87 — The Devil Wrote This

Su Ah’s POV:

Through the window, she watched his silhouette recede, disappearing into the sheets of rain. Coat drawn tight against him. Hands in his pockets. No umbrella. That idiot, he could get a col—. She cut the thought short. He wasn't an idiot. He was Jae-il. He'd be fine.

He was always fine.

Su Ah stood there for a long time, her body still tingling from the unexpected hug.

From the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the clean, masculine scent of him that still clung to her clothes.

Su Ah leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, the condensation from her breath fogging up her view of the streets. Jae-il had long disappeared.

She could still feel the ghost of his arms around her. The pressure of his hand on her shoulder. The way his deep voice had rumbled in her ear when he'd leaned in close. Su Ah wasn't fooling herself anymore. The way she'd melted into his embrace, the way her heart had fluttered, the blush, the dizzying, heady feeling that had washed over her... it wasn't the way a sister was supposed to feel.

It just wasn't.

Su Ah had read books about it. Articles online. She had consumed stories, both fictional and real, of these kinds of feelings, and they always had a name. A label. A diagnosis. And it was one she was terrified to apply to herself. But there comes a time where denial becomes a cage. A flimsy, transparent cage that everyone can see into, except you.

Yeah.

She was down bad for him. So bad she wasn't even sure there was a way back.

It was pathetic, really. He was her little brother. Not older, but younger. There was an added degree of perversion to it that she couldn't begin to untangle.

She had held him as a babe, and now she fantasized about him holding her in a different way. A way that made her stomach clench and her thighs press together.

Her gaze fell upon the small, wrapped box on her desk. His gift. A token. A proof that he'd thought of her. Her fingers itched to tear it open, to see what was inside, to have another piece of him to hold onto.

She made her way back to her desk and sat on her chair. She tore the wrapping paper, revealing a plain black box. Inside, nestled in a bed of black velvet, was a beautiful, sleek fountain pen. It was a dark, matte grey, almost black, with a single, thin line of deep purple running along the cap. It was elegant. Expensive. And perfect.

A note fluttered to the side. She recognized his sharp, angular handwriting immediately.

'I remember you saying once that a good story needs the right tool to be told. This is a Pelikan M200. It has a good weight to it, and the nib is supposed to be buttery smooth. I know you won't actually use this to write, but I thought it would look good on your desk, and maybe inspire you when the words don't come. When you're feeling lost, just hold it. And think of me. It even has your favorite color on it.'

Think of me.

'Jae-il, are you doing this on purpose? Do you actually know what you're doing to me?'

Su Ah's throat tightened. She picked up the pen. It was heavy. Cold. She uncapped it, revealing the gleaming, gold-plated nib. It was a work of art. She ran her thumb over the tip of the nib. It was smooth as silk.

She felt a single, hot tear slide down her cheek, followed by another. She wasn't sad. She wasn't happy. She was just... overwhelmed. By the weight of her feelings. By the weight of his... thoughtfulness. She wiped the corner of her eyes with the heel of her hands, yet more tears just kept replacing the ones she'd wiped away.

A cold, hard certainty settled in her stomach. This was her cross to bear. Her secret, her shame, her... everything.

'What am I to do with these feelings?'

Su Ah glanced at the beautiful pen in her hands.

'... What am I to do with you, Jae-il...?'

She rummaged around her drawers, her hands fumbling and trembling, until she found what she was looking for—an unused, still relatively new diary. It had a plain black cover, the kind she preferred; she had bought it on a whim.

She opened it to the first page.

The crisp, white paper stared back at her, pristine and empty. She uncapped the pen. She placed the nib on the paper, her hand hovering for a moment. 'What to write? With this pen... that he gave me?'

What could possibly be a good first thought to eternally stain these clean pages, her first mark with this tool?

Su Ah’s eyes darkened a little, and a sudden inspiration hit—something she’d have never thought she’d write.

Yet she did.

Today she did.

Because…

‘XX/XX/XXXX

The devil turns guilt into honey,

shame into teeth,

love into a slow knife sliding between my ribs

He taught me to moan

when the blade twists.

He taught me to thank you

for every drop of blood

that spells your name

on the sheets.

I drink the honey.

I bare the teeth.

I arch into the knife

damn me deeper.'

Su Ah stared at her words, the ink still glistening wetly on the page. The devil itself might as well have been holding her hand as she wrote this.

Yet...

She had never felt more clear.

She had never felt more insane.

Fuck.

xXx

Jae-il’s POV:

The storm, thankfully, let up by the time morning came the next day. Just a light drizzle, but playable enough for us to go on with the matches. The rescheduled game against Yemen was to be held the next day.

Which meant an entire day of training drills, tactical meetings, and mental preparation.

I went through the motions mechanically. My body moved, my feet kicked the ball, my voice called out plays. But my mind was elsewhere. Back in that house. In Mia's room. Or in Su Ah's room.

My brain was a mess.

The memory of Mia's body under mine, the sound of her moans, the feel of her tight, wet heat. It was a constant, low-level hum of arousal in the back of my mind.

A distraction I didn't need.

I was a terrible person. A terrible son. A terrible brother. Because even as I was here, preparing to represent my country, all I could think about was the next time I could get my hands on my sister.

My thoughts, my very being, felt polluted.

Still, I kept playing. I could easily free my thoughts when I had the ball at my feet—even when they were a mess, and just focus on what I needed to focus. The ability to compartmentalize. To build walls in my mind. To lock away the messy, emotional stuff and focus on the task at hand.

But you know what the damn problem was?

That whenever I hadn't something to work on, to focus my energies on, the walls came crashing down.

And Mia would always, always, be the wrecking ball that knocked them over.

The storm had passed, but the humidity clung to the air like a wet blanket. The whole day was spent in a series of drills.

Passing drills.

Shooting drills.

Defensive drills.

Tactics and positioning. Scrimmages. The coach was a slave driver. He pushed us to our limits, his voice a constant, gravelly bark in our ears.

Yemen was a weaker team, physically outmatched, and we'd be expected to win. But Coach wasn't taking any chances. "Complacency is the enemy!" He roared, his face red with exertion. "Respect every opponent. Crush them. Don't give them an inch. Don't give them a glimmer of hope. Understood?!"

"YES, COACH!"

The day ended with a light cool-down session and a tactical briefing for tomorrow's match. By the time we were dismissed, I was dead on my feet. My muscles ached, my head was pounding, and all I wanted was a hot shower and a long, dreamless sleep.

But my mind, that treacherous, wretched thing, refused to shut down. It replayed the night before, over and over, in vivid, high-definition detail.

Eventually, the day of the match finally dawned upon us.

South Korea vs Yemen.

It was a foregone conclusion on paper. A mismatch of epic proportions. Yemen's team was young, physically fit but technically lacking.

The stadium was less full than for the Iraq match. The casual fans, perhaps, were saving their money for the more crucial fixtures. But the core group of supporters was there.

The die-hards. The ones with the flags and the drums. The ones who chanted my name.

We went through our pre-game rituals. The light warm-up. The stretching. The anthem. The coin toss. The kickoff.

And then it was an absolute bloodbath.

Five-nil at halftime.

Seven-nil by the final whistle.

I scored a hat-trick.

Assisted one.

Kim Jun-hwan was certainly growing to be quite the little monster, I had to admit.

The kid had a mean cross and he wasn't shy about shooting, or even dribbling. He provided two assists to me, two goals of his own, and was generally an absolute menace to the Yemeni defense.

He was becoming one hell of a midfielder.

The kind that would be a pleasure to play alongside for years to come.

The post-match interviews were a blur. The same questions. The same answers.

"How does it feel to get such a resounding victory?"

"It feels good, but it's just one step. We need to keep our focus."

"Are you looking ahead to the match against Iran?"

"We take it one game at a time. Iran will be a tough opponent, and we need to be ready."

I said all the right things. I played the part of the humble, focused captain.

But my mind was already miles away.

Back in that house.

Back with my sister.

The post-match buzz carried me through the mandatory bus ride back to the training facility, through the team dinner, through the final tactical briefing for the next match. Iran. The final group stage match. The decider for the top spot. The big one.

When I finally got back to my room, I felt a familiar vibration in my pocket. My phone. A message.

Mia: That was a brutal hat-trick, baby bro. Almost felt sorry for them. .

Mia: haaah, you left me all hot and bothered.

Mia: I wish you were here. I miss you so much, lil' bro. Miss you so much that my head's all messed up.

Mia: I'm doing something naughty~

A photo followed. A close-up shot of her fingers, gliding, up and down into the familiar, pink folds of her pussy. She had that slight, dazed, seductive smile that just knew how much this would get to me.

Once you have a taste of it, the craving never truly leaves you. The more you try to starve it, the more it grows.

It was the kind of sustenance I needed daily to function better.

Mia: Thinking of you.

Mia: Are you thinking of me?

Mia: Are you jacking off while thinking of me?

Mia: ;)

My cock, which had been mercifully dormant for a few hours, sprang to life.

And then came Su Ah’s own message, overlapping Mia’s ones.

Su Ah: Congratulations for the match, Jae-il. You played masterfully.

Su Ah: Also, thank you. The pen was a good idea. I think I finally broke through my writer's block.

Su Ah: Looking forward to see you again. Good luck with your next match, not that you need it.

Su Ah: heart

Damn it...