Metanoia [mch-ta-noy-ah] • Greek
(n.) the journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life; spiritual conversion.
↱THIS STORY WILL INCLUDE↲
(More warnings will be added with Progressions)
...
Seonghwa stood frozen in the doorway, caught off guard by the sight of Hongjoong on his doorstep. His heart skipped a beat, and for a brief moment, all the casual talk at brunch earlier that day felt distant and irrelevant. Sure, Hongjoong had said he might come by, but Seonghwa hadn't truly expected him to show up, much less at this hour.
"Hongjoong?" The word escaped his lips, barely a question, more a breath of disbelief.
A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Hongjoong's lips as he leaned casually against the doorframe, his presence commanding yet effortless. "You surprised to see me, flower?" His voice was low, smooth, with that teasing edge that made Seonghwa's stomach twist.
Seonghwa's throat tightened, his words clumsy. "N-no, I just didn't expect... I mean, you're a busy man," he stammered, the excuse sounding weak even to his own ears. He shifted slightly, his back pressing harder against the door as if it could somehow steady him.
Hongjoong's eyes—those piercing, dark eyes—held him captive. Beneath the shadow of his brow, they gleamed with an intensity that made Seonghwa feel as if every inch of him was laid bare. The depth of his stare was unsettling, yet thrilling, as if Hongjoong could see right through the mask of composure Seonghwa tried to wear. His gaze wasn't just looking at him—it was reaching into him, pulling at something deep and hidden, making Seonghwa's pulse race.
With each step Hongjoong took closer, he seemed to grow larger, his presence swallowing the small space between them. Seonghwa's breath hitched as the air between them thickened, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. Hongjoong radiated something primal, an undeniable magnetism that left Seonghwa breathless, his thoughts spiraling into chaos.
Reflexively, Seonghwa's tongue darted out to wet his lips, his mind suddenly awash with the memory of their kiss. The heat of it, the way their mouths had met in a tangle of need and confusion, came flooding back. His chest tightened at the vividness of it, a surge of longing mixed with uncertainty swirling inside him. He couldn't think straight—his body remembered the sensation of Hongjoong's lips, the way it had felt right and dangerous all at once. Now, standing before him again, Seonghwa was torn between wanting more and the fear of what it might mean if he gave in.
Seonghwa's teeth grazed his bottom lip as his gaze instinctively traced the lines of Hongjoong's figure, starting from the ground up. His eyes drifted from the polished black boots to the curve of his legs, the fabric of his jeans snug enough to hint at the strength beneath. But it was Hongjoong's upper body that truly held Seonghwa's attention. The tight black shirt clung to his chest and arms, accentuating the firm definition of each muscle. Every breath Hongjoong took seemed to stretch the material, showcasing the solid expanse of his chest and the subtle taper of his waist, as if the shirt was made for him alone.
