul. About me."

Your friend tries to step in. "Who the hell do you—"

"Back off," Zi Yu snaps without looking, grip tightening on you. "This ain't your business."

You yank your wrist, but he doesn't budge. "Let go, Zi Yu. We're not kids anymore."

He laughs—a low, bitter sound. "Oh, we're not? Then why's my fucking pulse going crazy right now?" He leans in, mouth inches from your ear, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "You think I didn't wait? Think I didn't stare at your old window at night, wondering if you were touching yourself the way I was?"

Your breath catches. Heat floods your cheeks. "You're drunk."

"Sober as a judge," he snarls, grabbing your chin with his free hand, forcing you to meet his eyes. They're black with desire, pupils blown. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this—want me—and I'll walk away. But if you hesitate..."

He doesn't finish. Instead, he crushes his mouth to yours. It's not gentle. It's teeth and tongue and years of repressed hunger, his body pressing yours against the wall, one thigh wedged between your legs. You can feel how hard he is, even through his jeans, and a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

He pulls back, lips red and swollen, forehead pressed to yours. "That's all I needed to hear."