Chapter 2: The Ritual
The cold seeped up through Sunoo’s bare knees, biting into flesh already sensitized by anticipation. The worn floorboards pressed hard patterns against his skin. Neon signs from the street outside cast shifting, garish glows across the posters plastering his walls – idols frozen in perfect smiles, oblivious to the scene unfolding beneath them. The air hung thick, saturated with the stale tang of dried sweat clinging to discarded clothes and the faint, persistent hum of his laptop on the desk. On its screen, muted but mesmerizing, Ni-ki danced in a looped fancam, all sharp angles and impossible grace under harsh stage lights. The room’s only other illumination came from a single, cold lamp on the nightstand, throwing long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe on the walls.
Sunoo knelt, completely naked, shivering slightly despite the heat pooling low in his belly. Before him, spread flat against the rough wood, lay the crumpled printout. It was worn soft at the edges, creased from countless foldings and unfoldings. The locker room photo. Ni-ki’s abs, muscles taut like sculpted stone, the elegant wings tattoo stark against his skin, the dark trail leading down from his navel disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sunoo traced the lines with a trembling fingertip, not on the paper, but hovering just above it. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged.
He’d shoved his pillow onto the floor directly over the image. The cheap cotton pillowcase felt rough against his flushed skin. He pressed his hips forward, grinding down onto the yielding softness, imagining it wasn’t foam and fabric beneath him, but the hard, sweat-slicked plane of Ni-ki’s abdomen. The friction was immediate, electric. A low whimper escaped his lips, instantly swallowed by the thick silence and the laptop’s drone.
He buried his face into another pillow clutched against his chest, muffling the sounds threatening to spill out. The dampness wasn't just from his breath; sweat beaded on his forehead, his upper lip. He rocked harder, faster, the pillowcase dragging deliciously against his aching cock. His mind fractured, splintering under the weight of the fantasy he’d nurtured, polished, and desperately craved.
He’d push the door open. Quietly. Not knocking. Just… appearing. Sunoo’s hips jerked violently. He’d see me. Like this. On my knees. Over his picture. Desperate. The image burned brighter than the neon outside: Ni-ki frozen in the doorway, those dark eyes wide, not with disgust, but with a sudden, dawning hunger Sunoo prayed existed. He wouldn’t say anything. Not at first. Sunoo’s movements became frantic, rutting against the pillow like an animal. He bit down hard on the fabric muffling his face, stifling a choked cry. He’d just walk in. Slowly. Close the door behind him. Lock it. The metallic snick of the bolt echoed in Sunoo’s skull, louder than the laptop’s hum.
He’d stand over me. Looking down. Sunoo arched his back, pressing his chest into the pillow he hugged, grinding his cock relentlessly against the one beneath his hips. The worn paper felt like Ni-ki’s skin under the pillow’s pressure. He’d see how much I want him. How long I’ve wanted him. The fantasy crystallized, terrifyingly vivid. He’d understand. He’d feel it too, finally. Sunoo’s breath came in sharp, wet gasps against the pillow. He’d reach down. Not gentle. Rough. Grab my hair. Sunoo’s scalp tingled with the phantom sensation. Pull my head back. He arched his neck, exposing his throat to the empty room. Make me look at him.
“See what you do?” Ni-ki’s imagined voice, low and thick with something Sunoo had never heard, vibrated through him. “See how fucking wrecked you are for me?” Sunoo moaned, the sound thick and desperate against the cotton. He was close, so close, teetering on the edge. The fantasy consumed him. He’d shove me down. Flat on the floor. Right over his picture. Sunoo pressed his cheek against the pillow covering the printout, imagining the cool tile of the locker room floor, Ni-ki’s heat radiating above him. He wouldn’t ask. He’d just take. The thought was a lightning strike. Pin my wrists. Spread my legs. Sunoo’s thighs trembled. He’d be hard. Against me. Pressing. He bucked wildly, the pillow slipping slightly. He’d lean down. His breath hot on my ear. Sunoo shuddered violently. “Mine,” the phantom Ni-ki growled. “Finally.”
The climax ripped through Sunoo with brutal force. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a convulsion, a violent expulsion of tension. His body locked, back arched impossibly, a strangled scream tearing from his throat only to be absorbed by the sweat-damp pillow pressed against his mouth. His hips jerked in frantic, involuntary spasms against the softness beneath him. Warmth spilled over his trembling thighs, onto the pillowcase, soaking through onto the crumpled paper beneath.
He collapsed forward, panting, gasping, his forehead pressed against the damp pillow covering Ni-ki’s image. Shame crashed over him like icy water, immediate and suffocating. The neon lights seemed suddenly garish and mocking. The laptop’s hum was an accusation. He was sticky, exposed, kneeling naked on the floor over a stolen picture of his bandmate. Pathetic. Twisted. Sick.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the lingering ghost of Ni-ki’s imagined possession, the phantom weight, the phantom heat. It clung, stubborn and intoxicating. The emptiness after was profound, a yawning chasm where the frantic energy had been. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. Why did it always leave him feeling worse? Why did the craving only deepen?
Slowly, trembling, he pushed himself up onto his hands. He looked down at the pillow. The wet spot was dark against the pale fabric. Beneath it, the printout was surely stained. He didn’t lift it to check. He couldn’t bear to see Ni-ki’s image defiled by his own weakness. Not yet.
He stayed there, kneeling in the aftermath, the cold floorboards biting into his knees again. The sweat on his skin cooled, making him shiver. He needed to clean up. Hide the evidence. Pretend this hadn’t happened. Again.
A soft sound sliced through the heavy silence. Not the laptop. Not the distant traffic.
A footstep. Outside his bedroom door. In the hallway.
Sunoo froze. Every muscle locked. His breath stopped dead in his lungs. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The sound hadn't been imagined. It was distinct. Deliberate. Close.
Silence stretched. Thick. Suffocating. The neon lights flickered.
Then, the faintest scrape. Like someone shifting their weight. Right outside his door.
Sunoo’s eyes, wide with terror and a horrifying, traitorous flicker of hope, snapped towards the door handle. It remained still. Unmoving.
But someone was there. Listening. Waiting.
The silence pressed in, heavier than before, charged with unbearable tension. Sunoo remained frozen on his knees, naked and exposed, the damp pillow beneath him, the stained printout beneath that, the phantom scent of Ni-ki’s sweat still clinging to the air in his mind. He didn’t dare breathe. Didn’t dare move a muscle. The only sound was the frantic, terrified drumming of his own heart, echoing the relentless beat of Ni-ki’s dance loop still playing silently on the laptop screen. Waiting for the handle to turn.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle as old glass. Sunoo’s breath solidified in his lungs, a cold lump. His muscles screamed from holding still. Every nerve ending sparked with the anticipation of exposure, the door handle gleaming like an accusation in the weak lamplight. He could feel the presence, a weight pressing against the wood. Ni-ki. It has to be Ni-ki. He knows. He heard.
Then, the scrape of a shoe on the hallway floor. Not turning the handle. Turning away. A single, receding footstep. Then another. Fainter. Moving down the corridor towards the other bedrooms. The crushing pressure in Sunoo’s chest fractured into a thousand shards of jagged relief, instantly followed by a fresh wave of sour shame. He wasn’t discovered. Not yet. But the proximity, the sheer possibility, left him trembling violently, the cold floorboards biting deep into his knees.
He stayed frozen long after the footsteps faded completely, replaced by the distant murmur of a television from the common area – Jake, probably. The neon signs outside pulsed, painting lurid stripes across his bare, sweat-slicked skin and the damning pillow beneath him. The laptop’s relentless, silent loop of Ni-ki dancing felt like mockery. The relief curdled into something uglier: frustration. Why hadn't he looked? Why hadn't he taken?
Slowly, muscles protesting, Sunoo pushed himself up. His knees ached. He avoided looking directly at the pillow or the crumpled printout undoubtedly stuck to its underside. He staggered to his feet, the sudden vertigo making him sway. He needed… something. Anything to bridge the gap between the terrifying near-miss and the hollow ache still throbbing low in his gut. He needed the fire back, the obliterating rush, even if it was digital and shared with strangers in the dark corners of the internet.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand where it had lain forgotten. The screen flared to life, momentarily blinding him. Ignoring the cold stickiness on his thighs, he ignored the muffled laughter from the TV down the hall. He ignored the phantom echo of footsteps outside his door. He navigated with practiced, trembling fingers, bypassing messages from family, the group chat filled with mundane planning, diving directly into the encrypted app hidden behind a useless calendar widget.
The group chat icon pulsed: HoneyThighs_Obsessed. Unread messages scrolled past in a frantic blur. He tapped it open. The familiar digital den engulfed him.
>> RikiSweatAngel: GOD that fancam from Inkigayo. The way his pants cling when he spins… I can’t.
>> AbsWorshipper99: Someone PLEASE tell me they capped the hip thrust during the bridge??? I need it injected into my veins.
>> BiteTheBicep: Made a new tribute vid. Dedicated to the shoulder veins in the ‘Criminal Love’ MV. Link below. Enjoy the mess, degenerates 😉🔥
Sunoo’s thumb hovered. The raw need, the shared hunger, was a balm and a catalyst. These strangers understood the gnawing emptiness, the consuming fire. They didn’t judge; they fed it. He started typing, his movements swift, almost violent.
>> SunshineSecret: FUCK. Just had the closest call ever. Someone RIGHT outside my door. Heart stopped. His fingers flew, translating the residual terror into a twisted offering. But god, all I could think about? What if it was HIM walking in? What if he SAW me? Saw me on my knees? Saw how bad I want it? How wet I get just THINKING about him using me?
He hit send. The message hung there, stark and explicit in the digital space. A confession, a dare. The response was immediate, a swarm of digital flies drawn to the scent of desperation.
>> RikiSweatAngel: SUNSHINE! OMG the risk! But fuuuuck that’s hot 🥵 Imagining him catching you… the look on his face…
>> BiteTheBicep: YESSS. The DOMINATION potential. Him just taking charge cos he sees how pathetic you are for him. 🔥 Link to my vid inspired by THAT scenario just dropped!
>> AbsWorshipper99: Needed this tonight. That mental image… him standing over you… Sent you something fresh, Sunshine. Hope it helps you… relieve the tension after that scare 😉 Direct Message.
A notification pinged. A DM from AbsWorshipper99. Sunoo tapped it without hesitation. No preview text. Just a video file. He thumbed the volume down to zero. He knew what it would be. He needed what it would be.
He hit play. The screen filled with a shaky, close-up shot of Ni-ki’s performance fancam – the one where his tank top rode up, revealing the defined ridges of his lower abs. Overlaid on the video, obscuring the lower half of Ni-ki’s torso, was another video. A hand, slick and moving fast, stroking hard over flushed skin. The climax was messy, explosive, splattering directly over the frozen image of Ni-ki’s stomach on screen. A visceral, anonymous tribute sent specifically to him.
Sunoo’s breath caught. It wasn't his fantasy, but it was the same hunger. The same object. The same desperate defilement. He scrolled down. Another DM notification. From another user. Another video link. This one titled: For Sunshine - Sweat & Submission.mp4. And another. And another. The group chat itself was erupting.
>> User DarkDreams: Sharing my response to Sunshine’s close call! Dedicated to the idea of him walking in. Watch him claim what’s his! LINK!
>> User VelvetVoice: Made an audio tribute. Moaning his name. Imagining it’s him making me scream. Link in bio for the full version. Inspired by you, Sunshine! 😘
Videos. Pictures. Audio files. They flooded his notifications, a torrent of explicit, Ni-ki-focused hunger echoing and amplifying his own. Each notification pulsed with a sickening allure. His thumb twitched over the first video link from AbsWorshipper99. The room felt stifling. The air thick with the scent of his own sweat and release, the cold light glinting off the drying mess on his thighs and the pillow on the floor. The neon signs bled across the walls, casting shifting, monstrous shapes. The laptop’s loop played on, Ni-ki’s perfect, oblivious face forever smiling. Sunoo stared at the glowing screen, the videos waiting, the group chat buzzing like angry hornets. The close call was forgotten, buried under the mounting digital avalanche of shared obsession. He tapped the first video link.
The video loaded. Grainy, intimate. A shaky close-up from some concert barrier, focused solely on the sweat-darkened waistband of Ni-ki’s low-slung pants during a hip thrust. Then, the jarring cut: a stranger's hand, slick with lube, furiously stroking, obscenely large against the tiny screen. The climax hit, messy and explosive, splattering over the paused image of Ni-ki's lower abs. Sunoo flinched, yet his own traitorous cock twitched back to life against his thigh, sticky and insistent. The utter anonymity of it, the shared defilement sent a jolt through his spent nerves. This stranger saw Ni-ki like he did. Wanted him just as desperately. It was perverse communion.
He didn't look away. He tapped the next DM link: For Sunshine - Sweat & Submission.mp4. Another fancam, this time Ni-ki drenched, wiping his brow backstage. Overlaid, shaky cell footage of someone else, face obscured, fucking a fleshlight gripped tightly in both hands. A raw groan, distorted by the phone mic, echoed the one building in Sunoo’s own chest. They were all here. All doing this. For Ni-ki. Because of Ni-ki. The group chat exploded.
>> RikiSweatAngel: WATCHING IT NOW SUNSHINE OMG THE OVERLAY!! That throat bob when he wipes sweat… imagine it’s your cock he’s choking on 😭💦
>> User DarkDreams: My tribute LIVE NOW! Dedicated to Sunshine’s fantasy! Him catching you, pinning you down RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE! LINK! GOON FOR OUR GOD!
Sunoo’s thumb flew, driven by a fresh, reckless energy igniting in the pit of his hollow stomach. The close call at the door, the lingering terror – it melted into fuel.
>> SunshineSecret: Fuck yes DarkDreams! That’s IT. That’s the one. Him seeing me broken open. Knowing I’m his. His hands…god, his hands are huge. Could hold me down so easy. Make me take it. Make me scream his name into this fucking pillow.
He hit send. The responses were instantaneous, a digital chorus of shared deviance.
>> BiteTheBicep: YESSS THE POSSESSION KINK! 🔥🔥 Sharing MY version! Audio only. Just me begging for him to ruin me. Link up!
>> AbsWorshipper99: Feeding the beast, Sunshine 😉 Sent a fresh pic pack. Screen grabs from that VLive… the vein in his forearm when he flexed… you’re welcome.
Sunoo didn’t hesitate. He opened AbsWorshipper99’s DM. Dozens of images loaded. Extreme close-ups: the tension in Ni-ki’s jaw mid-laugh, the way his tee stretched across his shoulders, the sweat-damp hair at his nape. Sunoo’s breathing grew ragged again, shallower than before. He shifted on the floorboards, the dried slickness on his thighs pulling unpleasantly. He ignored it. The laptop’s muted loop of Ni-ki dancing felt suddenly insufficient. Bland. He needed the raw, unfiltered hunger of the chat, the explicit tributes, the shared madness.
He tapped DarkDreams’ link. The video buffered. Low light. A figure (male? female? impossible to tell) was on their knees on a carpet, back arched. A large, dark silicone dildo was shoved rhythmically into their mouth, angled towards the screen. Projected behind them, blurry but unmistakable, was the locker room photo. Sunoo’s locker room photo. The one still stuck to his pillow on the floor. Ni-ki’s back, the wings tattoo, looming large. The figure gagged, eyes watering, staring directly at the camera, at Ni-ki’s image, as they deep-throated the fake cock.
“Fuck,” Sunoo gasped aloud, the sound swallowed by the pillow he instinctively grabbed and pressed to his lap. It was grotesque. It was perfect. It was exactly what he felt. That abject surrender. He fumbled with his phone, pulling up the image of the tattoo on his own screen, zooming in until the pixels blurred. His other hand was already moving, slick with leftover release and fresh sweat, closing around his aching cock. The friction was electric, brutal. He whimpered, pressing his face into the pillow’s dampness.
>> SunshineSecret: WATCHING DARKDREAMS. FUCK. FUCK. That’s me. That’s how bad I need him. Need him to USE ME. Shove his cock down my throat right there on the fucking floor. Mark me up. Own me. Let everyone KNOW I’m his slut.
The messages poured in, notifications piling up like digital filth. Videos of faceless bodies grinding against Ni-ki posters. Audio moans layered over concert screams. Close-ups of trembling hands finishing on phone screens filled with his face. Sunoo scrolled with one hand, consuming it all, a starving man at a rotten feast. His other hand worked faster, rougher, his hips jerking up into his fist. He focused on the DarkDreams video still playing, the figure choking, tears streaming, utterly debased before Ni-ki’s image. That’s me. That’s what I want.
He imagined Ni-ki’s weight pinning him to the cold floorboards. The scrape of zipper teeth. The hot, thick slide of the real thing forcing past his lips, not silicone. The taste of salt and skin. Ni-ki’s low growl: Take it. All of it. The helpless gagging. The tears. The brutal snap of hips. The complete loss of control. Sunoo’s vision whited out. He came again, violently, silently screaming into the pillow, back arched like a bowstring, spilling hot over his fingers and the pillow clutched in his lap. It was less a pleasure than a convulsive release of pure, frantic need.
Collapsed forward, trembling, Sunoo gasped for air. The pillow reeked of sweat and sex. His phone screen was smeared, the group chat still buzzing – BiteTheBicep sharing another audio snippet, RikiSweatAngel demanding details about his climax. He felt scraped hollow. Exhausted. But the digital images glowed. Ni-ki’s face. His body. Dissected. Desecrated. Shared. The emptiness yawned, wider and darker than before. He lifted his head slowly, looking at the mess on the pillow, his hand, the floor. His gaze drifted to the laptop. The looped fancam felt tame. Inadequate.
His sticky fingers moved on the phone, clumsy but determined. He scrolled past the group chat, past the DMs filled with tributes. He opened his private gallery. Found the folder marked "Edits." Blurry concert shots. Unreleased practice footage snippets he shouldn’t have. And the raw locker room photo. He selected it. Tapped "Edit." Cropped it ruthlessly. Focused solely on the curve of Ni-ki’s spine, the wings tattoo, the dimples just above his waistband. He saved it. Sharper. More defined. More his.
Then he opened a different app. A darker corner of the internet. A forum where images were traded. Uploaded the edited photo. The caption box blinked.
Fresh cut. Wings need polishing. DMs open for tributes. Make it messy.
He hit post. Leaned back against the bed frame, the floorboards cold and sticky beneath him, watching the screen. Waiting. The first notification pinged within seconds. The hollow ache pulsed like an infected wound. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it was all he had. He opened the DM. Another video link. He tapped it.